In Defense of Hissing – Part II

In the early 1980s, I attended two panel discussions on serious and controversial topics — one at the 92nd St. Y, moderated by Rabbi Dr. Arthur Green, and the other at Hebrew Union College, moderated by Rabbi Dr. Eugene Borowitz and sponsored by Sh’ma magazine, which he founded and edited.

Both moderators, like all the speakers, were highly articulate, knowledgeable, experienced, and thoughtful leaders in the Jewish community. And at both programs, individual speakers made comments that elicited hissing from some members of the audience. (I don’t remember if I participated in hissing at either discussion.)

Drs. Green and Borowitz reacted similarly. Dr. Green asked the audience to refrain from applause and hissing, since both were inappropriate in light of the serious nature of the matters being discussed. And Dr. Borowitz advised the hissers that he would not tolerate such behavior, adding that “those who hiss speakers are not true friends of Sh’ma.” And that gave me — a friend not only of Sh’ma but also of Dr. Borowitz, with whom I had recently worked closely as a Sh’ma fellow — something to write about. (Some things don’t change.) Shortly thereafter, my article, “In Defense of Hissing,” appeared in the Baltimore Jewish Times.

The article’s title speaks for itself. The gist of my argument was that both applause and hissing are “healthy outlets for the audience, as well as a means of education of the speaker. . . . [because] such programs [are] occasions for imparting knowledge not only to the audience but to the speaker as well. Hissing, as well as applause, are methods of feedback for the speaker, so he or she may learn what the listeners are thinking; a way for the speaker to feel the true pulse of the audience. All too often, speakers, like high officials, have difficulty in discovering what the average person really thinks about the subject at hand. Hissing is one tool, among many others, which allows this educational process to take place.”

I sent the column to Gene (as he requested I call him), and he responded with a gracious handwritten letter (remember those?) where he gently disagreed for two reasons. The first was generational; he “grew up in the days of silent polite audiences,” while I was a child of the ’60s. Second, he raised the “question of limits”; that is, “what begins as response soon becomes demonstration, then competition, perhaps antagonism and hostility, and can lead to preventing people in the audience from thinking and speakers from speaking.” Thus, while we agreed that disruptive hissing/booing to shut down speakers was wrong, we agreed to disagree about the hissing at HUC and the Y.

(My article didn’t have Part I included in the title because I didn’t know, 44 years ago, that I would write a Part II in 2026. Note: Part I contains more details about the programs and Gene’s letter. I can’t provide a link, because links didn’t exist in 1982. The full article is, however, included in my book, “A Passionate Writing Life.”)

I remembered this during Shavuot, when my friend Sy told me after davening about his granddaughter’s graduation from Barnard (mazel tov, Mia!), which he had attended. “Barnard’s president spoke, and they booed her,” he said. “How rude.” I agreed, but noted that at several recent graduations where commencement speakers spoke positively about AI, they too were booed. “Those were comments on the substance of the speech and not the speakers,” I observed. “Unlike the booing at Barnard, that wasn’t rude.” As with Gene, Sy and I agreed to disagree.

It was significant to me that at those other graduations, some of the booed speakers reacted verbally to the booing with substantive comments about AI; that is, they actually entered into a conversation with the booing graduates about this very important national, indeed global, issue. And that discussion was referred to and followed up in many national newspapers and other media. How wonderful, I thought, that an important conversation was begun — and hopefully will be continued — by the booing of speakers at commencements. How much better than drearily listening to the banal speeches that so many of us had to endure before receiving our degrees.

This idea extends beyond commencement speeches and panel discussions. Indeed, it impacted a significant aspect of my legal practice. At oral arguments, I usually arrived with a prepared presentation, sufficient to fill the allotted time if I were asked no questions. And when I was a young litigator, I thought I did well if I was able to get my entire argument out without much interruption.

Ah, the foolishness of youth. I quickly learned that the opposite was true. If I wasn’t asked many questions, how could I know if my points were landing, or that the arguments I was presenting were the ones the court was interested in? It was only with a court that questioned my weaker points — every side has some — and honed in on the issues it was grappling with that I felt I presented the best argument I could, even if I lost. (Of course, I felt much better when I won.)

This is true in adult education as well. One of the benefits of the Beit Midrash of Teaneck, which I enjoy so much and often have written about, is that it exposes us to a multitude of varied teachers and speakers. Some of them allow — even welcome — questions and comments; others do not. And I almost always prefer the former to the latter.

We students not only feel more engaged in interactive classes, but sometimes sense that our participation actually enhances them. Indeed, one of my favorite teachers, Rabbi Hayyim Angel, who teaches the same subject material in many places, will sometimes stop the class momentarily in order to add to his notes a comment made by a student. He does that, he told us, so he can remember to include it when he next gives the class elsewhere. And when that happens — and it’s happened to me, though not nearly as often as I would hope — students feel truly accomplished; it’s as if we played a role on both sides of the lectern.

In one sense it comes down to a question of prepositions. Is the speaker talking to their audience or with it? The first is certainly easier; all the hard work is done before the presentation — they arrive with a prepared text and then present it. But to do the second properly, after doing the same hard preparatory work, they must be constantly on their toes as they present, ready to shift, to consider, to evaluate, to plumb the depths of their knowledge, to question their assumptions, to think, and — especially important — perhaps to rethink.

When I sometimes attend BMT on Zoom or watch a video of a class I couldn’t attend, I miss being part of this interplay between teacher and student. As worthwhile as online classes are, they never rise to the level of live ones, where there is a different, spontaneous dynamic, with exchanges and interactions that morph into true conversations. The result is a learning experience for all.

As Rabbi Hanina said (Ta’anit 7a): I have learned much from my teachers, even more from my friends, but most from my students. In classes and speeches, we can all be students and teachers if we speak with and not only to others. That’s how we communicate best. Samuel Beckett (or perhaps someone else) said “words are all we have.” Let’s use them to their fullest.