A World for Our Children
Both my parents, Simon and Gertrude Gross Kaplan, were immigrants who, as children, came to the United States in the early part of the last century — my father was 10, my mother 13. Not speaking a word of English, my father came from Russia, and my mother from a part of the former Austro-Hungarian Empire (it was Hungary or Romania or Czechoslovakia depending on the year — now it’s Ukraine), where her family’s mamaloshen and mode of cooking were Hungarian. And yet, as adults they spoke English so well, without a trace of a foreign accent, that many of my friends were surprised to learn that my siblings and I were actually the first in our family born in America.
It wasn’t easy for them, of course. Quite the contrary. Leaving extended family and friends behind, they came to a new country where everything was foreign; they had to learn to speak, read, and write a new language, adjust to new customs, follow new laws, and understand and adapt to a new culture, all while being burdened by family responsibilities that would be foreign to children of later generations.
On top of all this, they were children and young adults of the Depression, where jobs were scarce and money even scarcer, especially for immigrant families. And double those difficulties for Jewish families, and triple it for Orthodox ones. My father, incredibly smart, an excellent student, always kept his eyes firmly fixed on the goal he was striving to reach. He wanted to be an engineer. In today’s world I can only imagine that Cooper Union, MIT, and Stanford would be fighting over who would give him the most financial aid and scholarships so he’d attend their school. But he went into accounting instead, because he was told that as difficult as it was for Jews to be hired by engineering companies, it was impossible for Sabbath observers to even get a foot in the door for an interview.
The explosion of antisemitism today is a daily news story. Without, however, minimizing the problems we currently face here in America, the America of the 1920s to ’40s in which my parents grew up and started their married life was worse. (See, “‘America: Malchut Shel Chesed’ – A Rejoinder” for a more detailed discussion of this point.)
No, life wasn’t easy for my parents or their families. Nonetheless, more than merely surviving, they flourished, climbing into the upper middle class and raising a family that enjoyed many of the benefits and comforts that they had not.
I often think about the world left to me by my immigrant parents and their generation, which survived the Depression, World War II, and the Cold War, and compare it to the world that I and my generation — pampered and privileged, coddled and comfortable — are leaving to our children. That comparison overwhelms me with feelings of dejection and failure.
The world our parents’ generation left was certainly not perfect. Far from it. There were poverty and privation, combat and conflict, bias and bigotry, and more. Nonetheless, its trajectory, while not a straight line, was upward in the direction of slow improvement. Laws against discrimination impacted the mores of society where prejudice was becoming disfavored even behind closed doors; government assistance to feed the poor, protect the weak, and help the powerless, both here and abroad, were looked upon favorably by our politicians and the populace; the Iron Curtain fell, and millions, including Soviet Jewry for whom we fought and marched, were liberated; programs were started making it possible for most, not just those who could afford it, to receive adequate medical care; histories of peoples who had been ignored were entering our curricula; and groups who were excluded from so much in all aspects of society were gradually being recognized, welcomed, and included.
Some sneer at parts of this as “P.C.” and “woke” — words that I believe have little meaning other than to excuse prejudice. I, however, think of it as a return to decency and the middot (values) we say we believe in, teach in our schools, and preach from our pulpits.
This move toward improvement was true politically as well. With all the many serious disagreements between Democrats and Republicans, liberals and conservatives, and the left and the right, there was a basic agreement that the political process was fair, that those on the other side of the fence, though wrong on policy, were decent people who loved their country, and that time-tested norms — checks and balances between the three equal branches of government and seeking compromise and bipartisanship to resolve differences — were wise and prudent. And when a hotly contested presidential race went all the way to the Supreme Court for final adjudication, the losing candidate graciously accepted the decision he did not agree with rather than spend the ensuing years falsely and childishly mewling that the system was rigged and he was robbed.
Sure, people often overreacted in this world, mistakes were frequently made, foolish policies sometimes instituted. But errors notwithstanding, that world’s overall positive trajectory gave credence to Martin Luther King’s uplifting words that “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.” The world that they left us was one whose DNA was infused with hope for and in the future.
But as I get older and think about the world that I will leave to my children and grandchildren, I see much of that promise gone. Democracy is receding here and abroad while demagoguery and despotism take the front stage; billionaires and influencers, not our scientists, philosophers, and educators, are feted in our halls of state; falsehoods are accepted as a mode of government communication, while vengeance and cruelty drive much official policy; vile disrespect of past leaders is shamefully and shamelessly proclaimed both at home and abroad; benefits for the poor and powerless are eliminated to give the garishly wealthy and incredibly powerful even more than they already have; revisionism, in the worst sense of that word, has become the hallmark of history, education, and politics; “Defense” is decried while “War” is lauded, with nuclear testing, long banned by treaty, once again looming on the horizon. Soldiers patrol the streets of American cities, and masked federal agents, with the approval of an acquiescent Supreme Court, round up undocumented immigrants and citizens alike based on racial criteria; and authoritarianism, autocracy, and “illiberal democracy” are engulfing not only other countries but ours as well. Calvin Coolidge’s adage that “the business of America is business” has replaced JFK’s “ask not what your country can do for you — ask what you can do for your country.”
And in my once-beloved MO community, our religious, educational, and communal leaders — indeed, much of the community itself — have receded into a stance of “if it’s not about us, it’s not on our agenda.” This attitude was exemplified by campaign signs that recently proliferated in my neighborhood with untranslated Hebrew proclaiming that the candidate is “tov la-Yehudim,” good for the Jews. The unstated message behind such wink-wink words was that (a) this message is only between us insiders, members of the tribe and (b) if you’re good for the Jews, no other campaign issue is important. It reminds me of Charlie Wilson’s (mis)quote, “What’s good for GM is good for the country.”
Sometimes metaphors work. And I’m certainly not the first one to have recognized that the demolition of the White House’s East Wing with nary a word of warning, and in contrast to the president’s promise, based on the whim of a single individual without consultation or oversight, is an apt metaphor for how all too many structures of our constitution and democracy are being likewise demolished.
And this is the world that I am leaving to my children. It brings tears to my eyes.
Over the past six years, I learned all the Hebrew Bible’s books of the Prophets and Writings, with a magnificent teacher, Rabbi Hayyim Angel. Under his tutelage, the characters in those ancient holy texts came alive. We could clearly hear the admonitions of Nathan and Eliyahu, vividly picture the visions of Isaiah and Ezekiel, take seriously the warnings of Jeremiah and Hosea. We were uplifted by the leadership of Joshua, Deborah, Samuel, David, Solomon, Hezekiah.
And as I reflect on those personalities, I deeply wish that our country and my community had some modern-day counterparts who would inspire us to look beyond our daled amot, our own personal space and individual communal interests, and be concerned with those of others as well; who would motivate and encourage us to govern better, act wiser, be kinder; who would lead us out of the desert we currently inhabit into the Promised Land, a world of peace, justice, decency, morality, lovingkindness, democracy, and hope.
A world that I would be proud to leave to my children.
