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June 30, 2005
How Not to Pray
The continuing narrative of how I fell in love with my wife.
The year 1967 was the last time I saw Karen. Every once in a while I would spot her at a Yeshiva league basketball game, or in the local pizza shop. Once we all graduated high school, I no longer saw her. My college, Bard, was in upstate New York. I learned that Karen was attending Barnard.
Speaking to my parents by phone they told me that they had driven Karen home from a wedding that past Sunday.
“I told Karen that you're a poet!” my mother gleefully exclaimed.
Inwardly I groaned, horribly embarrassed. I no longer wrote poetry. Gee-willikers, I was writing screeenplays. Karen probably thinks I'm a total lo-ser.
I graduated college, spent a year in Israel, lost several close friends in the Yom Kippur War, and wrote a blisteringly violent script about war and the way violence makes men of boys. I heard from someone that Karen was still not married. Hmmm. Interesting. I assumed that Karen would be one of the first of our class to stand under the chuppah.
I was living on the Upper West Side in 1976, working as the editor-in-chief of Millimeter, a New York film magazine. On Shabbos, I attended the Lincoln Square Synagogue, in those days, a magnet for Jewish singles.
One Shabbos, I lifted my gaze from the siddur and looked at the women's section.
Lincoln Square Synagogue, Main Sanctuary
There was Karen.
And she was not wearing a hat. Which meant that she was still not married. My breath caught in my throat. She had grown into her beauty in the most elegant way. I didn't do much davening after that. Karen prayed with single-minded intensity. Her eyes did not roam. She did not speak to the women sitting next to her. Her black hair shined like a planet. When she stood to chant the Shmoneh Esrei, the Eighteen Benedictions, my eyes fixed on her body swaying back and forth. I was hypnotized. If only I would concentrate on my davening the way I was concentrating on Karen.
Watching her, I realized that my feelings for Karen had not changed in all these years. I was still in love with the girl I had first seen when I was nine-years old.
How to explain it? How to understand it?
I told myself that after shul I would go over, introduce myself and ask Karen out on a date.
To be continued.
Karen adds: I do remember that ride to the wedding. Robert's mother didn't just tell me that Robert wrote poetry, she told me he had won some kind of poetry prize. I didn't think he was a lo-ser, I just didn't relate. He was “arty” and I was on my way to a wedding where I would meet a medical student and fall into another disastrous relationship that lasted about a year. My memories of Lincoln Square Synagogue are full of social anxiety. It was built in the round. Minimal mechitza that has since been modified. In between each aliyah, the gabais would marshal people in and all eyes would turn to the fresh meat entering the shul. It was humiliating. I found a back entrance. My salvation was being able to enter from the top balcony right into the woman's section. Going to shul became easier after that. Robert probably couldn't find me after shul, because I would flee the same way. Well, I'll see what he writes, he never told me.
Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:03 AM | Comments (8)
June 29, 2005
Ariel's Seraphic School Friends
Posted by Ari Z. Miller:
"You can go in."
With these four words I traveled back two years in time. I was visiting the home of Ariel's parents, Robert and Karen Avrech, with my friend Yehudah Kaplan and his brother Mordechai. I had not been in the house since the shiva and found myself looking at the art pieces on the wall, the striking photographs, the modern leather couches that were the temporary shul for the Yamim Noraim, the High Holy Days, and of course Robert's Emmy sitting on the mantle.
Yehuda and I explored the house. And then, Robert walked by as we passed Ariel's room.
"You can go in," he said.
Yehudah and I looked at each other trying to guage what the other wanted to do. Finally, we both shrugged our shoulders and stepped into our friend Ariel's bedroom.
I saw the familiar bar mitzvah invitation that hung from his wall, Ariel's drawing of a super hero, a poem by Ariel, his beloved Transformers, our class picture from Yeshiva Gedolah, more seforim than I could ever imagine fitting into one room, and finally I saw Ariel's wrist watch.
I have a thing for watches and I am usually able to remember who wears what time piece. Ariel's watch is something that has always stayed vividly in my memory. It has a black leather band, a white face and a gold bezel. I looked at the watch, wanting to touch it, yet at the same time not wanting to.
The room looks much as it did when Ariel was alive, and I realized that time was standing still on Ariel's wrist watch. I suppose over the last two years the battery has drained and aside for the watch being accurate twice a day, it just sits there.
I jump back two years and remember spending time in this room with my friend Ariel. I remember learning Torah with him on Shabbos afternoons, watching movies with him in the living room, eating a small snack in the kitchen, and schmoozing in the den. I remember the Sukkah party our classmates gave for Ariel in the front patio; we ate pizza, guzzled coke, told stories of our high school years. Memories are everywhere. The smells in the house trigger vivid memories, the doorbell chimes and even more memories come flooding into my consciousness.
One Shabbos afternoon Ariel, Robert and I were looking through a guns and ammo magazine. I did not know that Robert owned a gun and that he is something of a marksman. I never spoke about politics with Robert and I suppose I simply assumed that he was probably just another Hollywood Liberal. Those who know Robert will tell you that he is anything but. That Shabbos afternoon, we talked about the right to bear arms. Robert promised to take us all shooting one day--when Ariel was well enough..
Today, two years later, Robert took us shooting, just as he said he would.
Ariel ZT"L was a good friend to me and I love him very much. His picture sits on my desk and his memory will be with me forever
--
Ari Miller and Yehuda Kaplan attended Yeshiva Gedolah high school with Ariel. They remain beloved friends.
Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 12:14 AM | Comments (7)
June 28, 2005
Song for Ariel
One of Ariel's favorite CD's was "Biglal Avos", by brothers Eitan and
Shlomo Katz. During Ariel's last year of life, Eitan paid a visit to
our home and gave Ariel a private concert. Ariel sang alone and smiled
the entire time. A few weeks after Ariel passed away, Eitan sent me a
CD with a song he wrote in Ariel's memory. Karen and I want to share
this lovely tune with you. Thank you, Eitan. We will always be grateful for your kindness, your artistry and the joy you brought to Ariel ZT"L.
The song is Haneshama Lach, from The Selichos Service, Prayers Beseeching Forgiveness, chanted during the High Holy Days.
The soul is Yours, please have mercy on Your handiwork, take pity on Your labor...
Click here to download and listen to Song for Ariel by Eitan Katz.
Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 10:50 AM | Comments (3)
June 26, 2005
Seraphic Secret to Marriage Part II
Karen writes: I don't want to mislead anyone into thinking that couples have to share identical interests. That is impossibe, it is a question of balance, and of mutual respect. There is a huge difference between an interest and a passion that is all-consuming and eats into the time that your share with your spouse. When an interest or hobby becomes so huge that your spouse resents it, then it is getting in the way. I don't share Robert's passion for military history, Japanese movies, Marcel Proust, abstract modern art, hand-made hunting knives, photography, and right now he's watching a South Korean movie, Tae Guk Gi that is quite strident and violent, but that's OK, I'm not in the mood for a gut-churning war movie. On the other hand, Robert waits for me to finish my work before turning on something we want to watch together; he'll clue me in to the latest book he's finished and ask my opinion; he'll ask me to edit his latest draft of a book or screenplay. I like commas, he's absolutely obsessed with semi-colons -- no matter what the rules of grammar dictate. It's sharing, listening, willingness to admit an error, patience to repeat a comment when I'm distracted. Being polite to each other, and yes, please and thank you still go a long way. But there are areas we go our separate ways. I go to the gym, he hates it. I play Jewish geography with a little too much enthusiasm, he couldn't care less, I am addicted to only simchas.com and Robert is absolutely not, yet has agreed to look at one, and only one fabulous or grotesque wedding dress per night. So I choose carefully. I love to sight-see, he's a homebody. I like math and science yet accept the fact that Robert's brain goes into a major meltdown at the very sight of numbers more complex than 1,2,3. We compromise, I go it alone sometimes. And so does Robert. The main thing is we respect our differences and don't try to change each other.
Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 10:16 PM | Comments (0)
Seraphic Dictionary
Karen's hand seeks mine under the table. Our fingers entwine and we hold on for dear life. So tight do we hold on to one another that the tips of our fingers turn white as parchment.
It's Friday night and we're having Shabbos dinner at one of our best friend's homes. One of the other guests, a fine and sensitive person, has just launched into a long and detailed account of a man who's searching for an organ. He will die soon if the transplant does not take place. Karen and I remember how we waited fruitlessly for a lung for Ariel. A lung that never materialized.
"I think I'm going to throw up," Karen whispers to me.
I hold her hand even tighter, as if this is a cure for nausea.
Should I break in, somehow halt the story, perhaps embarrass the story teller? There's no way he can know what effect he's having upon us. No, we just have to sit and wait it out.
We are rigid as pilasters in our seats. We pick, pick, pick at our food.
As always, Karen and I are among friends, wonderful generous people, but we are isolated; as it says in the Torah about people who have conracted tzora'as, we are "michutz lamachaneh," literally: "outside the camp," forever outside normal human discourse, speaking our own private language for which no dictionary can or should exist.
Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 03:16 AM | Comments (9)
June 24, 2005
Seraphic Secret to Marriage
The other day, I was asked why my marriage to Karen is so good. Immediately, I answered: "Because I'm smart enough to know that Karen is smarter than me, and I act accordingly."
Karen adds: I could write a book on this probably, but Robert asked me to comment. I will quote Rabbi Fohrman, who quoted Rabbi Twersky. The short answer all derive from the root word Hodaya, which means thanks, or acknowledgment. You must know how to thank your spouse, to acknowledge their qualities, i.e. give them lots of praise, and also to know how to apologize, how to do Vidui, also from the same root. A more personal answer is that you have to be best friends, you have to want to be with this person more than any other person. Like my brother told me, you never get tired of being with this person, you don't need a break. You don't need a night out with the boys or the girls. You want to watch movies with them, and if you do go out and have a great time you want to want to relive it all over again with your best friend. It's the person you know will support you no matter what. Robert will always take my side, I can tell him everything, he is my best ______ you fill in the blank. He understands me like no one else. That is the key to a good marriage. Support, friendship, communication, respect. When you have those, you can relax, let down your hair and then you can laugh or cry with abandon.
Have a lovely and meaningful Shabbos.
Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:54 AM | Comments (13)
June 23, 2005
Doing What They Do... So Very Well
Good news! the Israeli government and the PA have found something they can agree and cooperate on.
Whoopee! I'm just ecstatic.
Get this: Israel, at the behest of the PA, is going to blow up all the buildings they vacate in Gaza. Now that's what I call progress.
But wait, this is, well, curious. I mean, the Palestinians are always crying poverty. They don't have decent housing. They live in houses made of cinder blocks. They have waste running through their bedrooms. No one should have to live like that. I mean, we can all agree on that, right? Well, maybe not everyone. Not the PA. For here are thousands of lovely homes and halls and what are is the PA going to do with them?
Nothing.
Well, not nothing. They are going to do something and that something is doing what they do best: blow them to smithereens.
Alas! Those poor "refugees" could certainly benefit by these homes. So, why is the PA insisting that Israel destroy them? Israel has repeatedly offered to leave the units intact. A gift. We're sooooo warm and fuzzy. So generous. We figure if we make nice-nice to the nasty terrorists well, eventually we'll win them over. They will love us. They will sing Kumbaya. They will decide that they really don't want to slaughter every last Jew in the world because, well, because we're... nice.
I'm truly perplexed; why is the PA so hot to blow it all to hell?
How about this: the PA is a thugogracy steeped in a perpetual litany of whiny logic, they know that if all the structures built by the Israelis are left intact then there will be shooting and killing and your basic everyday murderous anarchy in Gaza. Can you imagine? One terrorist group will go to war with another in order to control the real estate. Basically, the Palestinians fear civil war over... get this, housing. Gee willikers, and I thought the real estate market in Los Angeles was murderous.
And where is the PA in all this? Where they always are: Unable to assert even the most minimal civilized authority. The PA are, let's face it, perhaps the most dysfunctional governing body since, well, I actually can't think of a comparison. The PA sets a new standard for ineptitude. Mazal Tov. That's quite an accomplishment.
Ask yourself this: If the PA can't even take control of a few housing units, bring order to what should be a simple civic matter -- for the love of G-d, how can they run a modern state? Not to mention control Hamas and Hezbollah. Oh wait, the PA is Hamas and Hezbollah. Silly me.
The answer is obvious. The PA can't control traffic. They are quite simply a loose coalition of profiteers and terrorist gangs, warring tribes, and hate-fueled clans with the mentality of twelfth century Jihadists. The only value they hold in common is a supremely calculated nihilism laced with radical Islamo facism.
By the way, the Palestinians are the luckiest people on planet earth. Why? Because their enemy is Israel, their enemy are Jews who have not the proper temperment for true ruthlessness and destruction. I mean, the Israelis make Palestinians stand in line for hours at a time. For what reason? In order to halt suicide bombings. The chutzpah of these Jews trying to defend themselves from people who cheerfully admit their genocidal tendencies. The Palestinians really are lucky. If you don't believe me, just look at what the Chinese have done to Tibet, to that nice Dali Lama in his cute saffron robes and beads, a man who wouldn't hurt a fly. Now that's what I call an occupation. Thousands of monastaries burned to the ground. Buddhist monks are arrested, tortured and murdered with nary a word of protest from the so-called peace movement.
But I digress.
The Palestinians. This is a society that cannot build, only destroy. This is a culture that cherishes death over life, where a suicide bomber holds the highest status possible. As the late terrorist leader Yassir Arafat once gleefully boasted: "We love death and the Jews love life, it is inevitable that we will destroy them."
There is a punch line to this whole sorry affair. Karen and I actually laughed out loud when we learned that Israel is going to pay the PA to clean up the rubble. In screenwriting this is called an ironic resolution. In real life it is called true madness.
Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:59 AM | Comments (6)
June 22, 2005
Seraphic Shiva Call
When Karen and I started Seraphic Secret, our single thought was that this blog would serve as a public voice allowing us to reflect on the life of our beloved son, Ariel Chaim. But human nature and the web have a way of altering plans.
Soon, I found myself writing about my novel, The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden, and telling my readers about Seraphic Press, the publishing house Karen and I founded in Ariel's memory.
Inevitably, I wrote about politics, an abiding passion, and I came out of the closet -- as a Conservative Republican. No small matter in Hollywood, a town and industry that genuflects to the most radical elements of the Democratic Party.
Believe me, if I confessed to being a sexual deviant, a drug addict, a drug addict and a sexual deviant, well, Hollywood will embrace you. But admit that your politics are conservative, that you support the state of Israel, that you actually believe that radical Islam is a greater threat to world security than, oh let's say, President Bush, or Prime Minister Sharon, admit that you own a gun, are a proud member of the NRA, admit that you oppose homosexual marriage, admit that you're not alarmed by so-called global warming, and God forbid warn that the most intense anti-Semitism in America comes from our African American neighbors; well admit all this in Hollywood and you might as well cut your throat two ways at once. These oh-so-tolerant liberals are the most intolerant group you could ever imagine.
And so Seraphic Secret has grown tentacles. Intense cyber relationships have been formed.
Toronto Pearl, one of my earliest and most generous readers made the trip from Canada to attend The Ariel Avrech Memorial Lecture. You would assume that our initial face-to-face encounter would be awkward, maybe even a bit weird. But it was no such thing. It was a meeting of old friends who could practically read each other's thoughts. Pearl ate every Shabbos meal with our family, she shmoozed with us and fit in like, well, like a member of the family.
Randi W, a more recent reader and commenter, drove from Chatsworth to attend the Memorial Lecture. Meeting Randi and her lovely mother was pure delight. I marvel at her generosity and her courage in showing up at an Orthodox shul for Randi just recently told me that she is, gasp, Reformed.
"There, I've said it," she wrote, as if finally confessing some hideous family secret.
"Not to worry," I wrote back, "I'm really not some ogre in a black hat."
And just this morning I learned that Michael G. a Seraphic Secret reader was sitting shiva for his father. I got hold of his cell number and called, paying a cyber shiva visit. When I introduced myself there was a long silence.
"Robert who?"
"Seraphic Secret," I said.
"Ooooh, Robert, Seraphic Secret!"
And then we talked, intimate friends connecting. Michael shared his grief with me, but went out of his way not to compare the loss of a father to a father's loss of a son. Clearly, this is an acutely sensitive and articulate man, even in grief.
Another reader, Karen S. from Montana, recently sent me her wedding pictures, also photos of her lovely house nestled in a bucolic mountain. She treated me to an informal but gripping account of how she and her family, hugely proud Jews, ended up in Montana, not quite the epicenter of Jewish American life. I am amazed by the geographical quirks of the Jewish people.
Yes, friendships have flourished. Our lives are enriched; and always the lovely and generous comments about Ariel give us some measure of comfort. Karen and I are eternally grateful; for comfort is in short supply when a beloved child lies beneath the cruel earth.
Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:27 AM | Comments (10)
June 19, 2005
Seraphic Lecture
Today was the Second Annual Ariel Avrech Memorial Lecture. Rabbi David Fohrman used the story of Joseph and his brothers to explore the notion of forgiveness; The question he posed was whether forgiveness is possible when someone has done something absolutely horrible to you. How can you forgive an egregious injustice? He essentially proved that that by acknowledging the very imbalance in a relationship head on, you can repair the damage but by denying the hurt you caused, or denying the pain you feel, the relationship never can recover. Rabbi Fohrman engaged the audience in a real Socratic give and take. As soon as I can I will set up a link so you can purchase this amazing talk directly from Rabbi Fohrman.
It was a bittersweet day for Karen and me. We distributed the Book of Ariel at the lecture. We met old friends, made new friends and silently celebrated our 28th anniversary.
I leave for Oakland tomorrow morning where I've been asked to deliver a talk about "The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden" to the American Association of Jewish Librarians. When I return I will blog more about the lecture and post some pictures.
Karen adds: Ariel hand picked Rabbi Fohrman for us. He had attended his lectures and knowing our taste, passed on several of his tapes to us. He was right. I loved Rabbi Fohrman's analysis of the Ten Commandmants and The Story of Adam and Eve. Years passed. When the time came to choose a lecturer for this year I racked my brain to remember the name of the lecturer that Ariel told me about who also was a professor at Johns Hopkins. I went through his hundreds of tapes. This was a task I had avoided since his death. None of the tapes rang a bell. I used an old trick of going through the alphabet before I went to sleep, sort of counting sheep, hoping to toggle some circuit in the old memory bank. Nothing worked. Finally, one night I beseeched Ariel, saying, "Please, do your old mother a favor, tell me the name of the rabbi you liked so much, you know, the one with the sophisticated, but frum world view." Then it came to me. Coincidentally, that week, the name was confirmed. Rabbi Fohrman was writing a column in the Jewish Press, and his e-mail and all his contact information was now available to us. Such was providence. The lecture was a success and a wonderful tribute to Ariel. As we dropped Rabbi Fohrman off for his return flight I broke into tears thinking how much Ariel would have enjoyed getting closer to Rabbi Fohrman as we did today. Nothing makes sense in the face of Ariel's absence.
Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:40 PM | Comments (15)
June 17, 2005
Seraphic Encounter
The continuing story of the author's love for his wife, Karen. It began when the author was nine-years old, in the fourth grade in Yeshiva Flatbush. It's a long story and this series will continue for, well, until I finish telling the tale.
The basketball game was over. We lost, big time. Our camp, Morasha, was playing Camp Beaver Lake, another Orthodox sleep-a-way camp. At a certain point during the game, I looked up and there she was. Karen was sitting in the bleachers watching the game. Well, not really watching. It was clear she wasn't terribly interested. She was with a group of girls, the alpha group, all of them pretty and smart and unapproachable.
It was 1967. I was point-guard for my camp team, a short but scrappy player with a decent jump shot. My team counted on me for at least ten points a game plus a bunch of assists. But once I saw Karen, my game collapsed. I wanted to be a hero, rip up the court, show her how good I was. But, naturally, I missed every shot. I passed and the ball got stolen. It was gruesome.
Karen was a sight, sitting courtside, wearing cute khaki shorts, and hardly-skuffed white Keds. The fact that she ignored the game, was not aware of my existence just drove me into a pit of despair.
She attended Yeshiva Flatbush high school and I was at, BTA, Brooklyn Talmudic Academy. Sometimes I would see her at Yeshiva League basketball games, at the pizza shop on Avenue J. I was still madly in love with her. And she was blossoming into a rare beauty. The other pretty girls knew they were pretty. You could see their game, the way they flipped their hair every twelve seconds.
But Karen was different. She wore her beauty with obvious discomfort. Her body language was devoid of the traditional teen-girl tactics. Every once in a while I would see her with a boy. She would speak directly, abandoning all the cute little flirtatious giggles that the other girls cultivated into an art form. Though Karen was an adolescent, she was already a woman.
I dreamed about her. I wrote stories about her. I composed bad poetry dedicated to her. I imagined that I would end up marrying some perfectly nice girl, but I'd always secretly be in love with Karen. I would live a hopeless and helpless life.
The game was over. I managed to maneuver close to Karen.
I am a lunatic movie lover and so, naturally, I'm thinking of David Lean's towering and tragic love story, Brief Encounter.
“Hi,” I said, “you're Karen Singer, right?”
Smooth.
She looked at me, obviously had no idea who I was.
“Yes, I am and you're... ?”
“Robert, Robert Avrech.”
“Oh, right, hi.”
Pause. Awkward silence.
“Well, nice to see you,” I said.
I totally missed my line of dialog: Shall I see you again. Please, please, I ask you most humbly.
I did not see or speak to Karen for another nine years.
To be continued.
Karen adds: My first response when I read this entry was, "Was I really different from the other girls?" Then I thought about it. Yes, I followed the fads, but there was always a feelings of dis-ease, a sense of not really belonging, of not feeling so comfortable in my skin. One example. The epitome of queenbeehood was becoming a cheerleader. I entered the "booster" freshman sort of hazing phase, but passed on trying out for the treasured spots on the cheerleader squad. It just didn't feel right. I told myself at the time that I was probably just afraid of being rejected, but a part of me also acknowledged that it felt immodest to parade in front of the crowd in a very short skirt. So I removed myself from the Alpha squad and thus my clique changed and I was relegated to a hazy area between the "brains" and the "popular" groups. Robert was right, I didn't really belong.
Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:14 AM | Comments (15)
June 16, 2005
Seraphic (Pity) Dance
The saga continues.
Karen's POV: A sociological comment first. Modern Orthodoxy was very different in the 50's and 60's. Our culture was more innocent, hence, the barrier between the general society and our own did not have to be as high. At least that is my theory. Boy/girl parties began in 5th grade, dating in 8th, and we had dances and proms even in yeshiva. The "Welcome Freshman Dance" was the highlight of our entrance into 9th grade. But, as far as I know, there was no drug problem, no pre-marital sex. There was a refinement that is lacking even among the girls in our high schools who use profanities and coarse words with abandon such as "suck" and worse. But, don't get me started.
Robert has a pretty accurate grasp of my mind-set. I have a hazy memory of "The Dance." We were in the basement, there was pizza, and I remember thinking, "Why did this boy ask me to dance? I never spoke to him in my life." It was sort of a "pity dance" because I was polite and didn't know how to say no. We didn't talk or anything. In fact, we didn't speak again until seven years later when we met on the basketball court after my camp played Robert's camp. At that time I remember thinking that Robert looked cute. He was wearing John Lennon glasses now. So don't let him tell you that I gave him another pity dance.
Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 10:11 PM | Comments (3)
June 15, 2005
Seraphic Dance
The continuing saga of my lifelong relationship with Karen. Well, actually, to be brutally honest, it wasn't really a relationship until many years after we first met. It's along story. Hence this series.
It is as if I have put my hand into a live socket and a blast of electricity jolts my body.
My hand is resting on Karen's hip, barely touching her waist. It is 1963, an 8th grade pizza party. The very first girl/boy party for our grade. For the first half hour or so, boys and girls awkwardly lay claim to opposite sides of the room. Then someone puts a record on and announces that everyone should line up.
We are just thirteen year old boys and girls. But Yeshiva of Flatbush prides itself on its modern orthodoxy and urges social interaction between boys and girls.
How do I get to dance with Karen, the Rabbi's beautiful daughter?
It's really very simple. I peek and see that she has been pushed to the front of the line. I squirt to the front of the boy's line so I will be the first boy to step out and dance with Karen.
This is just like Romeo and Juliet.
Well, not exactly.
What do Karen and I talk about?
Nothing. We shuffle awkwardly, and say nothing. I look past Karen's shoulder and she keeps her eyes fixed on the Masonite wall. Karen is the prettiest and smartest girl in school. I might be the dorkiest kid in school, and considered none too smart—because I'm in the dumb class. My heart is slamming in my chest with such force that I am amazed that Karen doesn't hear it.
I know that Karen is out of my league. I also understand that I am too young to feel the things I am feeling. But another part of me—the stubborn, completely unrealistic core of me—is determined to love this girl for the rest of my life.
That night, after the party, back home in my parent's apartment, I look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and experience utter despair. How could any girl as pretty and as smart as Karen ever look at me with anything but scorn?
The next day in school, someone draws a cartoon and leaves it on my desk. It shows me dancing with Karen.
A bubble over my head says something like, “I love you, Karen.”
And the bubble over Karen's head says: “Get me out of here!”
I am mortified. I realize that my secret crush on Karen is not so secret. Kids in my grade are snickering at me. Is there anything more cruel than a pack of average, middle-class kids? I withdraw into myself with a vengeance. It is at this point that I start writing stories. Fiction saves me from a terrible reality—my life.
To be continued.
Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 06:02 AM | Comments (8)
June 12, 2005
Seraphic Shavuos
No time to write about the next great milestone in my romance with Karen now. That will have to wait a few days. We're madly getting ready for Shavuos. Karen's sister and her husband have just come on from NY and the house is just bursting with guests and energy. Karen and I shop for food. We set the table. Food simmers on the stove. The familiar aromas of gefilte fish, chicken and kugel mingle. People dart in and out of the kitchen as if in an Offenbach opera. Upstairs, we grab a quiet moment before lighting candles and we look at each other.
"All I want is to have Ariel here with us," says Karen.
"Not too much to ask," I murmur sadly.
Ariel used to stay up all night learning. I can't. Staying up too late assures me a migraine. But I will learn and it will be in Ariel's memory. He should be here. How is it possible that he's not?
I wish all my readers a lovely and meaningful Shavuot.
My friend lost his son Ben and writes about him here.
Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 05:10 PM | Comments (0)
June 10, 2005
The Rabbi's Seraphic Daughter
In which the author, a nine-year old dork, catches sight of the new girl in school and is instantly smitten. Thus begins a love, an obsession, that defines the writer's life.
She crosses my vision like a moon, nothing seems to touch her.
The new girl has thick black hair; dark, penetrating eyes that seem to look right through you. She has just transferred from Yeshiva Ohel Moshe to Yeshiva Flatbush. Her father is a rabbi in Bensonhurst.
Her name is Karen Singer.
And my life has just become something unrecognizable.
My life has just shifted in ways I cannot quite understand or imagine. I am irrevocably changed. This girl has touched something so deep inside me that I feel as if I'm looking at myself, at my life, from a yawning abyss.
I am frightened. I am experiencing feelings so powerful, so unfamiliar that I no longer recognize my central self.
She wears a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar; a sharply pleated skirt that gently sways with each step.
During recess, I gaze at Karen and I'm abruptly aware of her startling beauty; a mesmerizing, hypnotic visage that is utterly compelling yet at the same time completely alienating.
Karen retreats to a corner of the school yard, she holds a lace handkerchief to her lips.
I am only nine-years-old; such a young child is not capable of being in love — but I am. I am in love with Karen Singer, the Rabbi's beautiful daughter. I look at Karen and my heart is beating in my chest like a trapped bird. In her eyes, there is a ferocious intelligence; there is also a sense of something held back, for this is a girl who withholds her central core. Is it ever possible to know what this lovely girl is thinking?
She wears black flats and her ankles are slim, smooth as an egg shell.
I am a short and awkward little dork and for the entire year I watch Karen every chance I get. I watch the way she places her hand over her heart and solemnly recites the Pledge of Allegiance. I love the way her lips move, the way she hunches over and plays with her split ends when she's bored during assemblies.
To this day, over forty years later, I become a helpless little boy when Karen wears a white blouse, a pleated skirt and black flats.
Years later, screening an Audrey Hepburn film, I flashback to Karen and her elementary school outfits and oh my gosh, Karen is the Jewish Audrey Hepburn.
Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina, 1954
The popular girls hesitate to allow Karen into their tight-knit group. It's obvious that these girls are threatened by Karen's beauty, by the quiet manner in which she's able to command respect. But finally, the popular group relents, allow Karen into their clique. Yet I notice that Karen is less than enthusiastic when she's with these alpha girls. Her smile and laugh are subdued.
Alone at night, unable to sleep, I think about her, Karen, the new girl.
I have started to fail one math test after another and my teachers have assured me that these F's will go down on my “permanent record.” I imagine this permanent record as being stapled to my chest for the rest of my life.
Karen Singer. I say her name when I'm alone. I have visions where we are holding hands. Between the spaces of my heart beats, I tell her that I love her. But my fertile imagination never quite allows her to tell me that she loves me. Some visions are beyond imagination.
I know the truth. I am a dumb and funny looking kid. The kind of kid who never gets what he wants. Besides, I'm in the dumb class and if you're in the dumb class, you are doomed to failure. This is what my teachers tell me. This is the reason the principal and founder of Flatbush Yeshiva, Mr. Joel Braverman, beats me up in the hallway. Because I am stupid.
However, I do have dreams. Two dreams, to be precise. Both of them kind of insane.
1) I love movies. I have just discovered that somebody actually writes these movies. I like writing. I like movies. I want to write movies.
2) I love Karen Singer, and I want to marry her.
I am also keenly aware that I am a 9-year-old loser. And I am resigned to a life of diminished expectations.
Next installment: Dancing with Karen at an 8th grade pizza party.
Karen adds: Harking back to the infamous entry of yesterday. Robert suffered intolerable abuse, both physical and mental, from a man who was revered as a pioneer in Jewish education, and based on people's comments, many teachers were still in the Dark Ages. I experienced another side of Mr. Braverman, which was his "benevolence". This favoritism was misguided and caused harm, (although not comparable to Robert's) as well, and shows how clueless educators were of children's psyches. He singled me out for good. Can you believe that this hurt? As Robert writes, I was the new girl in town. From across the divide, from a poorer school, less advanced, less Zionistic with less fluent Hebrew skills. I spoke Ashkenaz, not Sephard. I was admitted into the A minus class. As the year advanced, I proved my mettle (studying like a fiend and praying everynight to get Aleph plus plus) and I was judged A class material. Mr. Braverman was informed. He came into the class for his visits and told me, in front of the whole class of my new friends, "You have to go to the A class, you don't belong here anymore." I felt like a traitor. I had finally made new friends, been accepted and now he wanted me to leave these kids behind! I refused over and over again. Now that I think of it, that took a lot of guts for a 9-year-old kid. I stayed the course, making a deal to stay in the class at least until the end of the year. In September, I had to brave a new set of girls, break into a new clique, sort out the rivalries of the ten year old queen bees, and enter the A class.
As for Robert's image of me, that is the Rashomon effect. That delicate handkerchief was a way I could hide the little upchucks of vomit caused by the anxiety of being in a new school. I remember stuffing one into the inkwells they had in the old fashioned desks. Anything to mask my fear. No one knew how scared I was. No one knew how hard I studied. No one knew that I had skipped several chapters in Chumash when I transferred Yeshivas and always had to cover for them. Thus are the secrets of the A class over achievers. If Robert only knew.
Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:05 AM | Comments (5)
June 09, 2005
Seraphic Revenge
It is years later. I am a college student, home for winter vacation. I am running some errands for my mother on Avenue J when I see a familiar figure trudging down the street carrying some grocery bags.
I walk up to the old man and offer to help him. He squints at me, grunts and asks if I was one of his students.
"Yes," I smile warmly. "Yes I was."
He shoves the bags in my hand and tells me to follow him; his car is parked a few blocks away.
"You look familiar," says the shrunken old man. "What is your name?"
"Robert."
"Robert what?"
"I'm so glad I ran into you, Mar Braverman. I've been wanting to tell you something for many years."
He beams. He's used to former students telling him how much they learned in Yeshiva Flatbush. How he single-handedly molded their characters. He's used to adoration.
"I want you to know that I've become a writer. Some day I will be a famous writer. And do you know what I'm going to write about?"
He looks at me, perplexed.
"I'm going to tell everybody how you took me into the hall and beat me up. I'm going to tell the world how you spit in my face, how you practically tore my ear off, how you hit my head so hard that I had a headache for two weeks."
"Avrech. Reuven Avrech." He says my name as if it's a curse.
I hand back his grocery bags.
"And after you're dead, I'm going to make sure that the world knows the truth about you. I promise. Everyone will know that you are a monster."
He sputters, scowls, tells me that I was always a stupid child. I walk away and for the first time in a long time, I feel light as air.
This never happened.
But this was the story I wrote for my entrance examination to Bard College. It was titled: "My Jewish Revenge." I was accepted on the strength of the tale, not my mediocre grades. I was told that the story was "extremely disturbing, but quite compelling." To this day, it seems to me an amazingly accurate description of most of my work. Have any of you ever seen my very first Hollywood film Body Double? That film is so disturbing that I have never allowed my children to screen it.
And in a very real sense, this story has finally come true for now in Seraphic Secret, I have finally told the world the truth about Joel Braverman. And now that I have spoken, I have a feeling that others will also step forward.
Next blog: Falling in love with Karen in 4th grade--where puppy love meets obsession.
Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:48 AM | Comments (29)
June 08, 2005
Seraphic School Days or The Sadist of Yeshiva Flatbush
Here's the year that made me who I am.
Fourth grade, Yeshiva of Flatbush.` I spent most of my time trying to avoid any contact with the sadistic founder of the school, Joel Braverman. But there was no way of avoiding his surprise visits to the classroom.
Unannounced, JB would step into a class; we students would hop to our feet, out of respect and utter fear. And then JB would go down the rows naming each kid and asking the teacher for a progress report. This was the year that my math disability kicked in with a vengeance. In those days, there were no disabilities, kids were either dumb or smart. I was really dumb, publicly humiliated by being demoted from the A class to the garbage C class.
Braverman stepped into the room. This time he went in alphabetical order. Just my luck.
"Avrech?"
I stood. The teacher told JB that she was "very disappointed" in me. JB ordered me to step outside into the hallway. My heart dropped to my stomach. Instinctively, I knew that JB was unstable. They said that Braverman and his wife had no children of their own, but that we, Flatbush Yeshiva students were all his children. This was and is romantic nonsense. We were not his children; we were the measure of his power.
Braverman wasted no time.
"Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" He shouted.
He grabbed me by the ears, twisted hard, then slammed my head against the wall. My skull actually bounced and made a hollow cracking sound.
"I'm sorry," I sobbed, "I'm sorry."
JB yelled that I was a disgrace to my family and to the Jewish people.
Quite an accomplishment for a fourth grader. He slammed my head against the wall a few more times.
I kept crying, "I'm sorry, Mar Braverman, I'm sorry."
But the beating did not stop.
Spittle flew from his lips, hit me in the face. My yarmulke fell to the floor. Instinctively, I leaned over to pick it up; JB grabbed me by the hair and twisted with all his might. My right ear drum popped. It has never been the same since. All the time JB was screaming something about all the Jews who had died in the camps and is this how I repay them? I recall thinking that this made absolutely no sense, but, I reasoned, that's because I'm in the dumb class and not smart enough to understand the connection between my wretched report card and six million dead.
By this time I was crying hysterically, blind with terror, confusion and shame. I figured that I deserved this awful beating. After all, adults are always right. Right?
I kind of hoped that Braverman would kill me. That way I'd be spared the shame of stepping back into the classroom. Gosh, what would I do doing recess? Now, nobody would play with me.
Finally, Braverman got bored or tired; in any case, he shoved me back into the classroom. The students were absolutely silent. Nobody giggled, nobody snickered. They had all heard my head bouncing off the wall, they had all heard JB screeching like a lunatic. The children were, I realized, scared. Even the teacher looked frightened. She had unleashed this beating and she could not, or would not meet my gaze. Quietly, she told me to take my seat. Snot was running down my face and she handed me a tissue. I blew my nose and blood sprayed. Braverman whispered to the teacher. She nodded. He exited. The class continued. I was relieved that she didn't call on me for the rest of the day.
I completely lost interest in school after that. I lived in a dream world of comic books and television shows. Westerns were my favorite, a moral landscape where good always triumphed over evil.
Braverman never touched me again. I think even he realized that he had gone too far. For the next four years, JB looked right through me. And on subsequent surprise classroom visits, JB didn't even bother asking about my progress. I no longer existed.
I never told my parents about the beating. In those days, teachers were always right. And school principals were, well, God-like. Naturally, I blamed myself. I was a bad kid. Had to be to get such a beating. But somewhere, deep inside, I knew that a terrible thing had been done and I vowed that someday I would have my revenge on Joel Braverman.
That year, I also fell in love with my wife Karen. She transferred from Yeshiva Ohel Moshe and stole my heart without even knowing it.
To be continued: My love affair, or more precisely my non-love affair with Karen.
Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:25 AM | Comments (78)
June 07, 2005
Seraphic Courage
I often wonder how it is that Ariel was able to endure so much pain and discomfort, for so many years with such--there is no other word--courage.
Yesterday, I spent several hours in the Cedars Sinai Cancer Center visiting a friend who is undergoing chemotherapy. It was hard sitting there. Everywhere I turned was a vivid reminder of Ariel's presence. Ariel was in that room, also in that room, and there's the spot he was overcome with anaphylactic shock.
In the Cancer Center, I ran into Ariel's doctor, a fine woman who treated Ariel from day one until the end. She told me that she often thought about Ariel, about his "amazing courage." She wondered if his "faith" made it possible for him to endure so much. I allowed that it probably did, but there is also the simple issue of character. That is how Ariel was made. And as if to prove the point, Ariel's doctor and I witnessed an orthodox man kicking up a huge fuss: crying, moaning, yelping. It turns out that the nurse was having trouble finding a vein. I felt embarrassed. Here was a man wearing a velvet yarmulke, like a giant soup bowl on his head, a Talmud on his lap, tzitzis down to his knees, obviously "religious", but making such a racket, over what? a pin prick. I felt like melting into a puddle. Ariel's doctor smiled tolerantly, all too aware of the huge gulf between one religious person and another. She touched my arm and said: "Ariel was truly special. I will never forget him."
Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 06:44 AM | Comments (1)
June 06, 2005
Seraphic Grave
Yesterday, Karen and I visited Ariel's kever. We go about once a month. Karen spritzes the matzevah with liquid soap; she meticulously wipes the headstone clean of dirt and grime. We pray and cry and hold one another. A voice inside my head reminds me that we are forever without Ariel. Forever is a long time. Or maybe it's not as long as I think. But this is our life and nothing can change it.
"If I die before you," I say to Karen, "bury me next to Ariel. Don't let anybody ship me to Israel."
Karen nods, she knows.
Sometimes I feel like lying down next to Ariel's grave and...well, just staying there.
Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 11:00 AM | Comments (4)
June 03, 2005
Seraphic Bookplates
Seraphic Press book designer Robert Lanphear called me up a few months ago and asked me about Seraphic Bookplates. You will notice that we are both named Robert. Which makes for some hilarious conversations.
"What about them?" I asked
"You're a publisher, right Robert?"
"Well, Robert, yes, yes we are."
"Publishers have personal bookplates for their books, Robert."
"I didn't know that, Robert. I'm new to the business."
"Guess what, Robert? I've got a great design in mind."
Okay, so it's not that funny.
Anyway, a few hours later, the Seraphic Press Bookplate was born.
Our bookplate features Seraphic Press' wonderful logo that Robert Lanphear designed using our signature colors of gold and blue.
Bookplates fit on the inside cover of all your books. Just peel, stick, and then sign your name. No longer do you have to worry that your favorite book will get lost and never returned.
A package of Seraphic Press Bookplates includes 25 individual plates and hours of stick and peel fun. Hey, don't limit yourself: Slap our bookplates on your computer, your yarmulke, your spouse. That way they will never get lost. It's an awesome adhesive adventure! Gosh, try saying that three times in a row -- very fast.
Seraphic Press bookplates are only $10.00 per package of 25, and this includes shipping and handling. Online payment accepted via PayPal to robert.avrech@gmail.com, or send checks to:
Seraphic Press
1531 Cardiff Ave
Los Angeles, CA 90035
Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 02:50 AM | Comments (0)
June 02, 2005
But...well... uh...um...
Tom Cruise is spending a great deal of time and energy speaking out about his devotion to Katie Holmes (no problem) and Scientology (problem). And not necessarily in that order. In fact, his mouthing off about Scientology is proving a bit awkward for the studios. Recently, in an interview with the German magazine Der Spiegel, Cruise got into a heated exchange with the reporter who called Scientology a "pseudo science." Gosh, whatever gave him that idea?
Now this is the, um, interesting part: Steven Spielberg was present during this interview; star and director were supposed to be promoting their upcoming film, The War of the Worlds. And so, in order to try and salvage a quickly devolving situation, Spielberg stepped in and defended Tom's dedication to Scientology by comparing it to...
You know what's coming next, right? But you don't want to believe it because it's just so wrong. You want to close your eyes, plug up your ears, shake off the whole approaching train wreck and make believe that it's all a terrible dream. Believe me, I feel your pain.
Well, unfortunately, tragically, stupidly, unbelievably, but all too normal for Hollywood, Spielberg compared Cruise's devotion to Scientology to: his work for the Shoah Foundation.
Steven, Steven, where to begin? You're a great director, and your Shoah Foundation is a Kiddush Ha-Shem, a santification of G-d's name. But... well... uh... um...
Steven, baby, there' so much I want to say about your unfortunate comment, but, well, good Lord, I only have ten fingers, one keyboard, and... help, my brain is meltiiiiiing...
Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:04 AM | Comments (8)
June 01, 2005
Seraphic Child
I stand before a room full of children talking about my novel, The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden. Harkham Hillel Hebrew Academy of Los Angeles is the grade school all our children attended; and so there is no shortage of emotion just being in the building where Ariel ZT"L, and the girls spent so much of their childhood.
I tell the children about the years of research into Apache culture that it took for me to feel adequately prepared to write the novel. I discuss the creative process, emphasizing three words:
Writing
Is
Rewriting
When I tell the children, 5th and 6th graders, that each page, each word has been written and rewritten at least fifteen times, they gasp in disbelief.
The boys go wild with joy when I detail the violence of the Old West, they particularly love it when I describe scalpings. The girls go "Euuuuw," but sigh dreamily when I narrate the relationshiop between Ariel, the Hebrew Kid, and Lozen, the Apache Maiden. It's soooooo romantic.
I treasure these sessions. Always, one shy child from the back will approach and tell me in almost a whisper that he/she wants to be a writer when they grow up. What is my advice?
"Don't wait to grow up," I say. "Start writing right now."
"But what?" they ask. "What should I write?"
"A diary," I reply. "And in it, write anything you want."
The assembly is almost over and I take one last question. A little boy who has read the book says:
"I see that you dedicated the book to your son. What grade is he in now?"
I hesitate a moment. There is a splinter in my throat.
"He's not in any grade," I stupidly reply.
The Librarian saves me from further embarrassment and calls the class to an end.
The children file out. I sit, head bowed, catching my breath. A shadow falls over me. I look up. It's the little boy who just asked the question about Ariel. He holds out his copy of my book.
"Can you write something to me?"
I inscribe the book using my favorite fountain pen. He stares, amazed as I blot the ink with a creamy sheet of linen paper. He smiles hugely, telling me that he loves books more than anything in the world. I have to hold myself back, so strong is the urge to hug this seraphic child.
Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 12:08 AM | Comments (1)