When The Boxing Gloves

Come Out

 

My grandfather grew up in a household straight out of an Isaac Bashevis Singer story. His father was the Hassidic Grand Rabbi, renowned for being musically gifted. His mother, the third of four wives, died when he was a young boy. He had eleven brothers and sisters, mostly unattended for, as his father was often preoccupied by the needs of his tens of thousands of followers. When war threatened, his father and older male relatives left for the United States. But as it became apparent that everyone was in danger, women and children included, my thirteen-year-old grandfather, the oldest boy left behind, became man of the house and took charge of the remaining family’s escape. With his forceful personality, he succeeded in arranging the journey via Russia and Japan, by horse-and-carriage, by train, by ship, slipping away just moments ahead of the German invasion.

 

All this is interesting but not all that unusual under the circumstances. What makes my grandfather especially unique, however, is his view of the world. Most of my friends’ grandfathers are traditional men with conservative views. Not so my grandfather. In appearance, he resembles a conventional observant Jew, and that is where he fools you. His religion is traditional - his views are anything but. He is so radical politically, he makes Noam Chomsky look conservative.

But it is not his views that have been most influential in my life—seeing as I don’t quite share them. Rather, it is the lessons I have learned from him about coming to my own conclusions without blindly accepting received wisdom. The community that I am a part of tends to see things in a uniform way and to be intolerant of contrary views. These views are drilled into us at all times – they color our studies in the classroom during the week and in synagogue on the weekends. But my grandfather’s example has empowered me to question and examine, to be skeptical and analytical, to insist on coming to my own conclusions.

 

What I find interesting is that my grandfather is usually most critical of the communities he is a part of, both Jewish and American. This has gotten him into trouble, as the people he surrounds himself with are also members of these communities. They do not appreciate his views, to say the least. Too many of us always ascribe ill intentions to our adversaries while evaluating our own actions in the most generous light. But my grandfather’s example has empowered me to look carefully at my own actions and those of the communities I associate myself with, and assess them critically.

If everyone were to criticize their opponents and support themselves, progress would be impossible. Although it can be frightening to openly assess the good and the bad within one’s own community, without this unprejudiced lens, nothing would ever change for the better.   

 

My grandfather is a compassionate person who is generous to those in need, but you wouldn’t know it to meet him. He mainly comes across as a hostile person. Perhaps this is because he grew up a motherless child in a chaotic world. Like Oskar in Gunter Grass’ The Tin Drum, my grandfather had a talent for smashing glass. While Oskar used his high-pitched voice, my grandfather would shatter windows throughout the village with his fists. The glazier would simply show up the next day to repair them for his father the Grand Rabbi. My grandfather’s expressions of rage went unmet with any resistance, so his anger deepened. He once found a box of nails and proceeded to hammer them into the kitchen floor until the entire surface was metal; no one stood in his way. So it is not surprising that his favorite form of entertainment is an argument. He enjoys picking at others’ sensitivities, stirring their anger, until they cannot help but fight back. I, in contrast, prefer calm, respectful discussions. When the volume rises and the boxing gloves come out, my instinct is to retreat. Growing up in a happy home and a sheltered world, I am anything but a confrontational person. But despite my instinctual response, I have learned from my grandfather to always speak up for my beliefs.

 

Acting as a peacemaker, as an advocate, has always come naturally to me. Challenging people when I disagree with them is much more daunting, yet I believe it is desperately important. I speak up when someone uses offensive language, such as retard or faggot. I speak up when a friend creates a hateful page on Facebook. I speak up even when everyone around me remains silent. My grandfather would relish calling people out; I don’t. But I do it, because silence is consent.

I remember a car ride when I was only eight years old. We were discussing an incident in Israel and despite my age the discussion got quite heated. Mid-debate I announced that I wasn’t on any team, that I wanted both the Israelis and the Palestinians to be happy. My father replied, “You must be on the Israeli team,” but I kept shaking my head. My grandfather in his unconventional way had taught me that I had to think for myself.

 

Nowadays, my grandfather has found a new project. A sheaf of his father’s and grandfather’s musical compositions that had been thought lost during the war were discovered, and he has been working with a young violinist to fill in the blanks and record them for posterity. It is amusing to see them at work – my 85-year-old grandfather in his beard and his yarmulke working alongside a twenty-one year old violinist who happens not to be Jewish and began the project completely unfamiliar with Jewish liturgy. The notes were saved, but are hard to read in many places and are missing lines and musical notations in others. Yet my grandfather recalls melodies he hasn’t heard in decades. Perhaps it is because his father composed in the middle of the night and used to wake my grandfather and review the melody with him to remember for the morning. The violinist has become a surrogate granddaughter to my grandfather, devoted to him and to the music. It is eye-opening for me to see this other, sensitive, side to my angry grandfather. Together they make the violin weep, they make the violin soar.

 

So how can I not be inspired by my grandfather, a man who honors the past and fights for the future? All around me I see evidence of the consequences of herd mentality – people looking for scapegoats during tough times, kids unwilling to speak up when they witness bullying. And I wish more people had grandfathers like mine.