It’s the day after Jonah’s third yahrzeit. What an utterly amazing day it turned out to be. And while we hadn’t been as emotionally overwhelmed as we’d been for yahrzeits #1 and #2, we were very much overwhelmed by the outpouring of love and support that flowed into our hearts yesterday. I felt like I’d really celebrated Jonah’s life. So many of his friends checked in with us, shared thoughts and feelings … about his absence, and about the effect he’d had on their lives. And so many of our friends checked in too (some going all the way back to nursery school!), each one with something loving to offer our family as we treaded oh-so-gently through the day.

Feeling this abundance of warmth and caring, I thought, “This might be the time to go back and reopen some very special words.” They were written by our dear friend Rabbi Jeffrey Sirkman, who presided over Jonah’s funeral service and who helped all of us – Jonah’s family, Jonah’s friends, our friends, and anyone else who felt the profound sorrow of Jonah’s death – to not only survive that day, but to feel elevated by the beauty and the accomplishments of Jonah’s life … gifts to all that death would never take away.

Jonah & Uncle Jeffrey
Passover 2007

Uncle Jeffrey’s words (yes, our children’s uncle, not by blood but by friendship and love) need to become part of the canon recorded here of our stories and memories about Jonah’s nineteen years. Jeffrey captured so much of the good stuff. So if you want to smile, give this a read. If you want to remember what was so spectacular about my boy, if you want to learn what others of us had known from Jonah’s earliest years, if you want to celebrate rather than mourn, spend some time here with Uncle Jeffrey.

I can’t think of a more loving, more insightful tribute to my boy’s life than this one.

Billy

————————————————-

I remember the call like it was yesterday – from Cleveland – with the big news.

“Billy? So?”
“It’s a boy!”
“Mazel! That’s great! What’s his name?”
“Jonah.”
“Beautiful. And the middle?”
“Maccabee.”
“No, really.”
“Jeffrey, his name is Jonah Maccabee Dreskin!”

[Billy continued, knowing this one needed some explanation.]

“Jonah is the dove, so he’ll love peace. And Maccabee is for the fighting spirit, so he’ll have the courage to pursue it.”

Never has a name suited so well, for what appears on the outside to be cause for inner conflict – the push for peace and the right to fight – is actually the unique blend of quirk and character, of angel and devil, of sweetness and spice, of humor and heart, that makes this name not alone beloved, but in a way more real than nineteen years of living could allow possible, made this name great.

L’chol ish yesh shem … the poet Zelda’s poignant words. Overlaid on Jonah’s life … with love:

Each of us has a name given us by God and given by our father and mother. Each of us has a name given us by the way we stand, and what we wear, and how we smile. Each of us has a name given us by the mountains, and given by our walls. Each of us has a name given by our sins and given by our longing. Each of us has a name given by the seasons and given by our celebrations. Each of us has a name given by our enemies and given by our love. Each of us has a name given by our friends and given by the stars. Each of us has a name given us by what we do not see and given by our death.

Each of us has a name given us by God and given by our father and mother. Each of us has a name given us by the way we stand, and what we wear, and how we smile.

How many of us have been charmed by that Jonah smile? Even before all his teeth were in … the picture is priceless. There he is in his toddler onesy pj’s, standing on a chair with his favorite musical toothbrush, not in hand but in his mouth, playing with Katie’s doll house – a treasured hand-me-down from the Gelfands – using his tiny Sesame Street figures to create an alternate universe. Turning to the camera, he’s beaming, smiling away, creating and controlling his own little world.

His name then was “JoJo,” and that smile was so sweet. He could get away with murder. Case in point. Katie, pinpointing the start of your sibling rivalry, you remembered the old VHS video of you, dressed in costume, all of five, dancing and prancing and singing for the camera. And there, just behind you in the background comes Jonah, and taking aim with the umbrella in his hand, not totally appreciating your performance, he pretend shoots you … of course, still smiling.

It was amazing how well you got along at school, together this year at UB, having lunch every Wednesday, really talking life, listening to one another, like a big sister and her brother, heart to heart. Yet still, being back home, you’d slip back into those old roles, as Jonah once again would become your 5-year old annoying little brother.

Each of us has a name given by our enemies and given by our love.

Aiden, your brotherly love was playful as it was fierce. How many hours did the two of you spend on your bedroom floor, playing with those Bionicle action figures? Taking out the big bucketful – since you had every one – you’d make up an epic saga. But lost in the story for four or five hours, with Jonah’s favorite figure fighting yours, it would inevitably end in a clash of the titans, often with the middle school titan winning out over the elementary school titan. Clearly, you did not always receive the respect you deserved, at least for the first ten years or so of life with Jonah.

But somewhere along the way you went from his loving name for you, “Stupid” – the bratty little brother – to the virtually cool “bro” and friend. No wonder your greeting changed as he’d address you with “Dreskin,” you responding with “Larger Dreskin.” Maybe your observation, Aiden, was part of it: “As our heights got closer, we became more like equals.” But I think it was something more. Because in you, Aiden, he saw someone who loved what he loved, someone who shared his passions, and so, shared Jonah’s heart. What an amazing gift that, among the PGT productions you shared, most recently, you actually played brothers … in “Hair.” Working on perfecting your duet together down in the basement, Jonah writing harmony for your song, and then actually doing the show. Beyond the characters you played, what made you both stars was the joy you brought to the stage, because your brotherly love was real. You were truly connected. So much so that you got to be part of his circle, playing World of Warcraft online, often getting the updates on his life at UB because to him you were such an important part of that life. As he said to the audience in “Hair,” but to you as well, “I love flowers and the fuzz and the trees and the sun and the moon and the stage and the lights and my little brother.”

Each of us has a name given by our sins and given by our longing.

From the youngest years, Jonah had a profound sense of right and wrong, and his own way of meting it out – what became known as “Jonah-justice.” Like biting Dan Roth when he crossed the line in 1st grade, or in the 2nd grade when he punched a girl because, as he said when asked why, “She deserved it.” Or at Eisner Camp, upon first meeting Andrea, as the unit was doing tie-dye, and Andrea accidentally stepped on his piece, he let her have it! Jonah may have borne the brunt of his retaliation from the powers-that-be, but he never acted without good reason. Seeking justice, it was justified in Jonah’s eyes. Eventually, as adolescent maturity kicked in, he stopped hitting, but he never stopped pursuing justice, protesting wrong wherever he could. Like the anti-Scientology demonstrations he’d attend in the city, part of a protest group called “Anonymous,” which, Billy commented, “were definitely shaping his sense of righteous indignation.” Or like knocking on peoples’ dorm doors, canvassing to get the vote out on campus. Standing up to wrong with the power of right made Jonah, better than his reluctant biblical namesake, a truly prophetic Dreskin.

Each of us has a name given us by the mountains and given by our walls.

Jonah had some mountains to climb, but he was more than equipped for the ascent. Knowing Ardsley High, great school as it was for most, was not for him the right fit, he approached you, El, and you responded with reason and parental patience: “Jonah, it’s temporary. We’re working on it. Mom and Dad are trying.” But frustrated by the system, Jonah had enough waiting, so he took matters into his own hands, effectively persuading the administration that it would be in everyone’s best interest, especially the teacher he hinted he’d like to throw out the window, if he found a different school setting. And Ellen, when you questioned your sophomore son, “Why did you do it?” his response, like the boy ever true to himself, was real: “You said things would change, and they weren’t changing fast enough.” So he found his way to Summit, a school for kids who don’t quite fit the mold, discovering a place he could learn that he loved. Connecting to a community where difference was celebrated, Jonah excelled. In fact, what he found was that fellow students really liked him, because he affirmed that individuality far outweighs conforming to the “norm.”

And Billy, how wonderful those high school years for you as his Dad. The unforgettable image of Jonah parked at his PC at the living room desk, working away, searching online, and in between, playing his electric guitar, un-amped of course, managing what he needed to get done and multi-tasking his heart’s desires, all at the same time. And never once complaining, no matter what was going on around him. With everyone else eating, or watching TV, Jonah took it all in stride. Right in the middle of the traffic flow of family life, yet having built his own little wall to diminish the distractions. Billy, in more ways than one, you “watched him grow up at that desk.”

And if ever he scaled the heights in those high school years, it was because of PGT … Jill and Steve, the Abusches. Thanks to the theatre company you’ve created, Jonah learned – from his involvement these past five years – what it means to be part of a community where mutual care and respect are expected, and given freely. And because he was not only a ham – he loved center stage – but was good at it (convincing actor, talented singer, animated performer), Jonah captivated people with his spirit, and his playfulness. What an uplifting experience for Jonah, to play roles he’d never become, and to learn from every one. For appearing as a murderer and a drug addict, a hippie and a hoodlum, a gay man and a gay-basher, a doctor and a priest, and a ukulele-playing Cheshire cat, Jonah found a little bit more of himself.

Each of us has a name given by the seasons and given by our celebrations.

How many summer seasons did Jonah spend at Kutz? From the time he was one, there was virtually never a summer without it. It was at Kutz that he took his first steps, fell down the stairs, and fell out of the top bunk and had his first stitches in his head. A Fac Brat by nature, it was tough for Jonah to actually keep the camp schedule, much preferring his own freedom. He didn’t need anyone to tell him where to go (even though they tried to get a staff member to shadow him at all times). Yet after connecting to the core, Kutz became Jonah’s passion. Just last summer, finished as a camper, he was in Avodah, working as kitchen dishwasher, but helping wherever he was needed. And when he talked with his parents about this coming summer, it was surprising to find he didn’t want to take the next presumed step and become an RA. Why not? Because “Jonah knew what he was good at,” and he did not need the recognition of following the beaten path. Kutz was his summer community, and he’d contribute the best way he knew how. Just as he did in his summers at Eisner, and especially in the NFTY-NAR community to which he was so connected. The 2008 Kutz Staff phone memorial service, the day after Jonah died, makes it clear: they’ve lost one of their own.

It goes without saying, Jonah celebrated his Jewishness, like everything else in his life, in a uniquely “Jonah-way.” From his hip-hop rendition of “Makin’ a Motzi,” to being the designated Shabbat candlelighter at the family table, he found what he loved about being who he was.

As a 6-year old, if that, Josh Davidson, then the Woodlands intern, taught him to play shofar, not to mention gifting Jonah with his trumpet which Jonah played from the 3rd grade on. And though he loved standing between his mother and father – the rabbi and cantor – at the Young Families Service as the Shofar Blower on the High Holy Days, when you tried, Billy, to move him into the Main Sanctuary, Jonah said, “Thanks, but no thanks.” He wasn’t looking for that sacred spotlight.

And yet, recognizing that he was a teacher in the making – a Jewish teacher at that – Billy, you had him as a guest lecturer for Confirmation, teaching his favorite subject, Science and Religion, talking about their intersection and compatibility. But you had an ulterior motive. For in order to teach, the two of you had to plan. And how sweet it was to sit with your son and talk through the key points and help him think through his handout. “Rabbi Dad,” what you recognized in that moment is poignant as it is painful: “It was so thrilling to see him testing the waters, and for me to help my son discover who he is and, ten years down the road, who he was going to be.”

Each of us has a name given by the seasons.

Witnessing the seasons pass as Jonah grew up before your eyes, in for special family gatherings, or just a vacation visit … Grandma Ida, Grandpa Herman, Grandma Iris and Grandpa Jake, what a gift your time spent together with your grandson. This moment, we know painfully well, too little time. Yet moments shared made their mark. Grandpa Jake, who else would Jonah, would-be-engineer, write about for his college entrance essay? Spending afternoons in your workshop, taking apart broken VCR’s, you delighted in that shared curiosity of figuring out how things work, and why. Thus the bear hugs with which Jonah greeted you, so tight you still feel them long after, remain the lasting embrace, the unbreakable bond of Jonah’s love.

Each of us has a name given by our friends and given by the stars.

Ellen, there’s no question, as you said, that by the time he’d graduated high school, having truly grown into himself, “Jonah could just be Jonah.” Still, the fear of him going to the University at Buffalo was that at such a big school, he’d get lost. Of course, instead, by an amazing group of friends, Jonah got found. And though he used to threaten that he would legally change his name at eighteen, El, when you were helping move him into his room and called him Jonah, he pulled you aside to explain: “Mom, here, my name is Mac.” In fact, it was Maccabee, and his crowd of 25 or 30 kids called themselves after him. They were Maccabees’ Hippies, who’d all hang out at “the bench” – the back area between two buildings – where Jonah, flannel-clad and red beard flaming, sang and played guitar … or mandolin, or ukulele, whatever stringed instrument was available.

That same gathering place, night after his death, where a spontaneous memorial miraculously occurred, celebrating Jonah’s life by filling the walls with wishes from his friends in chalk. And from their words, such as: “This chalk might fade but never your name,” what you knew was that they not alone held your son in high regard, they loved him, because he celebrated individuality, and affirmed the self-worth of each and every one. With incense and candles lit, playing the Dead and Clapton, as people were publicly sharing, when one freshman boy, Cody, said: “I don’t have anything profound. Just that, whenever Jonah came by he always smiled at me, and it made me smile, and feel really good. So, to remember him, I’m gonna smile at others.” You understood – true presence that he was in the lives of that special circle – Jonah’s name has been planted within their hearts.

Yet one friend’s heart exceeds all others. Jade, having met at Kutz, both of you working staff this past summer, based on hearsay and a few harsh Jonah justice stories, at first you thought [direct quote] he was “the biggest jerk.” But hangin’ out, you realized, as he told you himself, “I’m a second impression kinda guy.” And the impression he made was lasting, because by summer’s end, you decided the relationship was real enough, even with Hobart a good few hours away from UB, that you’d try and stay together. And the two of you did more than that. You shared a true romance that – attested by the poster you made for him and that he mounted on his dorm room wall, “20 Reasons Why Jonah Makes Me Smile” – brought immense happiness to one another. The song he wrote you especially for Valentine’s Day, like all the music he so loved to play, gave voice to the love he felt. And though it was scary to care for someone so much, what a gift to be head over heels for each other. How we so feel the words you wrote on the chalk wall at Jonah’s UB memorial as our own: “I only wish we had more time.”

Each of us has a name given us by what we do not see and given by our death.

Jonah loved seeing the way things worked, taking them apart and (sometimes) putting them back together. Fixing what was broken, like the garage door, and especially creating gifts, like anything from duct tape. Or like the light box he made his dad for Hanukkah. Jonah had vision; he could see possibility where others saw garbage, saw nothing. He lived to prove, whether through his music, or acting, or school, or religion, or life’s daily challenges, there is always another way. And though this life-perspective, so you thought, would be perfect for him as an engineer, after a week or so in the program and his announcing, “I hate math & science,” you knew he’d pursue a different path. Though he was tentatively “undecided,” from conversations and his favorite courses, you thought, El, that [like you] he might be on his way to being a Philosophy major. Thinking, Billy, “that Jonah would use his mind to inspire others.”

So honoring that unrealized dream, let the last word that we remember be his. From his “non-journal,” not private thoughts but musings meant to be shared (as he said). So Jonah write, “Fear is a tool. It is that little voice in your head that let’s you know that something just ain’t right. But, like most tools, fear can be used, misused, and abused.” Knowing the world is not quite right, what do we fear most with Jonah’s death? More than we fear for our friends – that they will find a way, through the strength of the love we share, to make it through, to go on living knowing that he is gone – what we most fear is that we won’t be able to keep Jonah’s memory alive. So Billy and Ellen, Katie and Aiden, we, all of us, make this pledge: Unspeakable as losing your boy, your brother, is, we won’t let Jonah’s spirit die. We’ll mourn this loss for as long as we live, but that won’t stop us from celebrating his life, and making his legacy our own. Nineteen years was way too young to have his dreams be over. But with this amazing outpouring of support, realize how great his impact in such a short time. Jonah’s song, Jonah’s vision, Jonah’s justice, Jonah’s Jewishness, Jonah’s smile, Jonah’s playfulness, Jonah’s ingenuity and individuality, Jonah’s quirkiness and compassion, Jonah’s heart and his love … will become part of the fabric of our daily reality. Jonah’s spirit, a part of us. And then his love, and his dream, and his name – Jonah Maccabee Dreskin – will ever live on.

So may it be. Amen.

Jonah Maccabee Dreskin
1990-2009

Dear Jonah,

It’s March 5th again. The third one since you left. And what’s on my mind this time is parallel lines. The ones that ran between your life and mine. It seems that you and I may have had a bit more in common that I’d ever realized.

I. When I was in the eighth grade, an unfortunate disagreement with my rabbi and his wife prompted my immediate withdrawal from temple high school, and a promise never to step inside a synagogue ever again. A year later, a young rabbinical student and his wife, (now Rabbi) Jonathan and Susan Stein, entered my life, offering me insight, encouragement and friendship as I navigated the choppy waters of my teenage years. I have no doubt whatsoever that at least part of the reason I became a rabbi was to thank them for all they did back then.

In the tenth grade, you had a similar disagreement with an English teacher, resulting in your immediate withdrawal from high school. But it would already be in the eighth grade that you’d meet Jill and Steven Abusch, who, along with Jeff Downing, would provide guidance and support for you throughout your turbulent teens. In large part, it is because of their time and attention that your life had become such a blessing by the time you turned eighteen.

I didn’t much notice this while you were alive, Jonah, but these past three years have brought to light a whole bunch of realizations about similarities between your life and mine. These parallel lines are stunning to me. And they serve as one more “meeting point” that allows me to keep your presence strong.

II. Spiritually, our paths were remarkably alike. You and I were both active not only in our temple youth group, but in NFTY (the North American Federation of Temple Youth) as well. Of course, while I became a member of the elected leadership, you would have none of that. You were quite content to do your leading (and you did) from amidst the masses.

In youth group, we both served as vice-president in charge of religious life. Which is ironic, since neither of us ever claimed traditional observance as part of our religious expression. In your campaign speech, you promised, “I will make sure to add a little something extra to services, something that will feel more like another program rather than a sit-down service.” Not surprisingly, you found services (your dad’s, I imagine) less than riveting and had wanted to stir things up a bit to make them better. Well, it turns out you and I weren’t much different on this count. You know what my favorite complaint is about my being a rabbi? That people never know what to expect at a Friday night service. It seems I prefer a noticeably creative element too. Like father, like son, eh?

Jonah and Dad
Early 1990

III. Then, in our senior year of high school, even though we’d both been around youth group a long time, we were content to stick around some more, even if that meant being looked at as “the old man.” But it was comfortable there, and neither one of us was in a rush to go chasing new dreams. That would come soon enough. For now (then), we were just fine continuing to enjoy and to help build the program we’d each come to love.

IV. You never made it to the summer following your freshman year of college. But the plan was to return to Kutz Camp. You’d been there a long time and, again, were in no rush to do something new. You were going to work in the kitchen, which you’d have enjoyed tremendously. I too went back to camp (GUCI, in Zionsville, Indiana) the summer after freshman year. Actually, I had two freshman years, and went back to camp after each of them. You and I both loved our camps. There was time enough to set course for new horizons. We knew when we’d found something good, and we stuck to it.

V. Then there was the music, Jo. You were the better guitarist, but I was the better pianist. I probably sang a little bit better than you but not by much. And we’d both wanted to become songleaders. I did a fair amount of it in college, but you didn’t care for the preparation and so contented yourself with hanging out with your friends and pulling out a guitar (or a mandolin or ukulele) and singing along with people that way. So you were a songleader after all, weren’t you?

VI. Lastly, there was college itself. You started out at UB as an engineering student. It took about three breaths before you figured out you didn’t want that, and you switched to philosophy. I started out at University of Michigan as pre-med and felt the need to leave college entirely to sort things out. By the time I returned, music had become my major. Of course, in becoming a rabbi I kind of switched majors again … to philosophy.

Which begs the question. Would you have become a rabbi? Probably not. You’d likely have had the heart for it, but not the patience. Too much work. And we know how you felt about work.

But who knows? I always believed you could do anything you put that fantastic brain and soul to. Where you would have ended up, I can’t even begin to guess. I can only tell you that I was really enjoying watching you take the journey. Which made me even sadder when it came to an end.

I guess we’re all kind of lost during our high school years. And our job is to try new things, look for adults who care about us, and take that wild ride into the future that will (hopefully) bring us to the person we want to become. If that’s the case, then parallel lines run between all of our lives.

But something profound linked you and me, my son. I loved watching you grow. Perhaps because the kid I was watching wasn’t so different from me.

It’s been three years, JoJo. I still really miss you. I guess I always will. But I sure won’t forget you. That life of yours was something else. A little bit like mine. And a whole lot not. I’m glad to have been witness to all of it. It was a happening. And an honor.

Love you forever,
Dad

Valentine’s Day. Jonah’s birthday.

I always loved that the two went hand in hand. When he was younger, Jonah’s positive attributes were kind of difficult for many to see, but I did. And I’d always believed that he’d someday grow up to become a person who’d be easy to love. During his tumultuous middle school years, I would tell him, “Jonah, if you’d just show the world the sweet, kind, funny kid we get to see here at home, everyone would fall in love with you.” He always eyed me skeptically when I’d say that but, in time, he figured it out.

That big, playful, loving heart of his had room for everyone in it. And he was so good at opening it up. In our family alone, how many times did he (willingly!) help around the house, regale us with silliness that made us double over with laughter, give us gigantic hugs? I can only imagine how much moreso he did these things for others.

Our Forever Valentine
February 1997

I love that Jonah’s birthday fell on Valentine’s Day. When he was a little boy, I thought about how much his girlfriends would enjoy celebrating this day with him. Two for the price of one. So much romance in a single day. Once girls stopped being yuck, he’d agree with me.

That he only got nineteen of these very special days is a tragedy of course. But he wasn’t one to squander the good stuff, and once he got the hang of it, Jonah used every one of each year’s 365 days to share the beauty that was inside him.

I miss him, of course. As the memories grow more distant, I’m saddened to think they’re already fading a bit. But all I need do is think of the times he’d punch my arm, or squeeze the breath out of me, or just smile that magnificent smile of his … and my heart fills up all over again. Gone, but most definitely not forgotten.

Happy birthday, sweet boy. I may never have been your valentine, but you sure did win my love. Double.

Forever,
Dad

Dear Jonah,

Walking with Charlie through the woods behind the dog park, I find the path has grown more and more familiar from our almost daily visits this past year and a half. A quarter of a mile or so in, the path makes a hard right and heads toward a stream in which Charlie and many other dogs love to frolic. But the path is blocked by downed branches. It’s been this way since the heavy rains from last summer and the heavy snow this past October. We’ve all adjusted, making temporary detours, even clearing new paths, until someone makes things right again. But no one has. After all the waiting, it appears the new path will remain.

It dawns on me: that’s life after you. Having coped with so much debris scattered across and obstructing the pathway of our lives, it’s become increasingly probable that things will stay this way forever. You’re not returning. There’s no going back. This newly-cut passageway in our lives will remain.

Interestingly, as I approach the altered path and peer at it from some distance, it’s actually a clear shot down this new trail, from the place where it was blocked, across the fresh trail, and back onto the old path. The original path doesn’t even look right anymore.

Jonah’s portrait of Post-Katrina Disarray
Ocean Springs, MS February 2007

I think that sometimes we imagine we’re stuck, that obstacles and obstructions have sealed our fate, our failure. But the lesson here may be that if we can get ourselves to look at our new situation from a distance, with fresh perspective, we may find that the new path is just fine. We’ll be fine. Even if we remember for the rest of our lives how lovely the original path had once been.

As I proceed along this trail, I unthinkingly try to walk where fallen branches block my way, as if to say, “Nope. Can’t go that way. Not anymore.” So I turn, with a sigh, and as my feet find new steps to take, I’m somewhat surprised to find that it’s okay. The walk is still a lovely one, even if nature has changed it forever.

With you gone, Jonah, I find that the path has shifted forever. And it’s okay.

Sort of.

Love you forever,
Dad

Jonah’s camp experiences started as a one-year old when he began spending his summers as a “fac brat” at Kutz Camp (see “Kutz: A Human Symphony in Three Movements,” April 18, 2009). Ellen and I served on the Kutz faculty for more than two decades and our kids joined us for much of our time there. Our summers were near-idyllic. A safe community filled with high-grade humanity, a cabin on a hill overlooking (for most of our years there) a lake and acres upon acres of forest, all meals taken care of, and no dishes to wash. The work was exciting and fulfilling, and our kids lazed away their summer days spending the unhurried hours much like Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher did in an America one may have thought was long gone.

But lovely as those summers were, our lives were not our kids’ lives, and eventually each headed off to their own summers at Eisner Camp. From 1998-2005 (ages 8-15), Jonah typically spent one month on Faculty Row at Kutz and 2nd session as a camper at Eisner.

I suspect that, as with most parents, I won’t ever know much about what happened at Eisner. Jonah’s letters were the only real source of information, and brief as they were, not much came from there either. But here’s what I do know:

URJ Eisner Camp Summer 2004

• Typically, each of Jonah’s letters included a plea that we send “care packages,” sometimes asking us to hide food inside them so it wouldn’t be detected and at other times to definitely not send food. I compromised by sending only foods he didn’t like.
• One summer, Ellen gave him a legal pad to write letters home, but he couldn’t tear off the pages without mangling the tops of the sheets so we had to send a more manageable replacement. In one letter, he actually thanked us for that. Be still my beating heart.
• When he was eleven, Jonah wrote home about loving a Dan Nichols concert. This wasn’t so different from any other camper except that Dan would inspire Jonah to learn guitar and one day (when he was fifteen) play ukulele at Dan’s side during a concert at Kutz.
• Jonah fell in love with the “Magic” card game at Eisner. Each summer, he would come home and spend eleven months strengthening his deck to prepare for the next summer’s conquests. I have no idea if he ever won, but something (maybe a passionate vow of “I’ll get you next time!”) kept bringing him back to the table.
• We rarely learned what camp activities Jonah was involved in, but biking and football did get mentioned at least once in his letters. Jonah was never a terribly athletic guy, although I think he would liked to have been and therefore diligently tried everything. None of it persuaded him, chip off the old fatherly and slothful block that he was.
• The most pencil lead expended in Jonah’s letters was telling us of his excitement about two Tzofim unit plays he was in: Grease (2003) and Stars of David (2004). In Grease, Jonah played Danny Zuko. But more than having the lead role, Jonah was most proud of his “improvisational work” when another character had forgotten her entrance. Stars of David was a mock-talk show where Jonah appeared as the Jewish rapper Etan G and first debuted what would become Jonah’s signature presentation, “Makin’ A Motzi.” Boy, did he get traction from learning that!
• The Boston trip, of course, received enthusiastic attention in his letters home.
• But best of all for us, he let us know how much he liked having Katie and Aiden at camp. He even made sure to take a photograph or two with them.

But what will easily remain the most memorable (and infamous) Eisner moment occurred during the summer of 2001, Jonah’s fourth summer there. He wasn’t having as good a time as in previous summers and he dealt with it in a manner that may have surprised other parents if their own child had done this. We however had long before ceased being shocked when Jonah took matters into his own hands if he’d felt change was needed. Rather than work out any differences or disappointments, rather than find ways to make camp more satisfying and enjoyable, rather than actually tell someone he was unhappy, Jonah simply decided it was time to go home.

A smart one, my boy, he knew he’d have to get the support of Louis Bordman, the camp director, if his master plan was to succeed. So he simply adopted the following strategy: ignore anything your counselors say to you, never follow their requests or (eventually) their demands, and (as you’d planned) answer a summons to the director’s office. Shortly thereafter, he will call your parents and explain that camp just isn’t a fit and they should come pick up their boy. Which we did.

The next day, I wrote in a letter to Katie (who was probably still at Eisner): Jonah came home last night. He’s unbelievably happy being back at ol’ 25 Oak Street. He was so pleased to climb into his own bed and to wake up to cartoons and “real food” (as he calls it).

The following January, Jonah surprised us all again. He wanted to go back to camp. Well, we knew that would take some work. We accompanied Jonah into New York City to meet with Louis, who explained that what happened the summer before could never happen again. Jonah agreed and in a follow-up letter, he wrote, “I know what I did wrong last summer and it won’t happen again. I was having trouble talking and resolving conflicts with you and the other staff. I really want to go back so I’m going to try to be different. I’ll follow the rules, even if I disagree, and talk about it later. I’ll do what someone tells me and then tell someone about it, not refuse to do it in the first place. I’ll keep my anger to myself and get help if I need it. I will listen when someone’s talking to me and I will respond when someone asks a question. If I do something wrong, I’ll take the blame (but if I’m framed, I’ll try to prove I’m innocent). In a nutshell, I’m willing to change if you let me back into Eisner.”

That was Jonah evolving. Compliance without acquiescence. No promise of subservience. Just a willingness to not break teeth.

Jonah always had a powerful sense of justice that drove him to buck the status quo. As a child, he focused on his own “rights.” But as he grew into adulthood, he saw and he reached out to so many others he felt were getting a bad shake. Whether it was a kid getting picked on by bullies or a man he believed America needed as its president, Jonah was becoming a strong, caring, and activist soul.

That next summer, Jonah was allowed “back in” to camp and enjoyed another four summers there. As far as I know, he never got into trouble again. Well, nothing serious anyway. It’s been reported to me that, on occasion, he would run around Olim hill in his Simpson boxers without a care in the world. It’s also been reported that he kept a ready eye out for the well-being of others.

Jonah never again asked to leave early. As with so much of his life, he probably realized how good he was at making his own fun, and at making friends along the way. Who’d want to let go of that?

At the end of Jonah’s final summer as a camper at Kutz (2007), his bunk made a plaque that read, “We know everything.” There may, in fact, have been a few remaining lessons for Jonah to learn about life, but as far as camp was concerned, I believe Jonah did know everything. Given a second crack at making it work, my smart boy realized he had all the tools in hand. And he never looked back.

That was years ago. If you were among the throngs to meet Jonah toward the end of his high school years or in college, you know he rarely walked away from anything. Experiences like Eisner 2001 had taught him exactly what Ellen and I have always wanted our kids to understand: that life takes practice, and that we get better each time we’re willing to give it another go.

Had Jonah survived the night of March 5, 2009, I have every confidence he’d have learned exactly how not to let whatever happened that night not get the better of him again.

Billy

For the past two weeks, I’ve been driving into downtown White Plains, NY, to watch Jonah’s younger brother Aiden perform the part of Ren in the musical, Footloose. The show was produced by Play Group Theatre (PGT) which has been part of Aiden’s life since the 5th grade when Jonah introduced him to it. From the middle of 8th grade through the rest of high school, Jonah appeared in 11 shows at PGT, while Aiden has been in 11 shows, with a 12th and final production to open in June.

Theater looks for drama in order to tell a great story. Death, and its impact on the living, is often an effective avenue for tapping into some of life’s most authentically human moments. Our family, since March 2009, has not only traveled into this most difficult of realms but is now (and forever) sensitized to the nearly continuous presence of stories in our world that explore the human response to death.

While Jonah was in PGT, seven of his 11 shows involved the death of a main character. In an eighth production (Grand Hotel), he played a survivor of World War I who yearns for a final release from his empty, painful existence. And yet, despite the presence of death in these shows, we were innocent then and none affected us more than any other good story would.

Of Aiden’s 11 shows, death has also been persistently present. In the musical comedy, Urinetown, Aiden had his life beaten from him by an angry mob armed with toilet plungers. It was performed two months before Jonah died, and so we laughed. Of the six shows in which Aiden has performed since Jonah’s death, three of them have either brought Aiden close to death (as the title character in Pippin), actual death (as the title character in Bat Boy), or in relationship with someone else whose older brother had died (Footloose).

Watching the five performances of Footloose took me on quite a journey myself. Theater, when it’s good, draws us into a new universe and holds a mirror up to the more familiar reality of our own lives. As I watched the young woman speak of her brother’s death, I thought of my own daughter Katie, and what it’s been like for her to carry Jonah’s memory these past three years. I watched the girl’s mother, and thought of Ellen and what it’s been like for her to live without her son. Most startling of all, however, was watching Aiden play a character who admitted to not understanding what it feels like to lose someone you love, and knowing that he had been the one person onstage who knew exactly what that feels like.

And then there was the father of the boy who’d died. His character was a clergyperson. And a decent guy. And someone who still felt the pain everyday of his son being gone. As I watched each performance, thoughts tumbled around inside of me. Have I been a good parent to Katie and Aiden since Jonah’s death? Have I been a good husband to Ellen? Have I been a good rabbi to my congregation? How has Jonah’s death affected my relationships? And what of the future – how will his death continue to impact my heart and the way I live my life?

Footloose wasn’t supposed to be the most moving story ever. It seems as if the script first and foremost provided opportunities to sing some fun songs and to stage some great dances. PGT performed admirably in those areas; their five audiences loved being there. But for me, and for anyone else sitting in that theater who has either lost someone they loved or knows someone who has and who happened to be sitting there as well, Footloose told a second story – that of a continuing journey which I don’t think can ever be completed. I live on after someone I loved as dearly as life itself has died. That loss seems as if it will never completely go away. At best, it will be integrated into a still joyful, though now nuanced, life that understands more than I ever cared to about the best and the worst that existence sends our way.

As I watched my son Aiden act and sing and dance, Footloose carried me heavenward on wings of love and of pride. While I was up there, I think I caught a glimpse of my son Jonah who each day carries me on wings of love and pride, as well.

When Jonah was in The Laramie Project in 2005 (this time, he didn’t die; he just played the murderer), I placed an ad in the show’s program which included a quotation from 20th century author Thornton Wilder, who penned Our Town and The Bridge of San Luis Rey. Wilder had written, “The theater is supremely fitted to say, ‘Behold, these things are.’” In a note to Jonah and his fellow cast members, I added that theater “shows us the tragic state of how things all-too-often are” and challenges us “to create what needs to be.” I was so proud of Jonah for being part of something that was trying to better us all. I am so proud of Aiden for doing the same.

Billy

A few days ago, I was out at Sharon Gardens Cemetery.  For work.  I know it sounds bizarre, but what can I say?  I go where my people are, and on that day they were at the cemetery.

When I was finished, I stopped by Jonah’s grave.  It’s kind of weird, of course.  Questions come to mind.  Is he there?  Do I say hello?  But what was most unsettling for me was the difficulty I had in finding a stone to place on his marker.  All I needed was a tiny pebble.  But in a Jewish cemetery, such things have long ago been claimed by others.  To go looking is a bit of a fool’s errand.  Nevertheless, I milled around looking for one that had maybe burrowed its way up from underground, perhaps pushed up by the recent rainfall.  All I knew for certain was that I couldn’t very well steal one off another grave.  It’s not that I didn’t think about doing it.  But I was worried I might get caught.  Worse than by the living, I might be caught by the dead (cue creepy music).  But that’s me.  My imagination tends to get the better of me.

I had the perfect pebble at home.  I’d brought it home from Kutz Camp this summer.  I’d been given it in a program and asked to write something on it to leave behind.  Well, once I’d written Jonah’s name there was simply no way I could leave the pebble behind.  I brought it home with me.  But I could maybe leave it at his grave.  Maybe next time.

I finally located a stone that seemed available (i.e., without moral repercussions) and I left it there.  Mission accomplished.

If I sound a bit flip about this, it’s because, while it’s certainly still sad to go to Jonah’s grave, it’s definitely not as emotionally wrenching as previously.  Jonah’s body has been in the ground for two and a half years.  That’s a long time.  I imagined what was left of him down there (cue more creepy music?) but I didn’t feel particularly emotional about it.  If anything, it became almost a non-event because if Jonah’s body is gone then what’s the big deal about being there?

Still, it’s sacred ground.  And I most definitely acknowledge that. The ritual of the pebble attests.

Elmsford Reformed Church & Cemetery
Stuff of Memories, circa 2000

On the way home, I drove by the Elmsford Reformed Church on Route 9A.  It’s a road we’d drive often, passing by the Revolutionary War cemetery at the church and, one day, stopping in.  Parking the car, Jonah and I spent some time looking at the 200-year-old markers whose letters were so weathered as to be nearly illegible, and whose stones frequently lay flat to the ground, long ago abandoning their assigned task of announcing to all who lies in eternal rest there.  Jonah must have been about ten at the time, and he’d really been fascinated by this little cemetery.  I think he considered our time there to have been a memorable event in our shared lives.  I know I do.  And it’s become a peculiar anchor for my remembering him.

But hey, two and a half years after his death and I’m still grabbing at every memory I can drag out of my brain.  It hasn’t been that long.  I still really miss him.  And if I can find a way to feel (even just a bit) his having been in my life, I’ll take that road.

Billy

I read an article in the New York Times this morning about how a plastic mask used for protests across the world has also created some significant income for its owner, Time Warner (“Masked Protesters Aid Time Warner’s Bottom Line,” New York Times, August 28, 2011). The mask is a haunting one, both because of its design and because it’s hanging on the bedpost in Jonah’s room.

After Jonah died, one of the conduits of information about his life has come from his camera. Jonah took a lot of pictures. Hundreds of them. Usually, I’m able to recognize Jonah’s friends and the places or activities being logged. But one set of photographs from April 2008 (Jonah’s senior year of high school) eluded me. Not a single face was familiar, and I couldn’t understand why this group was hanging around outside the Church of Scientology offices in Manhattan. And why the masks?

This mask from Jonah’s high school days went to college with him too.

The mask, it turns out, was the giveaway. An organization called Anonymous, founded in 2003, engages in acts of civil disobedience, protesting perceived injustices, and keeping their identities hidden along the way. They have taken very active stands against racism, sexual predators on the internet, AIDS-related bigotry, the Church of Scientology, and even the election of Iran’s President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.

During Jonah’s senior year, I knew he’d been traveling into New York City from time to time. But Jonah was a gregarious guy and I just figured he was meeting friends there. Anonymous, however, had caught his eye and his heart. I think he loved the clandestine nature of it, and I know he appreciated working to better the world. With his creepy Guy Fawkes mask, he’d found a way to do it in a manner that suited his own quirky but sincere personality.

While Time Warner has enjoyed the profits from sales of the mask, Jonah profited from something much better — the satisfaction that comes from having joined with like-minded people who try to do something good for the world around them. I can’t help but wonder where such activities may have led him, but what remains is my pride in a young man who saw himself as part of a larger world that benefitted from his concerned efforts to improve it.

Billy

Today, at 6:00 pm, Christian millennialist believers were supposed to have been “raptured” – lifted up to heaven to live side-by-side with Jesus until he brings them back to earth to do final battle with the anti-Christ for the salvation of the planet and its (faithful) inhabitants. Needless to say, 6:00 has come and gone – no one made any spectacular departures.

But I know something about these beliefs.

The world is a hard and tough place to live. So much must be endured. It’s not at all surprising to me that there are those who look beyond human efforts, hoping for a powerful ally to intercede and save us. In Christian theology, the saved would be those who have accepted Jesus as their savior. How comforting for them to know that, if they’ll remain steadfast in their belief, something much better will come.

Comfort is something I think we all yearn to have.

Since the day Jonah died, I have explored – in the hope that I might find my son still alive in some “beyond death” kind of way – new ideas about the afterlife and even about resurrection, ideas not unfamiliar to me but, until March 5, 2009, I had no great need for any of them to actually be true. Two years after Jonah’s departure, my heart continues to endorse my exploration of anything that might bring my boy and me back together. Even the psychic medium, John Edward, appeals to that voice inside me that’s crying, “Please, help me find him.”

But while my brain says, “You don’t really know that any of this stuff isn’t true,” I was brought up as a skeptic and so I bite my tongue to stifle my snicker at the same time I do my exploring.

Just the same, the heart is a powerful motivator. These millennialist folks just want the world to get better. And I just want my boy back.

Neither of these is very likely to happen. But unlike the guy who sold his home for not very much money as he went off this morning to meet his maker, I’m not stocking up on Jonah’s favorite foods.

Nonetheless, that heart of mine doesn’t let me forget how much he liked Easy Mac.

Billy

It’s hard to say when Jonah fell in love with music. I suppose that, for most of us, melody serves as a fairly constant backdrop to our lives. It first consists of the tunes our parents or older brothers and sisters play, but then sometime along the way, we begin to want to make our own selections. I remember when I was maybe ten years old, and my brother Michael bought me a record player for my birthday. It was like he’d given me my first razor (which, actually, he also did) or taken me to my first R-rated movie (my mom did that). It felt like such a grown-up thing for me, to have the capacity to select for myself the music I wanted to listen to. Of course, for a while, I could only choose from what I’d been exposed to, so it was pretty much still my family’s music. But eventually, I began picking out tracks and albums for myself.

Disneyland 2001 – age 11 (he knew)

So witnessing my own children’s musical maturing was a sight to behold. After endless listens by all three of the kids to the Animaniacs’ Variety Pack and Mickey Mouse unRAPped, Katie was of course the first to break out of the pack, with Hanson’s Middle of Nowhere. Aiden’s pretty sure his first choice was a collection of alternative rock hits called Buzz Cuts that he had me order for him through the mail. But Jonah’s first is a mystery. It’s the kind of question that pretty much has to be answered by that person, sometime before it becomes ancient history which they themselves have forgotten. And of course, sometime before they’re gone altogether. Not much I can do about that.

Me, my first music purchase was the soundtrack to Mary Poppins. I remember it so well. Grandma Mollie had sent me a five dollar check and after writing her a note in which I promised to spend it wisely, I went out to Walgreen’s with my dad, found the album in a display rack, and brought it right home. There had been no doubt in my mind but that Mary Poppins needed to be the first LP that I would own.

There are other early music memories. Katie told me about when she and Jonah would listen to Footloose in the basement. They’d dance while wearing rollerskates; only, Jonah thought that dancing included throwing things, which of course infuriated Katie. But since when did Jonah ever do things the way others wanted him to?

So I’m left with this mystery. And while I doubt it will ever be solved, I do remember one of the very first CDs to appear without parental intervention was Great White North, a collection of comedy bits by Bob and Doug McKenzie. Figures, doesn’t it? In time, Jonah would come to own as much rock music as the next teen, but there’s poetic synchronicity to his first recording being a comedy. I’d already loaded him up with the favorites of my own youth. Smothers Brothers, Bill Cosby, Tom Lehrer, Allan Sherman and Steve Martin. It probably comes as no surprise to anyone who knew Jonah that these would be at the foundation of the sonic experiences of his youth. Or that I had deftly guided him from very early on in this fine cultural legacy. Such a proud dad!

In time, listening to music would be insufficient for Jonah. He needed to make music for himself. My guess is he admired his songleaders at Eisner Camp and figured if they could be at the center of a crowd because of a guitar, why couldn’t he? So in July 2002, at age 12, he asked me if I would get him a guitar. Typical dad that I am (i.e., cheap), I responded by finding him a $25 guitar on eBay (it was actually a $12 guitar, plus $15 shipping … unbelievable). “Learn how to play that, JoJo, and we’ll talk about getting you something better.” He took me at my word. In a school project just a few months later, a timeline of his life from 0 to 13, Jonah wrote, “Just recently, I learned to play the guitar. It was a big step because pushing down on the strings and moving my fingers so quickly, it hurt my hands. But millions of people on earth and even just in America were able to learn the guitar and I am too. I’m not very good but over time, I’ll practice and become a professional.”

The first song Jonah learned was “The Irish Ballad,” a rather peculiar little folk song written by Tom Lehrer, about a young lass who murders (fairly brutally) everyone in her family. That would, once again, be my Jonah’s sense of humor.

Needless to say, he became pretty darn good. A year later, Jonah got that second guitar (a Martin backpacker). And two years after that, his red Dean acoustic. In time, he’d add an electric guitar, a second electric guitar, an ukulele and, finally, a mandolin. If you want to learn more about Jonah’s guitar interests, read Pick Pocket (June 15, 2009).

Trumpet Stylings
Age 9 (1999)

For a while, though, prior to his guitar strumming years, Jonah was known as a horn player. He took a couple of years of trumpet lessons when he was 8 years old. Our good friend Josh Davidson gave Jonah the trumpet from his own youth. They shared a sweet bond through it because the case had Josh’s initials embossed there, which turned out to be Jonah’s as well. Nonetheless, Jonah couldn’t fathom using Josh’s mouthpiece because “it must be covered with millions of disgusting germs.” While I assured him he could use his own mouthpiece until he was sure that Josh’s was safe, Josh wrote Jonah a note reporting that “any cooties have long since died.”

In time, trumpet would give way to shofar. And for a number of years, starting at age 11, Jonah could be found standing between his mom and his dad at the kids’ services on Rosh Hashanah blasting away. More than a few kids were inspired to learn the shofar for themselves because of Jonah. If you want to read more about Jonah’s horn-period, take a look at Sweet Toots (May 24, 2009).

In one of Jonah’s college applications, he wrote, “Guitar … know how to play it, or love someone who does.” When I was young, my brother Tommy was the guitarist in a local high school rock band called the Dauphin Street Blues. A few recordings survived those years (the late-1960s) and eventually found their way to a home-produced CD which I got my hands on. Jonah loved the CD, mostly because it was his Uncle Tommy who played on it. I always found it touching that he loved listening to these particular recordings. I too was always enamored of Tom’s playing, and it warmed my heart to see that his nephew was, as well.

In Jonah’s University at Buffalo application essay, he wrote, “I could never choose a favorite band, or a favorite song, because everyone has something to offer.” I never knew how seriously he took this sentiment until his iPod came home in March 2009. Of the eclectic collection of writers and performers he had gathered, none surprised me quite so much as the pieces by Tchaikovsky that I found there. Where had he encountered Tchaikovsky?

I actually wrote to some of his friends to see if they could shed some light on this question. One of Jonah’s freshman year buddies, Tracy Questel, wrote back, “This isn’t surprising to me that Mac would listen to Tchaikovsky since his music taste was so widespread and grand.”

Kutz – the Jerusalem of Music Summer 2007

Apparently I’m not the only one who thought so. Of course, this was reflective of the way Jonah lived his life. No one and no experience was outside the realm of interest or possibility for him. He loved tasting so much of what the world had to offer. I think it’s one of those comforting factoids about him that help me feel like his nineteen years, though brief, were full.

I listened to Jonah’s Tchaikovsky collection. It’s really some spectacularly gorgeous and powerful music. One particular piece — from Act II of Sleeping Beauty, “Pas d’Action, Adagio,” a 6 minute and 1 second recording — moves me so very deeply. While listening to it in the car one day, I was stunned by the “feeling of Jonah” that swept right through me. This music contains so many of the elements of Jonah’s life: his power, his drama, his fullness of spirit, his beauty, his emotion. I couldn’t believe how perfect a musical metaphor it is for him.

So while Tchaikovsky seems like a curious choice for a rocker like Jonah, it’s actually quite perfect for the huge personality he had. Finding it on his iPod was like a parting gift he’d left for us.

During Jonah’s junior year of high school, he put together a Shabbat service for the NFTY-NAR Winter Kallah in which he included the following words of Martin Luther: “Nothing on earth is so well-suited to make the sad merry, the merry sad, to give courage to the despairing, to make the proud humble, to lessen envy and hate, as music.” If ever there was a person who followed his own heart in this world, it was Jonah Maccabee Dreskin. What was so magically wonderful about him, though, was that his heart, as irreverent as it may have seemed, was so attuned to the music of other people’s lives. Jonah wrote at the back of his UB planner: “Life is a stringed instrument. When our wavelengths meet, we are a chord.” I think he really believed that, and he tried each day of sweet, brief life to create a symphony of kindness and love.

One more thought. During the summer following Jonah’s death, we were invited to a presentation in Jonah’s memory, a tribute to Jonah, by the children of Play Group Theatre. In it, they sang for us the old Barry Mann-Cynthia Weil hit, “Make Your Own Kind of Music.” My Jonah, who appreciated the music that so many had to offer, and who mastered any number of instruments which allowed him to offer music of his own, brought a melody into this world that sang itself through Jonah’s every waking hour. Those who were lucky enough to get a ticket to this performance found their lives enriched by the time they spent with the quirky kid with two names. He didn’t always believe his song was one that people would want to hear. But over time, I think he learned there was music in his soul that needed no guitar or ukulele — just a warm smile, a kind word, and a sincere willingness to be a friend.

By the way, as I finish writing this piece, IZ’s recording of “Over the Rainbow” has begun playing on Pandora. Jonah’s signature piece. I miss my boy so much. And I’m so very thankful for the incredible music he’s given us all.

Billy