Dear Friends,
To what source can I attribute my obsession about voting? Like most things, it originates with family. As many of you know, I grew up in South Philadelphia. My parents owned a candy store in the back of which and over which we lived – my parents, my paternal grandmother, my sister, and me. It was not an easy life. The store was open from 5:00 in the morning until 10:00 at night, six days a week. Although my parents and grandmother were the mainstays of the behind-the-counter team, my sister and I also had daily shifts in the store. Each one of us was essential for making it work. My sister worked in the store until the day before she married. I continued to work in the store through college, graduate and rabbinical schools, and for the six years after my graduation. My grandmother retired at the age of eighty-five only because my parents sold the store with my move to New York to work at our congregation.
Ours was a complex household Jewishly speaking. My grandmother was a socialist who eschewed religion altogether, although she strongly identified as a Jew. Her husband, my grandfather, died quite young leaving her with three young children to raise. My father, her middle child, went to work at the time he was due to enter high school. He had no Jewish education – there was neither time nor money – though he, too, identified as a Jew, an identification that was reinforced after he enlisted in the Navy the morning after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. My mother grew up in an observant Jewish home but understood her Judaism to be a cultural (not religious) expression. What complicated this all was that my parents chose to send me to an Orthodox Hebrew day school because our neighborhood was tough and the schools were dangerous, especially for Jews. Their choice horrified my grandmother who did everything to subvert any form of traditional belief or religious practice. Feeding me grilled ham and cheese sandwiches after returning from the movies on Saturday afternoons became my grandmother’s Shabbat ritual.
Though my father was a very proud Jew, it could be said that his religion was America. He felt proud that he was born on Flag Day, and felt honored to have served his country at an important juncture in its history. Indeed, he would have stayed in the Navy if my mother hadn’t been eager to put down roots and start a family. We flew the flag and hung bunting outside the store for Memorial Day and the Fourth of July. So I never gave it a second thought that the only full weekday of the year that the store was closed was Thanksgiving. It was the only weekday of the year that we all sat down as a family to eat dinner together. We even ritualized the day, each of us taking a turn saying what made us thankful. Even my hard-boiled grandma participated along with as many uncles, aunts, and cousins who could fit around the table.
The only other weekday time that the store was closed was from 7:00 to 8:00 on the first Tuesday of November, when the five of us walked a block and a half to Joe Rizzo’s barber shop to vote. Long before my sister and I were age eligible to register, we went with my parents and grandmother to perform the mitsva of voting. My sister would pull the lever to close the curtain, after which I was lifted up to press down the tabs for family members – straight Democratic for my grandmother, and mostly Republican for my parents. We celebrated the fulfillment of the mitsva at the counter of Broder’s Drug Store with coffee and Cokes before the elders returned to work and my sister and I set off for school. This was as close as my family came to religious observance.
The first presidential election that I remember was the one that pitted Dwight Eisenhower against Adlai Stevenson. My parents voted for Eisenhower given his war record. My grandmother, a ferbrente socialist who strategically voted Democratic, felt betrayed by her son and most beloved daughter-in-law, but kept silent until the night of Ike’s acceptance speech, which ended with his invoking God to bless America. An orthodox atheist who did not suffer fools gladly, my grandmother screamed at the TV, “What does God have to do with any of this? He didn’t even vote.” But she did as did the rest of the family with the assistance of my sister and me. Working and eating on Yom Kippur would be consistent with my family’s practice, but neglecting to vote would be a sin that could never be forgiven.
I hope that our votes will be for a blessing to our country and to the world. With faith and hope, I am warmly,
Lee
