My Papa’s Legacy—Professional and Personal

One Friday night during the holiday of Sukkot, I went to synagogue with my maternal grandfather.

After the service everyone went outside to the large sukkah for the kiddush and refreshments. Papa, a well-connected local rabbi, was happily schmoozing with friends and acquaintances while I chatted with someone at the other end of the sukkah. Suddenly, in an act that I found profoundly out of character, Papa appeared at my side, placed a hand on my back, and steered me decisively away from my conversation and in the direction of the other end of the booth. We practically barreled through the crowd, trying not to knock people’s cookies or cups of tea out of their hands as we passed.

That night in the sukkah, hearing Papa boast to his friend about my role in campus Jewish journalism remains one of the most poignant moments of our entire 23-year relationship.

Rabbi Bernard Cohen (Papa), 1980

Finally, Papa parked me in front of another elderly man and said, “Aaron! This is my granddaughter. She is the editor of the Jewish newspaper at the university at Berkeley!” It’s been nearly forty years since that night, but I can still hear Papa’s voice speaking those words in his Polish accent, with a depth of pride that just about brought me to tears. I understood my special status in his eyes. Naturally, Papa loved all his grandchildren, but I was the only one of his four surviving grandchildren who was enthusiastic about living a Jewish life. Understandably, Papa probably viewed me as the only one of his descendants who would carry on his legacy.

The writing gene as inheritance

My role as Editor-in-Chief (how I loved those capital letters!) with this little college publication, Ha’Etgar, resonated with Papa personally and professionally. In addition to working as a pulpit rabbi, teacher, and part-time rabbinic judge, Papa wrote voluminously for the Jewish press. He was a serious scholar, and his articles reflected it. He wrote about Jewish education, philanthropy, aging, as well as erudite profiles of Jewish writers. His doctoral dissertation in sociology was published as a book exploring the influence of American Jewish literature on the culture. If I had been born with the writing gene whose engine ran at full throttle, I surely had Papa Cohen to thank for it.

My grandfather’s manner was usually reserved, but that night in the sukkah, hearing Papa boast to his friend about my role in campus Jewish journalism remains one of the most poignant moments of our entire 23-year relationship.

I loved my work on the paper for its own sake. I loved all the unfolding challenges and opportunities that putting together each issue presented. Knowing that this work, which suffused me with so much creative energy and purpose, also provided comfort to my 82-year-old grandfather in his twilight years made it even more worthwhile.

At the beginning of my senior year, I had posted notices at school to recruit volunteer writers and a graphic artist. A woman named Elizabeth was the first to call, and we met on campus so she could show me her portfolio. At first glance I was taken aback. She was short, wide, with very long, straight nearly black hair, and dressed from head to toe in all black, as she would be every time I saw her. Her diction was perfect and her manner bordering on the formal. I was gobsmacked by her creativity. This woman has real talent, I thought to myself. Why would she want to work for my little paper for free? But of course, I knew the answer—as creative types, we needed to build our names in fields where the number of sellers would always overwhelm the number of buyers. I “hired” her on the spot, and despite being a gentile, as she referred to herself, Elizabeth seemed excited to create covers for a Jewish publication.

A sophomore named Laura also replied to my notice and became my assistant editor. She was a serious, diligent young woman who took up where I had left off the previous year. She sold ads, wrote articles, helped edit copy, and rolled up her sleeves when it was time to lay out the paper at the printer’s studio in Oakland.

Sharpening editing skills at the expense of college grades

I was thrilled to be at the helm of the paper, part of the Jewish campus leadership making our contributions to the community. My job sharpened my skills in writing and editing, even as I surreptitiously edited during a boring government class. (I would pay for this later by failing the final exam.) Filling each issue with what I hoped was substantial, engaging content satisfied me creatively and intellectually.

I wasted no time in baring my political teeth with my first editorial, where I slammed President Ronald Reagan’s proposed large-scale arms deal to Saudi Arabia involving aircraft, tanks, and Airborne Warning and Control Systems (AWACS).This sale was alarming to Israel and all her supporters in the U.S. Despite robust efforts to derail it, and even despite my tartly worded editorial, the AWACS sale became a fait accompli. Calling Reagan a xenophobe “with frenzied anti-Soviet fears,” surely missed the point, but when I wrote my next editorial, I wrote more personally, and therefore was on firmer ground.

I wasted no time in baring my political teeth with my first editorial, where I slammed President Ronald Reagan’s proposed large-scale arms deal to Saudi Arabia involving aircraft, tanks, and Airborne Warning and Control Systems (AWACS).

In that piece, I expressed sadness about an article I’d read in a local paper by a Jew who had struggled to find meaning in his religion yet found nothing positive to hold on to. At that time in my life, I didn’t keep Shabbat, observed an extremely loose version of Kashruth, and abstained from any ongoing Jewish education at all. Still, I wrote: “Judaism is a framework for my life. Far from being a series of limitations and restrictions, as some would think, it gives me a freedom to develop myself as fully as possible, while reminding me of my humanity. Judaism tells me that I am only human, that I need constant improvement, but that my life is precious, and that my life should be holy.

For me, there is a lot more to being Jewish than a history of martyrdom and grief, of prohibitions and guilt. Judaism is a celebration of life and a refusal to take anything we have in life for granted.

“It is impossible to fully convey how I feel about my Jewish identity in a few paragraphs. For me, there is a lot more to being Jewish than a history of martyrdom and grief, of prohibitions and guilt. Judaism is a celebration of life and a refusal to take anything we have in life for granted. Judaism maintains an ideal of infusing the highest possible degree of sanctity into one’s life and relationships.”

Revisiting this essay, I am astonished at how deeply I felt these sentiments. I could easily write these same words today, though now they would be based on many years of dedicated commitment to traditional Jewish law and ethics. At the time, I had little concept of how Judaism really instructed us to infuse that sanctity in our lives. Looking back, I should give more credit to those who taught me in my youth. They managed to convey fundamentally important Jewish concepts in broad strokes, and these lessons landed deep in the heart.

In my senior year, I took my first class in rhetoric and discovered a thrilling new academic vista.

In my senior year, I took my first class in rhetoric and discovered a thrilling new academic vista. Rhetoric teaches classic methods and rigors involved in the art of persuasion and has existed since biblical times. Greeks and Romans used it with exquisite impact in their literature. I absolutely loved this class and regretted that it was too late to change my major. Papers written for English lit might require me to analyze the symbolism of colors or names in The Scarlet Letter, or to compare and contrast characters in Hardy, Shakespeare, or George Elliot. Rhetoric essays required me to craft cogent arguments using powerful rhetorical principles.

Here’s an example of anaphora, or repetition at the start:

Charles Dickens

“He was goosed last night, he was goosed the night before last, he was goosed today. He has lately got in the way of being always goosed, and he can’t stand it.” (Charles Dickens, Hard Times).

Here is a haunting example of metanoia, or correcting oneself:

“But if this country cannot be saved without giving up that principle—I was about to say I would rather be assassinated on this spot than surrender it.” Abraham Lincoln, address at Philadelphia, 1861.

Okay, last example: Reversal of structure, or chiasmus: “People do not seem to talk for the sake of expressing their opinions, but to maintain an opinion for the sake of talking.” –William Hazlitt, On Coffee-House Politicians 1821.

Well, what writer couldn’t love all this? (By the way, these examples were not from my long-ago class, but from Farnsworth’s Classical English Rhetoric, by Ward Farnsworth (David R. Godine, 2011).

As happy as I was with my classes, my job at the paper, and my friendships, I also lived with the oppressive weight of regret. There were things I had done in my past—normal in the context of the times and my age—whose disastrous impact and consequences still gripped me a few years later. It shocked me to hear friends and acquaintances openly discuss their similar behavior as normal and I lost respect for some of them. I decided to see a campus psychologist, hoping she could help me out from under, because I saw no way out of the guilt. I also realized, painfully, that if I had shown more backbone and observed more of my own faith’s rules of behavior, I would not be suffering with this guilt.

There were things I had done in my past—normal in the context of the times and my age—whose disastrous impact and consequences still gripped me a few years later.

I also began to worry about what sort of job I could get as an English major with a little college journalism in the mix. Many of my friends planned to attend grad school, and they had serious boyfriends to boot. Me? From my first to final year of college, I expected a future husband to magically materialize and help solidify my future. But each year came and went without this happening. At Berkeley, I dated men who were polar opposites: one was a funky, earthy backpacker; another was climbing the ladder of success and shamed me in front of my progressive comrades by picking me up for our date in a limousine.

Once, I went out with a beautiful soul named Steven who was battling cancer. His strength, optimism, and faith moved me, but we were not a match. By the time he passed away, he had become engaged to another young woman, and I dedicated the next issue of the paper to his memory. Our student community endured another shocking loss of a strapping and handsome young man who went trekking in Nepal and died after falling sick there. Life’s fragility took our collective breath away.

As I considered my future options, I worried that entry level writing jobs were as low-paying as they were competitive. Assistant editors working in the “pink collar ghetto” of New York’s magazine publishing industry were a prime example, and I didn’t want to start my grown-up life there. My best friend Marcia had moved to Israel, and I envied her gumption and commitment. I already missed her so much, and she sounded so happy in her letters.

Israel felt like a right move, yet I couldn’t make such an enormous break with my family. My older brother, Allan, had died in a car accident years before and I needed to be near my parents, who had suffered the unthinkable in losing their only son. I could have gone to a small town, like Halfway, Oregon, and worked as a newspaper reporter, covering the controversial new traffic light on Main Street, and the grand opening of The Chicken Shack, where the owners offered chicken fingers and wings with “Grizzly Garlic” and “Smokin Sriracha” sauce.

Neither the madness of Manhattan nor the hush of Halfway, Oregon sounded like they would suit me.

Neither the madness of Manhattan nor the hush of Halfway, Oregon sounded like they would suit me. Instead, with my degree, experience, and confidence well in hand, I decided I would move back home to look for a writing job. Los Angeles was a big city, with some magazine publishers, organizations, and businesses that could probably use a skilled writer.

And maybe, somewhere in that city, I’d finally meet that elusive, and handsome future husband.