Survivor: Poland

"One of the best Seinfeld episodes."

That's like saying one of the best Dylan songs.

There's just too many to choose from to say "one of the best."

But one of the best Seinfeld episodes was when Jerry took a date to see Schindler's List.

Yada yada yada.

They started making out.

THEY MADE OUT AT SCHINDLER'S LIST?

Oh the sacrilege.

Not since Mel Brooks and The Producers had someone successfully made something funny about the Holocaust.

Marge Schott tried.

But only few have succeeded.

After all, let's be very clear here, there is nothing funny about the Holocaust.

From what people remember.

As a proud Jewish person, the Holocaust is worse than any moment in time that this world has ever experienced.

But the bottom line is the Holocaust is history.

Just a part of the past.

And that's a tragedy in itself.

Despite the bumper stickers and post cards, people have forgotten.

People have moved on.

That's what people do.

For many, the Holocaust is nothing more than a made for TV movie.

I'm not minimizing the tragedy or significance in any way shape or form.

But as we creep farther and farther away from the end of World War II, the memories will fade even more.

And so will the people who survived the wrath of Nazi Germany.

The number of Holocaust survivors still alive today is somewhere between 100,000 and 350,000.

This according to the trusty internet.

But no matter what the real number is, one thing for sure, it’s not going to go up.

Last year my daughter’s 8th grade class took a trip to Washington DC.

And as part of that trip, we visited the Holocaust Museum.

It was, BY FAR, the most emotional stop on our four-day trip.

Parents, teachers and even kids were clearly affected by what they saw.

And ten minutes after we got on the bus... the giggling started again.

I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing.

But I’m not sure it’s a good thing either.

Next year my 7th grade son will make that same trip.

But recently his class got an up close and personal introduction to the subject.

Her name is Estelle Nadel.

She is a survivor.

For 37 minutes Mrs. Nadel addressed our middle school.

She told us her story of growing up in Poland.

And the story of her father being shot to death by the Gestapo.

Along with her sister.

She told us about the time she and her brother were captured by the Nazis.

Thrown in a jail.

At the age of five.

“We knew we were going to be shot the next morning,” she said.

Matter of fact.

Like we would say, “change the channel”.

She told us about how they successfully escaped from that jail.

Barely squeezing their undernourished frames through the iron bars on the window.

Somehow landing in a friend of a friend’s attic.

An attic where “you couldn’t even stand up because the floor was too weak.”

They stayed there for two years.

Until the war ended.

She has probably shared these stories at least six million times.

But several times during her speech tears formed in her eyes.

And she wasn’t the only one.

I made a point to sit alone, in the back of the room.

So that I could listen to her every word.

While watching the reaction of the kids.

I wondered how much they would really take from it.

Her speech ended at 10:34am with what appeared to be her signature out.

“That’s my story and that’s my life.”

She then opened it up to questions.

Questions that quickly confirmed a few things.

Kids are kids.

And yes, they were paying attention.

“Are you still mad at Germany for what they did?”

“What did you do in the attic all day?”

“Have you been back to Poland?”

The questions continued.

For 18 minutes.

Not 17.

Not 19.

18.

Which in Judaism means Chai... or life.

Living in white bread suburbia, I may have been the only one in the room to pick up on that.

But I found it symbolic.

Always the journalist I went up to her after the speech and asked her if she had seen Schindler's List.

"Yes," she said.  "It was the first movie of its kind I ever saw."  

"It was terrible...."

Just then, before she could say any more, she stopped.

Midway through her sentence.

A group of teenage girls had come up to thank her.

And one-by-one, they hugged.  

I never got the rest of the answer to my question.

But I didn’t have to.

Her mission was very much accomplished.

Lives In the Balance

The world is an emptier place today.

Some might say it is better.

Many feel it is worse.

But two men.

Convicted of two heinous crimes.

Are gone.

Forever.

By lethal injection, four hours apart.

In two different states.

Two different states of mind.

Two very different circumstances. 

I’m guessing Lawrence Brewer and Troy Davis never met.

Just a guess.

But their tombstones will both end with the same date.


September 21, 2011.

Cause of death -- execution.

Now before you think I am against the death penalty.

I am not.

Far from it.

As long as we know the truth.

The whole truth.

And nothing but the truth.

I say, let ‘em fry.

Enter the case of Lawrence Russell Brewer.

Convicted in 1999 for the brutal killing of James Byrd.

Brewer and two others were found guilty of dragging Byrd to his death at 2:30am on June 7, 1998.

They chained Byrd by his ankles to their pickup truck.

And drove for three miles.

Investigators had to identify Byrd’s body from fingerprints.

Fingerprints they took from a headless body.

Oh and one other thing.

Byrd was black.

The three guilty men were white.

As white as a white sheet.

Unfortunately you can probably find someone in this country who will miss Brewer.

But it won’t be me.

As for Davis.

His case was not nearly as cut and dry.

But many people are praising his execution.

And for good reason.

They believe he is guilty of killing an off-duty police officer in Georgia.

22 years ago.

Just like the jury believed it.

Two years later.

A jury described like a game of checkers.

Seven blacks, five whites.

That jury came to its conclusion after just two hours of deliberation.

They had clearly seen enough.

During the trial, several witnesses testified that they personally saw Davis commit the crime.

But the murder weapon was never discovered.

And no DNA was ever linked to the accused.

But the end of the trial turned out to be just the beginning of this story.

Seven of the nine “eyewitnesses” have since recanted all or part of their testimony.

Some of those witnesses said they were pressured by the police to point the finger at Davis.

If this is starting to sound like a Bob Dylan song.

It should.

This is the story of the Hurricane.

The one the authorities came to blame.

For something that he never done.

How can the life of such a man

Be in the palm of some fool's hand?

To see him obviously framed

Couldn't help but make me feel ashamed to live in a land 

Where justice is a game.

I am certainly not qualified to say that Davis never did it.

Nor am I educated enough on this case to say that he did.

But fortunately I can read wikipedia.

And there I found that Davis was scheduled to be executed in July 2007.

And September 2008.

And October 2008.

But each time, his execution was stayed “shortly before it was to take place.”

Clearly somebody saw something that didn’t make sense.

And it clearly didn’t make sense to a lot of people.

Like former President Jimmy Carter.

"Executing Troy Davis without a real examination of potentially exonerating evidence risks taking the life of an innocent man and would be a grave miscarriage of justice."

But despite the public outcry, Davis was put to death on Wednesday night.

"To those who are about to take my life, may God have mercy on your souls.  May God bless your souls."

Those his final words.

The final words of a man who shall forever be tied to the unknown.

A very different message than that heard from Brewer during one of his final public statements.

“As far as any regrets, no, I have no regrets.  No, I’d do it all over again, to tell you the truth.”

The truth.

Perhaps the truth shall set him free.

But in the case of Davis, we may never know the truth.

We just know that his case is now closed.

In the end, I’m not sure if I fear for what we do know.

Or fear more for what we don’t.

Mission Accomplished

It wasn’t quite like inviting a Red Sox fan to Yankee Stadium.

Or Michele Bachmann to an ACLU convention.

But I got quite the invite on Thursday night.

Let me take a step back.

So there we were.

At a neighborhood gathering.

When one of the dads came up to me.

I've known this dad for about five years.

And we’ve spoken many times.

About life.

Parenthood.

Bob Dylan.

Religion.

Not necessarily in that order.

Sometimes we've even mixed two of those ingredients.

Like the time I sang him the lyrics to Dylan's Highway 61 Revisited:

Oh God said to Abraham, "Kill me a son"

Abe says, "Man, you must be puttin' me on"

God say, "No." Abe say, "What ?"

God say, "You can do what you want Abe, but

The next time you see me comin' you better run"

Well Abe says, "Where do you want this killin' done ?"

God says. "Out on Highway 61".

We both love that song.

For different reasons.

I love Dylan.

He loves the Bible.

I love the band Genesis.

He loves the book of Genesis.

Hey whatever works.

He is what I would call a VERY religious man.

Notice the CAPS.

His choice of religion is Christianity.

Now just in case the CAPS didn’t convince you.

Here’s some backup.

Every Sunday morning he teaches a class.

A Bible class.

Attended by about 500 people.

Sold yet?

Well he is well aware of my Jewish heritage.

And my Korean Catholic wife.

And he is also aware that we have taken the fifth when it comes to raising our kids under a certain religion.

What's the rush -- my oldest daughter is only 14.

Now growing up I went to synagogue every Saturday.

Went.

Past tense.

I don't go anymore.

In fact, the last time I was in a house of worship was April 15, 2009.

It was the L.A. Sports Arena.

For a Bruce Springsteen concert.

Now don't get me wrong.

I believe in God.

And I love religion.

Or at least the idea of religion.

Any religion.

As long as it works for you.

But it really caught me off guard when my friend threw this proposal at me: 

“What do you think about coming to our church sometime?”

Say what?

Considering the time and the place of the question, it came more out of left field than Matt Holliday.

Now before my sarcasm leaves you with the wrong impression.

Let me say that not only did I truly respect what he was saying.

But I honestly appreciated the thought.

Now I'm not big on being preached to.

None of us are.

But I think waiting five plus years to ask that question.

A question he probably wanted to ask on day 1.

I think he waited long enough.

But still the question caught me way off guard.

Did he just ask a Jewish guy to join a Christian church?

At a BBQ?

By God he did.

No pun intended.

But I took a deep breath.

Gathered my thoughts.

And fumbled my way through the answer.

Like I was Wendell Tyler.

I certainly didn’t want to come off as being disrespectful.

And while attending a church is not important to me.

It is to him.

So I said things like.

“My wife and I have never really put a major emphasis on any one religion in our house.”

Duh?

“And we approach faith from a different perspective.”

Whatever that means.

“And I don’t think that’s for us right now.”

Oh, that was a good one.

Based on my brilliant answers, I think he got the idea that his offer was one I could refuse.

At least for now.

He made one last ditch effort.

Saying that not only could I bring my own Starbucks into the church.

But there is actually a Starbucks in their church.

Now he’s getting dirty.

He really knows that straight line to my heart.

But somehow I resisted the offer.

For now.

But it definitely made me think.

And maybe just for that reason, asking the question served its purpose.

For now.

My Morning Racket

Today I made it to 5:22am without waking up.

I know it was 5:22, because I watched the 2 change to a 3 on my digital clock.

Telling me it was 5:23.

Now that wouldn’t be so bad if I hadn’t gone to bed just three hours earlier.

Boy do I wish I could sleep.

I also wish I didn’t have that bruising feeling in my stomach.

I also wish my mind wasn’t racing like it was the Indianapolis 50,000.

I also wish I had five minutes of sleep for every time I’ve heard... 

“Everything happens for a reason.”

or

“This too shall pass.”

or

“Hang in there.”

or

Whatever.

Support is kind of a crazy thing.

We need our support system, and I’ve got a GREAT one, but sometimes that support system can get just too close.

It used to drive me insane when my dad would say, “keep your chin up” at the end of EVERY conversation.

I must’ve heard him say it 1000 times.

Unfortunately I haven’t heard it in eight years.

Coming up on nine.

It wasn’t his fault that phrase was his default way of saying “I love you and I hope that tomorrow is better than today.”

I would imagine my kids are tired of me telling them “I hope you have the best day ever” when I drop them off at school.

But somehow that’s become my catch phrase for them and I just can’t stop.

When I started writing this blog, I didn’t tell anybody about it.

I just did it.

I thought it was a really cool way to say what I wanted.

When I wanted.

How I wanted.

That worked for a while, until I thought what I was saying was worth being heard.

So, little-by-little, I told two friends.

And they told two friends.

Well you know the rest.

I love it that my friends read the blog.

I love it that anybody reads the blog.

I just love writing the blog.

But when I’ve got something heavy on my mind, as I certainly do these days, I hate the idea that I have to be careful what I am saying.

Now I do realize that I am way too deep into this internet thing here to be writing 100% of my life.

That’s why I have to hide my real thoughts behind a Bob Dylan quote or quirky baseball reference.

But the fact that I am still able to make my point helps me get through each day.

You may not know exactly what I mean, but I do.

Sometimes.

And that’s all that matters.   I think.

When I wrote about not sleeping two days ago, I certainly recognized that was exposing my vulnerability.

I also realized that’s exactly how I felt.

I’ve heard from a bunch of people since then.

And thank you for that.

I’m good.   Really.   I’m just keepin’ it real.

But there is one person I heard from that really made my day.

He’s someone I think of as one of my best friends.

We talk.  Not a lot.  But we talk.

But he’s on the short list of people that I just really like.

And when he texted me that my blog about not sleeping was about him and what he’s going through right now, that made my day.

Not the part that he couldn’t sleep.

But the part that we are all one.

I guess deep down my goal for this blog is in some small way having my words doing something for somebody.

I’ve burned up all of my minutes this month on my cell phone, and then some.

But come 9:01pm last night, when free after hours time kicked in, I went crazy nuts.

I think I spoke for like five straight hours on the phone, telling the same story over and over.

And over.

It would’ve been easier to hold a news conference.

Or write a blog.

But by the end of the night, or morning, I was absolutely exhausted from hearing myself talk.

It wasn’t that I wanted to tell the story over and over.   And over.

But rather the fact that I have lots of people in my life that wanted to know about my life.

And that’s a good thing.

I am so fortunate to have some amazing friends.

And honestly, my friends are quite fortunate to have me.

That’s probably why we are friends.

But in the end there is only one person who knows how you feel.

You.

People try really hard to help.

And people try really hard to tell you how you should feel.

Or how you should act.

Or how you should be dealing.

But at the end of the day, or at the beginning of the day, they are not the ones watching 5:22 turn into 5:23.

You are.

And you’z got to do what you’z got to do to make it through the day.

And I'z gotz to go back to bed now.