Billy

This is a D’var Torah I presented at Woodlands on Friday, March 7, 2014, parashat Vayikra, Jonah’s 5th yahrzeit. Somehow I neglected to post it in any timely manner. But I found the parallel to ancient Israel’s sacrificial cult a compelling one. Sometimes we’re simply helpless as events whirl around us. And yet, amidst fear, grief and despair, greatness is manifest in our uncanny ability to survive and to carry on. In the second half of this essay, I write about Israel. It’s timely that I am sharing this now. If ever we needed more bridges to friendship between Israelis and Palestinians, it’s now. Billy

In ancient Israel, our ancestors used to make offerings to God depending on what was going on in their lives. If they accidentally made a mistake and did something God wouldn’t like, they would offer a khatat, a sin offering. If they did something wrong on purpose, but they were truly sorry for it, they would offer an asham, a guilt offering. And if things were going well in their lives, and they just wanted to acknowledge how fortunate they felt, our ancestors would offer a zevakh sh’lamim, an offering of wholeness.

But what about when things aren’t going well? What if you haven’t done anything wrong, but you’re also not feeling very good about what’s going on in your life? What do you do then? Nothing? Just sit around being miserable?

Our ancestors had one more offering that may fit the bill here. It was called an olah, a burnt offering. They made this offering just to tell God, “We’re human and You’re God.” It was a way, I think, to acknowledge that we’re not always in control of how we’d like our lives to go. Sometimes things happen that we have nothing to do with, except that they affect us deeply. We feel very emotional about them, but may not know how to deal with them.

Five years ago, my 19-year-old son Jonah died. As you can very well imagine, it was the saddest day of my life. Jonah was a bright, happy, funny, and very kind human being. He was well-loved and everybody liked having him around. When he died, I was inconsolable; all I could do was cry.

But after a few weeks had gone by, I began to wear my smile again. I came back to temple, began telling stories, played the guitar, gave blessings to babies, and resumed teaching. My heart was still broken but, somehow, I learned to be happy again.

It was as if I’d offered an olah, a burnt offering which said to God, “I’m human and You’re God, God.” After all, I couldn’t stop Jonah from dying. He was at college up in Buffalo and I was here at home. All I could do was accept that there was nothing I could do.

Oh, and one more thing. I was able to take my sadness and try to do something good with it. To honor Jonah’s memory and to make sure that my spirit didn’t die along with his body. It was as if I had offered a zevakh sh’lamim; even though my heart was broken, and it still is, I made an offering of wholeness. I thanked God for the blessings that I still have, even if I lost one big one.

Life sometimes hurts us badly. But we usually have a choice whether we’ll stay miserable or we’ll come back and enjoy life again. Tomorrow night is the 5th Annual Jonah Maccabee Concert. We’ll hear some great new Jewish music from Julie Silver and Ken Chasen, and we’ll raise a lot of money to help kids get to URJ summer camps whose families couldn’t otherwise afford to send them. We’ll do all of that in celebration of Jonah’s life.

My heart will always be broken because Jonah is gone. But it has little band-aids all over it from the wonderful memories I have of Jonah – my pictures, my videos, the stories about him that I write down – and how kind people have been throughout. These help my broken heart to keep beating, to keep loving, and to keep having fun.

I want to mention another hurt that has gone on for a very long time and how some people are managing to still find wholeness, to offer a zevakh sh’lamim, even while the hurt continues. On the other side of the world, Israelis and Palestinians have been each other’s enemies for more than sixty years. They live right down the street from each other, and have built a giant concrete wall to keep them apart. Many Israelis and Palestinians now hate each other. But there’s a group of people who don’t want to hate. Even though there are still big problems that have to be figured out, these people are tired of hating. They’ve decided to try friendship instead.

Recently, a beautiful man, a Palestinian Muslim named Alaa Ali, celebrated Shabbat with us here at Woodlands. He and his friend, a Jewish musician named Michael Ochs, sang to us about being tired of the hurt making them hate. They started a musical collective they call My Favorite Enemy. Together, they write and perform songs that acknowledge the hurt hasn’t gone away but their desire to hate has. As friends, they sing about the same problems that have existed for such a long time. But now, they look for answers together, with mutual respect and love guiding the way.

My Favorite Enemy has written a song (“Stones”) that expresses how tired they are of hating each other. In their song, they use the image of a stone, which has been the weapon-of-choice for young Palestinians who are angry at Israel and who throw stones at Israeli soldiers. They can’t do a lot of damage with the stones, but they stay angry. The Israelis have guns and other weapons which they use pretty much like stones too. Instead of building something good, the Israelis and the Palestinians just try to knock things down.

Stones
I used to be stardust
Before time began
And I turned to bedrock the mountains the sand
Chiseled and broken
Shaped by a man
Turned into weapons in his hand

Too many stones, too many stones
Too many stones have been thrown

A piece of a bridge
A brick in the wall
I can be anything at all
The tip of an arrow
The very first wheel
I held the commandments and always will

Too many stones, too many stones
Too many stones have been thrown

Lay me down build a path
Walk on me together
Let me be your common ground
Hold on to each other
Lay me down

Too many stones, too many stones
Too many stones have been thrown

The Palestinians and the Israelis have lived with their hurt for a very long time. Some of them are finally offering a zevakh sh’lamim. The members of My Favorite Enemy are using music to make their offering of wholeness.

Sometimes our pain doesn’t go away. But we almost always have a choice: to let the pain overtake us, make us inconsolably sad or uncontrollably angry, or try and bring some beauty back into the world.

The world is filled with stones. We can pick them up and throw them at each other, or we can build something worthwhile. If we choose, we can offer a zevakh sh’lamim, an offering of wholeness even when it’s clear that things aren’t very whole at all.

Billy

Jonah & the $12 Guitar
Dec 2005 (photos by Katie)

Jonah kept that twelve dollar guitar close by for a long, long time (see “Jonah’s Guitar Journey – Part One”). He mastered his first chords on it, and wasted no time before learning Tom Lehrer’s Irish Ballad. He wouldn’t sing often for me, but I got a couple of free performances of that particular tune. I think he was paying homage to his old father who had learned Irish Ballad when he was young (albeit on the piano).

Although our kids had abundant access to the internet, we always kept a watchful eye on them so they were never permitted to keep a computer in their bedroom. When, upon his high school graduation, we finally allowed Jonah to move his computer into the privacy of his own space, that junky guitar was right there with him, residing on a stand adjacent to his desk (even though, as you’ll read below, he’d gotten himself a fancier guitar quite a few years earlier). From time to time, he would pick it up and play quietly while Skyping with friends or waiting for online video games to load.

Time came, however, when neither a junky $12 guitar nor a Martin Backpacker (again, see “Jonah’s Guitar Journey – Part One”) would satisfy Jonah’s expanding musical desires. He wanted a real guitar. And he’d certainly demonstrated that this was no passing fancy. Music, and especially the guitar, had become central to his life. So one day, I took my 15-year old to a cool little guitar shop in White Plains, NY, called Toys from the Attic. I remember him timidly speaking with the salesperson who showed him a wall filled with acoustic guitars and invited him to try each and every one until he found what he wanted. We were there for hours, Jonah sitting on a big couch in the center of the room, wrapping himself around each prospective instrument, playing every song he knew about a hundred times until he’d found the guitar he was looking for.

Dean Tradition S TR
More importantly …
BIG RED FACE!

I’d never heard of Dean guitars until that day. They hadn’t existed when I’d last bought myself a guitar. But Jonah fell in love with a Dean guitar that had a big red face on it, and a big sweet sound. So after another hour or so confirming what he’d known from the first strum, we took it home with us (for those who care about such things, it was a Dean Tradition S TR – “TR” being Dean’s code for “trans red,” or, as I like to describe it, “big red face”). The guitar had been built when Jonah was 14, so it only had to wait one year before he found it.

After Jonah died, memories of him and his “bright red guitar” would trickle in. He’d taken it with him to UB, and the friends he made there (who knew him as Mac) would recall the many times they sang together while he played. The night after Jonah’s death, we were fortunate to witness an outside gathering in a spot where he and his friends had made much music together, an iPod mix now offering up the melodies they had previously all sung. While the tracks were playing, his friends sang along and wrote messages in chalk on the surrounding walls. It was a beautiful tribute that our family will never forget.

Since Jonah’s death, that Dean guitar has stayed with us, making brief appearances throughout our continuing journey of remembrance, showing up in expected and unexpected places.

Seven weeks after Jonah’s funeral, I returned to work. Among that weekend’s activities, I spent time with the kids in our religious school. I spoke with them about Jonah, about him dying, about him living, and about what it feels like to grieve for someone you love. I also brought with me Jonah’s bright red guitar. We sang “Redemption Song” together, one of Jonah’s favorite tunes (and which, Ellen tells me, Jonah learned and played on the big red guitar for many a youth group High Holy Days service). It felt so good to be sharing it, and him, with the kids, most of whom had known him from singing with him and being tutored by him. Jonah had been a huge presence among the children at Woodlands Community Temple, and his loss was felt deeply by them.

About a year after Jonah died, we established an annual concert of contemporary Jewish music whose purpose was to raise funds that would help kids in our temple go to camp. At that first concert (with Dan Nichols and Josh Nelson), Jonah’s presence was powerful and unmistakable. He was on all of our minds and in all of our hearts. He’d have loved being there. The second year, however, things were a bit different. The music would be great (Craig Taubman) but with time, Jonah’s presence was not as palpable. So unbeknownst to the audience (and probably to Craig, as well) I placed Jonah’s big red guitar on stage where it could serve as a reminder – to those who knew what it was – that we still missed Jonah.

Poster for March 2012
Dan on the Big Red Guitar

A year later, Ellen and I were sitting in our home with Dan Nichols and Josh Nelson planning the third Jonah Concert. We had, by then, taken most of Jonah’s instruments and created a bit of a tribute wall around our piano, mounting them along with a few others (including Ellen’s engagement banjo … yep, another story indeed … and her father’s army bugle that he obtained and played in World War II Italy) that carry special memories for us. The red guitar, however, had always remained in its stand right next to the piano, ever ready to be picked up and played by whomever. Typically, this would be either Ellen or myself as one of us prepared for a Shabbat service and happily worked out our material on Jonah’s guitar. But the night that Dan and Josh came by in November 2011 to talk about their upcoming concert, the bright red guitar came out along with Jonah’s ukulele (more on that another time) and, next thing we knew, the concert poster that year featured Dan Nichols on Jonah’s guitar and Josh on his ukulele.

Dan sings “Redemption Song” at our family seder March 2013

Then there was a night about a year ago when Dan Nichols, family in tow, showed up on our doorstep for seder (okay, Ellen probably worked that out beforehand with them). And I have lovely memories of Dan playing a few tunes (there are always more than a few guitar tunes at our seder!) on the big red guitar. It needn’t have been Dan, of course; it’s just sweet to see Jonah’s guitar continue to bring music into the world. It’s not quite Jonah, but one takes what one can get.

Interestingly, the Dean guitar is residing in my temple Study right now. My own guitar is spending the summer at a resort in Connecticut (you know, a guitar spa) (okay, a repair shop) having a number of scratches, cracks, and even holes removed so that it can begin the second decade of its life with me in good health. Meanwhile, Jonah’s guitar is keeping me company and I’ve been deeply moved each time I pick it up and play it in front of my congregation.

The day Jonah died, messages began flying across the internet. On Jonah’s Facebook page (and on a tribute page set up for him), unbelievably lovely words were left. One message came from Genevieve Van Dussen, whom Jonah had met during that only year of his at college. Genny writes about more than the guitar but she includes the guitar which, in a way, with its memorable bright red face, touched everyone who spent time around it, just as a very memorable red-bearded kid I used to know.

I’ll close out with Genny’s words:

You were truly one incredible person. You were always able to put a smile on my face and reverse my bad mood into a good one. You are not like anyone I have ever met. I will never forget our ridiculously long walk from South Campus to North Campus. I asked you if you would tell me a story and, boy, did you ever. I never laughed so hard. I will also never forget that “V for Vendetta” mask in your room, watching random movie clips together on your computer, your walk (or, should I say, your swagger), the checkered hat, the red aviators, the many trips you made to my dorm (you were such a gentleman and always walked me to my room), your guitar playing with that bright red guitar of yours. It was only a couple of days ago when you asked me if I wanted to buy it, but that guitar could only fit one person – you, and nobody else. You were such a lovely person inside and out. I will miss you so much, Mac. You will always remain in my thoughts and prayers.

Billy

Having once been a kid myself, I know what it’s like to want to do something, to cry and clamor for your parents to finance it, and then to lose interest in the aftermath of victory. I’m horrified by how many times I talked my parents into supporting my childhood dreams of grandeur. Come to think of it, Ellen should probably have put her foot down a few times as well. Ah, well. At least I don’t have a hobby that includes yachts or airplanes.

His first guitar became his knockaround camp-guitar 4 years later (2007)

I remember when Jonah, at the age of twelve, came to me asking for a guitar. I knew the gambit and I wasn’t biting. I told him we’d get him a really cheap guitar. Also, Ellen’s dad had done the same with her, purchasing her first guitar from a pawn shop to make sure she was really serious about wanting to play. Jonah could learn from that. And if he enjoyed playing, and he was learning stuff, and showed signs that this was something he was going to continue, then we’d talk about a real guitar.

So I went onto eBay and searched for guitars that would cost less than $25. Actually, I was hoping to buy one that, even with shipping and handling, wouldn’t exceed $25. I bought him a $12 guitar. It had no brand name stamped on the headstock and in the sound hole it read, “Classic Guitar.” What a piece of junk! But from his response, you’d think I’d gotten him Jimi Hendrix’s Stratocaster. Jonah was so grateful and from the minute he started strumming that thing, he never stopped! This was an eye-opener for me. This kid really liked music!

The very first song Jonah wanted to learn was Tom Lehrer’s Irish Ballad, a particularly reprehensible little piece about a young girl with an irrepressible propensity for murder. Both Ellen and I grew up on ample amounts of Tom Lehrer’s music and, while it may cause one to question our fitness as parents, we exuberantly shared his music with our young children and were only too happy to teach it to Jonah as his first “recital” piece.

One morning in a fit of pique,
Sing rickety-tickety-tin.
One morning in a fit of pique,
She drowned her father in the creek.
The water tasted bad for a week,
And we had to make do with gin.

That’s my boy. It wasn’t enough for him to make music; he had to make people laugh too.

Playing the Backpacker in Mississippi (2007)

Jonah didn’t wait around for me to buy him “a real guitar.” When he was thirteen, he spent his own money on a Martin Backpacker. These weren’t great guitars either, but they were portable, really easy to carry around. And that was what Jonah was looking for. The stories we heard after his death would bear this out. So many of Jonah’s friends – from camp, to youth group, and even during college – told us how much Jonah loved music, and how much he loved sharing music. More than a few of them wrote of the joy he got from teaching them how to play the guitar.

I think I got my money’s worth on eBay that day.

19th century physician and author Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., wrote, “Alas for those who cannot sing, but die with all their music in them.” Nineteen years is far too few, but Jonah squeezed immeasurable amounts of spirit and music into them. That little guitar of his did its job well, for he played and played, and sang and sang, until his song was done. The guitar is still around, and when I have occasion to see it, I am reminded just how extraordinary a life my son lived. “Real guitar” or not, he brought real music to us all.

Billy

It’s been five years since March 5, 2009. In some ways, lots of time has passed by. But in other ways, it feels as if no time has passed at all. Grief stands strong while life continues on. Here are a few snapshots that illustrate Jonah’s continuing presence these days:

1) In the first months after Jonah’s death, I struggled with how to remember his face. As a 19-year old, it changed frequently. Long hair, short hair, bearded, clean-shaven – which Jonah do I remember? It really bothered me. Today, I’m comfortable with all “the Jonahs.” This is likely due to the ever-cycling collection of photographs that plays each day on a laptop computer in our living room. I think these pictures have reinforced and helped me to grow comfortable with the reality that there are many versions of Jonah from the years he lived among us. I love remembering them all.

2) I don’t dream about Jonah. I don’t know what psychology is at play here, but I suspect that because I “see” him in the many photographs each day, I don’t have the need to see him at night. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t love to have a nocturnal meet-up. Someday perhaps.

3) In early January, I taught a “Jonah Dreskin Memorial Confirmation Class.” Two months before he died, Jonah had dropped by the 10th grade and led a discussion on the intersection of Judaism and science. The kids loved the class, mostly because they enjoyed spending time with this older college kid. He was cool and they couldn’t get enough of him. Five years later, I brought his session back. And while much of the material is different (and the cool factor was utterly absent), it was his idea and I loved bringing a bit of him to share with my temple kids.

4) The Jonah Maccabee Concert has brought major contemporary Jewish songwriters to my synagogue, Woodlands Woodlands Community Temple. Together (them, us, and you!), we’ve raised substantial dollars to help WCT kids get to Reform Jewish summer programs. Jewish music and camping were so precious to Jonah. That piece of him remains an incredibly powerful presence in our temple, which makes me very happy.

5) The Jonah Maccabee Foundation, founded by my family in Jonah’s memory, is now in its second year of real activity. We make grants to organizations that focus on social justice, the arts, and Jewish life. I treasure the beautiful tributes these projects pay to Jonah’s life and memory.

6) Not as much as I used to but I continue to write about Jonah. It means a lot to me to preserve my favorite memories of him. I share them here at jonahmac.org/jonah, which helps me feel like there will be a place for his nieces and nephews to one day meet and get to know him.

I think that my greatest lesson from losing Jonah is that people are amazingly resilient. I came back from this, and I see so many others who are able to rebuild on the ashes of their own tragedies and traumas. I forever miss Jonah. But as in the apocryphal story of Itzhak Perlman breaking a string yet continuing to play and adjust and retune and complete his violin performance, I try each day to respond to the best and the worst in life by affirming that “it is our genius, as well as our hearts, to make music with what remains.”

As always, my family and I are deeply grateful for your continuing friendship and support.

Billy

These words appeared in a slightly different form in Woodlands Community Temple’s monthly Makom (March 2014).

Dear friends,

This is the final piece of writing by one of Jonah’s PGT friends. We hope you’ve enjoyed the series. Thanks to everyone who submitted an essay!

Billy

Alex Wolitzer remembers …

Having graduated from Skidmore College in May of 2012, Alex immediately started teaching in Washington, DC. She has taught students of all levels and ages, and is currently at McKinley Middle School teaching a self-contained class of eight students with intellectual disabilities. They love when she puts on recordings of, and serenades them with, show tunes!

Dear Jonah,

Where I am today, you are always with me. I’m a teacher for adolescent students in inner-city D.C. Imparting my love of the theatre to them and watching them gobble it up reminds me so much of the passion and fervor you and I shared at PGT so many years ago. If only I could play the “uke” as you did, I think I’d have them hooked!

I want to thank you for being a friend. I remember like it was not long ago at all watching you endlessly share your voice, your time, and your heart with those with whom we worked, played, and grew at PGT. Especially for sharing it all with me. There are too many times for me to count where you were an open ear and a shoulder to cry on before rehearsals even started. Whether it was something going on at school or anxiety about our show, you always had something to say, be it realistic and constructive or hysterical enough that I forgot all about it!

But of all of the times that you were there with a kind word or to brush that ever-present chip off of my shoulder, the memory I want to share involved but a few words. Rehearsing for A Man of No Importance, I felt so nervous because it was my first experience with PGT, and I was one of the youngest actors in the cast. Not only were you so warm and welcoming, but you never made me feel as though I was new; it was like we’d been friends forever. So when I bought my first pair of character shoes, I was worried I would look like such a doofus! During our dinner break, you came down to the Asian market with me, and on the way back—on the first floor still—my heel broke! I was absolutely mortified that I’d have to walk through the White Plains Mall, with one shoe only, back to the cast of accomplished actors that I’d just met! You said these words:

“Shut up. Embrace it. Hop on.”

Mason, Alex, Jonah and Will
Hair 2008 (well, a cast party at least)

You bent over and had me climb on your back for a piggy-back ride! You carried me up the stairs, through the White Plains Mall, and all the way back to the PGT studios. And for the first time—maybe even in my life—I actually found security in laughing at myself and feeling secure in my skin. No matter how many words of wisdom or comfort you could have imparted on me, those six made such a dramatic impact on how great I felt about my clumsy bad luck, my kooky personality, and me overall.

As I said, in what I do today, you are always with me. My students just watched Rent for the first time. And watching my adorable class of inner-city kids sing “No Day But Today,” “La Vie Boheme,” and “Seasons of Love” the way you and I once did when we were just singing for no apparent reason whatsoever brings me such joy.

You live on in all of us, Jonah.

Alex (or as you once called me for a week straight, “Shortypants”)

P.S. Your donation at jonahmac.org is always welcome! We are ever grateful for your friendship and support.