seemed to be essentially the same: praising the Lord over and over. Instead, I would tunnel into my imagination, the skill Iâd been building at IDS, and it served me well here. Sometimes I would bring props to help me, such as broken magnets I could stealthily assemble into a magnet monster, or a watch with a Twist-O-Flex band that I could maneuver in exponential variations.
But while I would be off in my own world during Saturday school services, I felt differently when my dad came along. There was a comfort in his presence, the familiarity of his voice singing the hymns, the way he harmonizedâjust like he harmonized when he sang Pete Seeger songs at home. As he sang, sitting next to me, I would play with the ends of his tallith, his prayer shawl, twisting the white fringes between my small fingers. Occasionally my dad would take notice, and rather than admonishing me, heâd slip the tallit from my hand and playfully tickle my nose and eyelashes with the fringes, which always made me smile.
But then the point would come in the service for the mournerâs Kaddish, the prayer said by those over thirteen who had recently lost a loved one or on the anniversary of a death. As was customary, the mourners would rise while everyone else remained seated. When our family said Kaddish, I would notice the eyes of the congregants looking back at us, perhaps only for a moment before they turned away. Some people in the synagogue didnât like the idea of standing during the Kaddish because it made them feel awkward. But my dad said that standing was the point; you stood so that other people in the shul could know that you were grieving and show their support.
As I listened to my parents say the prayerââ Yitâgadal vâyitâkadash shâmei raba . . . ââI knew that they were saying the words for Jon, and that Jon was on the minds of everyone who saw them standing there. We were a public family, and Jonâs murder was a part of the community. This wasnât the same for the other deaths, I realized. No one knew the story of my dadâs father, Abraham, when my dad said Kaddish for him. But when my family stood for Jon, they saw the emptiness that was there, the missing person in our family who never returned.
I didnât imagine how Jonâs death must have impacted every other parent in that place, how they must have held their own children close, thankful that they didnât have to endure such pain or wonder how they could possibly survive if they ever did. Instead, I just saw the way they glanced away from us, or how, on our way out, someone might hug my parents or take their hands gently.
In those moments, I knew that this death transcended my own family in a way that was beyond my comprehension. Part of me felt exposed and vulnerable by this attention, but another part of me felt supported and nurtured. Even though my childhood amnesia left me without the details of Jonâs murder, during the week that he was missing, and the aftermath, I could see that the adults around me carried the memories with them. They had been there with my parents, although doing what I didnât know. They had seen things, learned things, understood something that perhaps I would too one day.
17
M Y MOTHER would see Jon occasionally in her dreams. One came in late April 1975. In the dream, he looked as he did about a year before his death: shorter hair, uneasy from struggling at school. He was away at a campâone from which he was never returning. But he was able to write home every few days. Each of us received a thick letter folded into a tiny envelope. The letter to my dad told him that everything was okay where Jon was now. When my mother awoke, she began writing on her legal pad in her office, his old room, to get it down before she forgot.
The dreams made her feel all the more resolved to do what she could to preserve his memory. âI donât believe in
But while I would be off in my own world during Saturday school services, I felt differently when my dad came along. There was a comfort in his presence, the familiarity of his voice singing the hymns, the way he harmonizedâjust like he harmonized when he sang Pete Seeger songs at home. As he sang, sitting next to me, I would play with the ends of his tallith, his prayer shawl, twisting the white fringes between my small fingers. Occasionally my dad would take notice, and rather than admonishing me, heâd slip the tallit from my hand and playfully tickle my nose and eyelashes with the fringes, which always made me smile.
But then the point would come in the service for the mournerâs Kaddish, the prayer said by those over thirteen who had recently lost a loved one or on the anniversary of a death. As was customary, the mourners would rise while everyone else remained seated. When our family said Kaddish, I would notice the eyes of the congregants looking back at us, perhaps only for a moment before they turned away. Some people in the synagogue didnât like the idea of standing during the Kaddish because it made them feel awkward. But my dad said that standing was the point; you stood so that other people in the shul could know that you were grieving and show their support.
As I listened to my parents say the prayerââ Yitâgadal vâyitâkadash shâmei raba . . . ââI knew that they were saying the words for Jon, and that Jon was on the minds of everyone who saw them standing there. We were a public family, and Jonâs murder was a part of the community. This wasnât the same for the other deaths, I realized. No one knew the story of my dadâs father, Abraham, when my dad said Kaddish for him. But when my family stood for Jon, they saw the emptiness that was there, the missing person in our family who never returned.
I didnât imagine how Jonâs death must have impacted every other parent in that place, how they must have held their own children close, thankful that they didnât have to endure such pain or wonder how they could possibly survive if they ever did. Instead, I just saw the way they glanced away from us, or how, on our way out, someone might hug my parents or take their hands gently.
In those moments, I knew that this death transcended my own family in a way that was beyond my comprehension. Part of me felt exposed and vulnerable by this attention, but another part of me felt supported and nurtured. Even though my childhood amnesia left me without the details of Jonâs murder, during the week that he was missing, and the aftermath, I could see that the adults around me carried the memories with them. They had been there with my parents, although doing what I didnât know. They had seen things, learned things, understood something that perhaps I would too one day.
17
M Y MOTHER would see Jon occasionally in her dreams. One came in late April 1975. In the dream, he looked as he did about a year before his death: shorter hair, uneasy from struggling at school. He was away at a campâone from which he was never returning. But he was able to write home every few days. Each of us received a thick letter folded into a tiny envelope. The letter to my dad told him that everything was okay where Jon was now. When my mother awoke, she began writing on her legal pad in her office, his old room, to get it down before she forgot.
The dreams made her feel all the more resolved to do what she could to preserve his memory. âI donât believe in
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