The Jewish Me, Part 1

While I was in theological cemetery . . . er, seminary, at Duke U., I enrolled in a copious number of classes in the department of religion, rather than the div. school. In fact, about a third of my course work was completed alongside older idiots who were completing their Ph.Ds. That's what I thought I wanted to do, too, and so I took courses in Hebrew, Aramaic, Syriac, and Talmud. A great number of those students were Jewish as well . . . and I got to know the Jewish me in the process.

It was during this time that I discovered great Jewish writers as well, including Bernard Malamud (that's his photo), Chaim Potok, and Isaac B. Singer (who wrote in Yiddish). I loved these Jewish writers for their wit and theological acumen.

I also began writing Jewish stories, or, I should say, stories about Jews. Interestingly enough, I wrote some rather good stories, I felt, and it was these early stories (mid to late 80s) about Jewish situations, Jewish widowers, and Jewish martyrs, that helped me develop some skill.

This past week, I decided to rewrite a couple of my Jewish stories and send them along the submission trail again. Back in the 1980s, I had some great back-and-forth correspondence with the editor of Tikkun magazine (back when editors would actually try to make comment for writers) and Karamu (which ended up publishing my very first story, actually).

Becky would often ask when she read these early stories (and she never reads my stories now . . . she's learned to ignore everything I write): " What do you know about keeping a kosher kitchen?"

"Nothing," I would tell her. "But I love the taste of a kosher hot dog. Isn't that enough?"

Baruk atah adonai elohanu!