‘Narishkeit!’: Mourning the Black-Jewish Alliance Decay

“We must stand with all our might to protect (Israel’s) right to exist… I see Israel as one of the great outposts of democracy in the world… an oasis of brotherhood.”

– Dr. Martin Luther King, speech to Rabbinical Assembly (March 25, 1968, 10 days before he was assassinated.)

I was doing my homework at our Washington Heights dining-room table. (Didn’t have my own room.) My parents, seated at the other end with our neighbors, were complaining about the Super. The conversation quickly expanded to a negative assessment of Shvartzes, in general.

I had a question: “Why is skin-color more determinant of a person’s character than eye or hair-color?” (Not in those words. I was in grade-school.)

I wasn’t trying to be snide, or argumentative. I was a kid; I really didn’t understand the reason.

There was an uncomfortable silence; they all looked at each other.

Finally, my father responded: “Narishkeit!”

Relieved, they all laughed.

Narishkeit, literally Yiddish “Foolishness”, can also mean “Nonsense”, “Stupidity”, or “Childishness.”

I hoped he meant the last, but clearly, they were not going to give me an answer to my question. I assumed then, they didn’t want to interrupt their conversation to provide one. I only realized later, they didn’t have one.

I inherited their pejorative opinion of Blacks until I started playing ball on the streets with them. I believed my eyes over my ears. What I saw contradicted what I heard. I eventually, occasionally chose Black teammates over Jewish schoolmates, not only if they were better athletes, but also if they were better teammates, prioritizing our team over themselves. I wasn’t being noble, but selfish.

I not only wanted to win the game; I wanted to enjoy it.

I once guarded (arguably) the greatest basketball-player of all time, Lew Alcindor (at the time, before he became Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.) A foot taller than me, he could’ have moved under the basket and scored at will. Instead, he remained outside (working on his dribbling) making the game more enjoyable, and competitive. (His team still won.)

I particularly recall one Black neighborhood playmate (I’ll call) Jack. The ultimate compliment to a fellow jock is that you enjoy playing against him as much as with him. Jack was that, and more. We became friendly, in part because we were both bullied by Irish and Italian teens. At times, we fought them together; other times, we hung together.

In time, the neighborhood changed. The Irish, Italians and most of the Jews left. It became predominantly Black and Latino. Jack and his Black friends started segregating themselves from the remaining Jews. He never fought with me, as other Blacks did, but he no longer hung with me either.

Commuting to Queens College 2+ hours each way, I no longer had time to play ball on the streets. My interminable trip home was a 1+ mile walk to the Jewel Avenue bus, riding it to the Forest Hills subway, the E train to Times Square, then the A train to 168th Street, and finally a half-mile+ walk to my building.

It was not pleasant. I first discovered the inimitable aroma of stale urine in the lengthy serpentine corridor connecting the E to the A. While the infrequent E was empty, the A was sardine-can packed. You had to push your way in.

Exacerbating matters, while most of my classmates left at 3 or 4, the latest, my pre-med science-labs didn’t let out till 6 PM.

I soon noticed a tall Black classmate on the same commute. As with Jack, mutual adversity bred friendship. The trip went faster with (real name) David to talk to. He was an art-major who had studio till 6 PM. On the E train, we sat together; he’d show me his latest work. On the A, we pushed on together. Even if it was challenging to speak, better to abutt (to butt) a friend than a stranger.

Once, when the train stopped abruptly, I bumped into him. Droll David pretended to take offense: “Watch who you’re shoving, Whitey!”

I knew he was joking; those sitting beneath us did not. They immediately arose to move out of harm’s way. We happily grabbed their seats.

A lightbulb ignited. Thereafter, we’d enter the train separate doors, work our way towards each other , “accidentally” bump into each other, start yelling and shoving each other. Almost always, seats cleared out. We’d mutter “Don’t let it happen again” and occupy them.

This worked fine until one evening as we began our “fight”, two Blacks grabbed me from behind inviting David to “beat the feces (paraphrasing) out of me.” David had to physically intercede to prevent their Enema-izing the ene-Me.

We realized it was too dangerous to continue this act.

We developed a new one. Deep-voiced David would start coughing his guts out. Sounded like Vesuvius about to erupt. If that proved insufficient to clear the seats, I’d innocently inquire “You think you’re gonna throw up again?”

Worked like a charm until one time, a leviathan called me “stupid to not only talk to a (N-word) but a sick one at that.” This time, I had to intercede to prevent David from hitting him. I considered performing the honors myself until I noticed Ku Klux had one hand ominously in his pocket.

So ended Act II.

Our section of Washington Heights became so Judenfrei, by late spring, my parents moved to Queens.

For the semester’s last months, I walked David to the bus-stop though it was now out of my way. I saw him sporadically the next three years, but we rarely both had time to talk.

Growing up, I thought the Black-Jewish alliance axiomatic. Most of the 60s white “Freedom Riders” were Jewish. Two of the three civil-rights workers murdered by the Klan in 1964 (precipitating the landmark 1964 Civil Rights Act) were Jewish (one a Queens College student.)

David and I commuting together wasn’t Martin Luther King marching with Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, but it meant something to me and, I hope, to him.

Today, what was referred to as the “Grand Alliance” then, is sadly, gone with the wind. There are innumerable reasons, but in Ben Franklin’s words, “never a good one.”

In my father’s word, in all its meanings, for both sides to lose that precious, mutually beneficial ‘Grand Alliance’, is Narishkeit.

[Excerpted from a family memoir]

[In the United States and Canada, February, containing Abraham Lincoln and Frederick Douglass’ birthdays, is Black History Month.]