In September, my Israeli Cousins Danny and Shirley joined Jean and I for a drive from Olympia to our family reunion in San Francisco.  Halfway through the drive we stopped for an overnight in Yreka, California and ate at a lovely Thai restaurant just off the freeway and across the street from our motel.

Natalee Thai Cuisine (https://nataleethaicuisine.com/) was housed in a brand-new building, with an attractive interior decor and authentically delicious food. Our motel was comfortable as well, and adjacent to both, the city was in the process of repaving a major arterial road.  All that was only one block away from a national historic downtown district. Yreka, California’s furthermost northern town along I-5, looked on the surface to be doing pretty well.

A freshly paved arterial road in front of our motel.

Yesterday, two days before “the most important election of our lifetime,” we left Yreka again, after staying at the same motel and eating again at Natalee.  But this time, my observations took on a dark, forbidding, and deeply saddened tone. For parts of Yreka looked stressed, almost abandoned.

The main town park did have children playing on swings, yet garbage was strewn around the fields. Its award-winning masonry entry gateway – something the town once took great pride in – was falling apart.  A couple blocks away was a small public space called “Native American Heritage Park.” Its entry sign was faded and covered by tacked-on remains from flyers.  Its interpretive sign was overgrown with Himalayan blackberry vines. A sculpture of tribal warriors had a tree growing through it.  That tree must have been there for years, not weeks or months, which meant that no one, not one city staff person or anyone else in town, had bothered to remove it.

A pair of heavy gloves, shears and a bin to haul it away… no one has made the attempt in years.

Memories of warriors and their families shamed by neglect and an invasive tree.

The downtown’s only movie house was bordered up. The whole downtown could be described with a term I first heard in a 1967 history tour of a Mexican village: “decaying splendor.” Within one block of that movie house was an investment firm office and three bank branch sites. But where were the local investments? Across the street from the theater was a mural of a Yreka historic scene, but the business owner of the building where the mural was displayed had placed a commercial ad over the mural.

How about investing in your neighbhorhood?

Self-storage business wins out over historical and artistic integrity.

And then there were the mentally ill and vagrant folks I met along the way. One was lying on the sidewalk mumbling, another walked aimlessly and screamed loudly down the street. One tall middle-aged man with a long beard seemingly went out of his way to block my forward progress.  I said good morning to him as I walked off to his side. He said nothing and sped quickly on.

But not everything along the walk was neglect and indifference. 

A number of historic homes on Yreka’s residential streets retained their integrity and beauty.  Some of the nicest yards even had Harris/Walz yard signs proudly displayed. The fire house looked new. The aforementioned arterial was repaved with skill and modern conveniences like audio guidance for pedestrians crossing the street.

And it all has struck me as a classic case of positional perspective – glass half empty or half full. The juxtaposition of great wealth and great poverty, great hope and great despair just stare us in the face every time we choose to see them.

And so I return to the election.

On one side of our wretched political divide, America is broken.  It is carnage out here. Poverty, addiction, despair, violent immigrants.  The politics of fear.

On the other side, there is America as the great comeback kid.  Infrastructure investments.  Manufacturing policy. Social safety net strengthening. Dow Jones at record highs. The politics of hope and aspirations.

Is it all just positioning? Finding the right angle to wedge into voter’s hearts and minds?

I find myself, of course, somewhere in the middle.  In a place where we can acknowledge intergenerational injustice and trauma and yet know that immersing ourselves only in those sorrows does not lead to lives of purpose and joy. In a place where we can be optimistic, but not ignore the needs right in front of our faces. And in a place where each of us can do something to improve our world.

Seeing the juxtaposition of wealth and want, speaks more truth to me than either the simple positioning of fear or hope. Or for this election, like all elections, the positioning of indifference.

Then again, if I have to choose an electoral position, and we all have to choose, then I’m informed by juxtaposition to choose hope. And I hope that hope wins by a mile.

There is a group writing project of remembrance of a special time in Olympia, focused on the 1970’s, soon after the creation of The Evergreen State College. Various folks who lived here during that time are contributing their stories of that era and gathering them together on the web. The project can be found by clicking on the following: Olywa Days of Change.

I was asked by a friend to contribute to the site when he heard that I lived in a group house that had given itself “a name.” Sharing a draft of my piece with my historic friends and fellow housemates, we collectively spiced it up a bit and now present it below:

I was pretty sure it was Knutson’s idea.

“Have you been to Eld Inlet yet?” she asked. “Kathy, Martha, Martine and I are going to take the trail down to the water at midnight.  Want to join us?”

It was September 1976. My first class day at The Evergreen State College was to start in two days.  I was a suburban kid, having grown up in Bellevue, Washington, and I had just graduated the previous Spring from Bellevue Community College. Knutson (first name Kathy but mostly she affectionately went by her last) was living in D Dorm on campus with 4 other women.  I was down the hall with 4 other men, some of whom had yet to arrive when her midnight walking invitation was tendered.

“I don’t have a flashlight,” I responded. “Won’t it be too dark to walk.”

“Not to worry,” responded Knutson, “it will be fine.”

And so it indeed was, as I found myself several hours later walking gingerly, hand in hand with three women and another man from the college parking lot down through the dark forest to a moonlit saltwater beach at low tide. We were holding more than hands that cool autumn evening.  We were holding trust, sharing adventures, and building a youthful family network.

Over the subsequent year our connections flowed and ebbed. Living down the hall for a quarter or two, meals and conversations that went into the night were random and delightful. We stayed in touch with some folks more than others, but a year later when some of us decided to leave the dorms, five agreed to rent a house on Sherman Street, on Olympia’s Westside.

The Sherman Street house was one of several that had been purchased by TESC economics professor Chuck Nisbet. Chuck was the traditional economist in my Intro to Political Economy program (for fully explicable reasons the Marxist economist was uninterested in becoming a landlord!).  Chuck and other homeowners would rent out “group houses” to Greener students. Back then, housing prices were such that a homeowner could rent to four or five students, cover the mortgage, and the students would have cheaper housing than in the dorms.

We packed that 3-bedroom house to the gills and filled it with cheap miscellany. Brian donated a horrid grass-green shag carpet (from his Bellevue family home) for the living room, with fibers so long you could lose a Lego city and never know it was gone. Impossible to properly vacuum, it was probably home to 5 million dust mites.

We used a picnic table for dining, placing it in the living room because the Lilliputian dining nook had been closed off to create Olympia’s tiniest bedroom, home to the bohemian Martine. I set up a manual flour grinder in the stairwell leading to the basement, where we would laboriously crank out wheat, oats, and (foolishly, due to latter digestive issues) soybeans for over-the-top wholesome and gritty bread and rolls.

While damp Olympia was not famous for water shortages, the group, nevertheless, had a strict “if it’s yellow, let it mellow” policy in the bathroom, prompting Brian’s future wife to mutter under her breath during one visit when the toilet pool had become particularly odoriferous and a deep shade of egg-yolk orange, “You’re all going to die of cholera.”

We took turns cooking dinners. Mostly vegetarian, with lots of homegrown bean sprouts that were produced in jars in a kitchen cupboard. Holly Near and Bonnie Raitt LPs played almost constantly on a stereo as we ate, and most evening meals were consumed by candlelight.

It was the era of statement-making, historically meaningful, politically leftist and radical house names.  The Alexander Berkman Collective or the ABC house of course met its match with his anarchist lover’s Emma Goldman House. But while our little group were all students going to an educationally innovative and controversial college, we tended to be awkward as political revolutionaries. No group meeting resulted in a call for a house identifier.

Not all of Olympia’s house names, of course, were outwardly political.  Some were just plain silly. Nanny Noodles comes to mind. In that vein, I was noodling around the house one day when I started playing with our telephone number’s alphabet equivalence. Thus, was born the Ela Alvy (352-2589) house. 

Who was Ela? Why, an early feminist from Sheboygan, Wisconsin of course! (Remember, these were pre-Wikipedia days so no one could look her up.) She fought for equal pay in the shipyards.  She was a distant relative of Thomas Alva Edison. You know, make anything inspiring, run up the score, and see if the salmon bite on the bait.

Forty-seven years after we moved in to form that group house, not everyone remembers the name Ela Alvy.  I thought it had become iconic, but clearly, I was mistaken.

Nevertheless, despite our lack of house name cleverness, Ms. Alvy’s inhabitants did indeed go on to change the world in positive ways. Of the six members of Ela Alvy that first year, one had a career in public school teaching, two in social work, one in journalism, one in architecture and one in park planning. Children were born and nurtured.  Friends were loved and supported. Art was created and shared.

Ela would have been proud.

Children need burn time. Long stretches of obsessive play; productive tasks be damned.  Languid time. Silly time. Get away from annoying siblings time.  Get away from irritated parents time. Fantasy and dream and invent the future time. 

Clued in by my love of basketball, Dad attached a 10-foot-high regulation-sized hoop to our carport’s eave.  His obvious goal: keep me self-entertained, out of the house, but not out of sight and sound. 

The gentle slope of our freshly paved, tar-scented asphalt driveway was perfect for practicing lay ups, turn-around jumpers, and, most commonly and calmingly, free-throws.  During long, sweet summer evenings, the lure of the hoop, and the reinforcing joy of the clean swoosh 15-footer made me a kept boy.  I became addicted to practicing my free throws. Turn on the outside floodlights about 9 pm and keep focusing on the back of the hoop. Clang, swirl, chink… concentrate… concentrate… ahhhhh swoosh. There it is. Swoosh again and again.

Basketball would be my way out of dreary suburbia and into big time NBA stardom.  Focusing alone would not do, no.  This would be Zen-like obedience to the spirits of b-ball.  Practicing my 15-foot shot from the free throw line would result in a skillset beyond human.

The driveway was now center court at Madison Square Garden. The crabapple trees and rhododendron bushes my enraptured crowd.  And with every swoosh, my legend would grow.

As I went from 3 in a row, to 5, to 7, the cheers, with my exalted name intoned, both encouraged me, and increased the tension of the next toss at the hoop.

At one point, I had made 12 in a row. Then 14.  I was on fire. Would I ever miss again?

My prowess began to be known beyond my block.  Kids heard the sound of the ball softly bouncing three times before each toss, when I would then proceed to lean down weighted on my left leg, my right leg angled backward in a tight crunch. Then I would unfurl as my left arm reached out toward the hoop, releasing the ball to its parabolic fate. A moment of suspense and then… the picturesque almost orgiastic swoosh.

The assembled masses, proceeded to cheer. Screaming girls fainted with ardor. Parents crowded in as my streak, on one sweltering evening, went to 45 shots in a row.

Then came the vendors.  Ice cream trucks.  Sushi stands, with teriyaki wings. Pro scouts hounding my parents.  The insistent TV broadcasters, clamoring for the right angle.

It all became far too much.  After passionate debates with my agent, I decided to end it.  Breathing deeply, aiming in what appeared to be my now famous stance, I let out a tiny cough… and missed. 

The crowds dispersed. Murmurs of “traitor” and plots of vengeance could easily be heard. Yet, I was relieved. And free. 

The next day, I took up knitting.

It was a classic pick, slip and hit the jumper. Thrown the ball firmly on the fly by John, I faked right, dribbled once to my left around Irv’s solid pick, jumped and twisted in mid-air to face the basket at precisely the top of the key, elbows aligned vertically above my head, and proceeded to release the ball with a perfect back spinning arch, culminating orgasmically (and this from a pre-pubescent boy mind you!) with a swish as the ball went softly through the net.

Hold on. Wait.  The reader needs some context.

When I was in 7^th Grade, the Seattle Jewish Community Center basketball teams challenged the Vancouver, BC, Jewish Community Center teams. The challenge was accepted, and on a cold wet March morning, 30 bleary-eyed boys loaded onto a bus leaving downtown Seattle toward the Canadian border.  Only one problem.  The BC teams didn’t have enough players to match up in age-alignment with their US brethren.  So, for a logic apparently only Jewish sports leaders can fathom, it was decided that our 8- and 9-year-olds would play their 10 – 11-year-olds, and upward and upward the matches went through high school varsity.

At the time, in the winter of 1968, I was 5’2” in height and played small forward for our Junior High team.  But small forward would not be my position when our team went north.  When our 7^th graders played Vancouver’s Junior High varsity I became the center.  When our Junior High varsity played Vancouver’s 10^th graders, I transformed into point guard.

By this time, you must be wondering, “why is he talking about international basketball competition with a story titled “First Day of High School?” Patience, dear reader, patience. I’m getting there.

Our 7^th grade team lost, of course, to their Junior High varsity, but it was surprisingly close. 

I then took the court again to play for our Junior High varsity team.  Other than one beautiful pick-slip-and-jumper at the top of the key – yup, that’s the one in this story’s first paragraph – the game was a disaster.[1] We were, after all, competing against high school sophomores.  They were tall and smelly and very hairy.  Man were they hairy.

Move the scene forward two and a half years. Mom was taking me shopping for new school clothes at Nordstrom’s Best in Bellevue Square as I was about to start high school. (Yes, finally, the connection with this story’s title begins to emerge. Geesh, that took a while!)  Nordstrom’s Best had been our family go-to shoe place for years, as my dad and I and older sisters had gigantic feet that only the Scandinavian-based shoe store was market-sensitive enough to stock. But by 10^th grade, Nordstrom’s had shortened its name and branched out fully to apparel of all kinds. Mom thought I should look nice as I entered the highly competitive teen-emotional-survival mode. I thought looking nice wasn’t so bad an idea either.

This consciousness of worry for appearance’s sake was a new reality. First-day-of-school attire had been more my mother’s concern than mine.  But now teen angst and insecurities were pumping ungainly hormones into my amygdala – or was that vice versa?  I wanted a couple of nice sweaters, a week’s worth of shirts, and some decent pants.  For some reason I concluded that I looked fine in green (my eyes were hazel… perhaps that was the reasoning?) and pretty ok in blue.

But the shopping experience itself was a test of my independence.  I asked Mom for a favor.  If she gave me a budget, could she please leave and let me make the decision myself?  I was embarrassed to appear as a momma’s boy. Not unexpectedly, she didn’t fully comply.

“Dan, I’ll go to the other end of the store for a while, but I’ll be back before you actually put money down.”

With frustration, I agreed.

And then it happened.  I saw Shelly, the girl I had a crush on in 9^th grade, shopping with her mother. Terrifying.  Thank goodness I didn’t completely freeze as I saw her approach.  Her mother stepped away.  I feigned nonchalance. Poorly.

“Hi,” she smiled.  “Ready for school?”

“Um… uh… kinda.  I need to get a few more things.”

“Let me see what you have so far.”

I showed her a long-sleeve, tightly woven lambs-wool, paisley-style olive-green sweater, then an indigo-blue sweater-vest.

“Ooh… I like the paisley,” cooed Shelly.

“Oh… great… thanks.”

The awkwardness never quite resolved itself, as Shelly and her mom departed the scene and my mom approached.

“How’s the shopping going, Dan?”

“Fine, Mom. I think I’ve got enough.”

Ten days later, I hopped on a school bus for the first time in my life. Elementary and Junior High Schools were within walking distance.  I was wearing my olive-green paisley-style sweater, and even though I knew I wasn’t ready for all the arm-pit smells, shrieking sounds and sprouting hairiness of 10^th grade, Shelly had approved of the sweater. And that was something.

[1] OK… it is simply not part of the core purpose of this “first day of school” writing theme, but at this point, who really cares? I’ve strayed so far off topic as to question any reader’s capacity for tolerance.  It appears I must cross a couple of “ts” and dot an “i” or so more. This is called relentless tangent hunting. Still, I proceed.

The swish shot at the top of the key needs detailing in two ways; both drilled into my memory.  The first is that after the shot, I heard a kid on the other team yell out, “somebody get on that guy!” For me, an absolute thrill.  International renown.  However, the second reality, was this:  those were the only points I scored in the entire game.

I am filling my retirement with the intent to serve civic good. Engaging, in various venues and manners, in group decision-making.

Whenever you get a bunch of folks together, of course, to make decisions, to take actions, there will be differences of views. Different notions, opinions, perspectives.

How can one engage calmly and effectively with people with whom you are highly likely to disagree? 

At my best, I’m pretty good it.  A big key is helping lower others’ defensiveness by asking questions and listening intently.  Stating one’s own views is risky, even when asked.

At my worst, I’m annoying and overly contentious. Needing to prove my own points. Quickly rebutting others’ arguments.

But either way, I seem to be drawn toward exploring human conflict.   And in the last 72 hours… have I ever been running headfirst into that!

Specifics? You want specifics? Ok, here are some scenes from a life of contention. Views on parade.

The Israel-Gaza War

I’m poised to take on the position of president of Temple Beth Hatfiloh (TBH) in July.  So, folks are already coming to me asking questions, expressing opinions and requesting actions.

On Tuesday, a fellow temple board member called to say she wanted to talk. She told me about seeing war protesters at The Evergreen State College (TESC – my alma mater) occupy Red Square – that’s the name of the main campus plaza. She had read their posted demands that included banning academic programs in and about Israel and Zionism and divestment of institutional funds that involve Israel.  The former being a direct assault on academic freedom, the latter part of an international movement to isolate and condemn the state of Israel’s very existence, much like the anti-Apartheid movement applied to South Africa. She was upset about what she saw at TESC and other recent personal experiences that felt like careening antisemitism.

After our call, I decided to go over to Red Square to get a sense of the dynamic. I called a friend who lived near campus to join me. 

When we arrived, we saw a gathering of about 25 students. A boom box was blaring what I presumed to be Palestinian-Arab music, but otherwise the scene was peaceful and even serene. A handful of tents had been erected, and people were playing ball games and milling about.

As we approached the center of Red Square, a young woman in a red blouse came to us and asked if we had any questions.  She was calm and offered to explain what was going on.  This is what we heard from her:

1. The administration and protesters were negotiating terms for their withdrawal from Red Square.
2. She had heard that they had come close to an agreement which would include: 
   • Removal of all TESC investment from “Occupied Palestine.”
   • The university’s call for a cease fire in Gaza, a freeze on Jewish settlements in the West Bank, and the right of return for all Palestinians to their homes.
   • Elimination of all academic programs in “Occupied Palestine.” No sabbaticals or student visits to the country. 
   • Elimination of all programs that teach Zionism (e.g., what Professor Nancy Koppelman is teaching in her Many Israels class.)

I also ended up talking with another young man wearing a keffiyeh who was the one using his boom box.  He presented as soft-spoken and sincere.  In addition to what we heard from the previously referenced young woman, he said that it was his hope that all Israeli Jews with dual nationalities would leave Palestine.  He wasn’t clear what should happen to the other 7 million Jews. He said he hadn’t thought that question through. Then he asked us, in a hushed, almost insecure way, whether we were supporters of his effort.  I assured him that we wanted the violence to stop.

We parted his company. Never directly confronting his opinions or the protesters demands.

But that’s not the end of the story of Jewish-centered conflict.  For later that evening at the temple, a celebration of the end of Passover  – the Jewish Moroccan-based holiday of Mimouna – was set to commence. Jean and I had already decided to attend the event, but my concern for the safety of Jewish gatherings was elevated by world events.

While TESC’s scene was calm enough, violence had been breaking out that day at multiple college campuses around the country, topically centered on the war in Gaza. School buildings were occupied and clashes between Pro-Palestinian and Pro-Israel advocates were accelerating.

When we arrived at TBH, I told Jean that I wanted to stand by the newly built exterior gate and function as a greeter. I had misremembered that the temporary new protocol was to leave that gate open and to have the greeter function be at the main door. Our Rabbi Seth, who was providing the greeter function at the door, saw me at the gate and asked me what I was doing. We immediately got into a mini-confrontation about protocol, and whether the exigent circumstances did or did not call for heightened precautions. I backed down, but there was real tension there between us.

Later we talked it out and acknowledged that recent political events were increasing both our reactiveness.

The Mimouna event went off without a hitch. It was lovely and fun.

I did speak with Nancy Koppelman who was there. She showed me a set of pictures and narratives which were disturbing.  They were documents promulgated by the TESC protesters and included misleading and highly provocative language which was threatening to her and to anyone in opposition to their point of view. I offered support to Nancy who affirmed that she was not backing down from her academic freedom rights and responsibilities and would go on with her course. She said she had the administration’s backing. (Do check out her course in the above link.)

As it happened, I had spoken a day before with a past-president of TBH who suggested that Evan Ferber – the retired head of the local Dispute Resolution Center – would be a good person to lead a discussion of TBH member feelings about the events in the Middle East and their impact on our Jewish lives in Olympia.  I saw Evan at the Mimouna celebration and we sat down to talk.  I suggested that he lead a discussion and he replied that he and his daughter Eliana (a close friend of my son Zac) had just suggested such an event to Rabbi Seth a few days before.  I’m now hopeful that that will happen.  A gentle and productive way of expressing one’s feelings during a time of great conflict.

Port of Olympia Land Use Impacts on Downtown Olympia

I sit on the Board of the Olympia Downtown Alliance, where I represent TBH. ODA is a “Main Street” program which advocates for and provides services to downtown Olympia businesses, non-profits, and residents. I have been chairing the Vibrancy Committee, which, among other things, oversees our downtown guides, graffiti abatement, and maintenance service programs.

At yesterday’s board meeting, ODA was asked to weigh in on land use plans for the Port of Olympia property, which lies directly to the north of the ODA jurisdiction. As a former contract planner for the Port 35 plus years ago, I am aware of many of the complexities of Port land use decisions.

My input into the ODA Board discussion was to be cautious of staking too strong a stance ahead of what is now looking like some seismic changes in the internal politics and positions of the Port.  The conversation around the table was thoughtful and productive. I have been so impressed by the maturity and intelligence of ODA leadership, and for me, it has been fun to be back involved in city planning issues… something I left behind for the most part, when I joined State Parks.

Traffic Court

In March, I received a letter from Seattle Municipal Court, stating that I was given a traffic ticket for speeding in a school zone.  The notice said I had the right to appeal and provided me photos and even a video of my alleged infraction.

In looking at the video it was clear: the school zone flashing light started less than a second before I passed it on the road.  There was no practical means for me to even see it, never mind quickly putting my foot on the brake pedal to comply. I decided to contest the $236 ticket and the pre-hearing conference with a judge was set for yesterday.

The pre-hearing was held online and it was complicated to sign up for the visual connection.  But I finally did figure it out and eventually the judge and I were face-to-face on computer screens. Then, hilarity ensued.

The judge had extended difficulty bringing up my case on her screen.  She complained mightily about how the new system was much more complex than the old one. Eventually, she was able to bring up not only my case, but the video that showed my practical innocence.  Before dismissing my charges, we got into a lengthy discussion about the problems with the police review of electronically triggered violations which has escalated since Covid; about her life growing up in southern Illinois; about my grandson’s name – especially the Antolept part; and about her property tax burden in Seattle which annually approximated the cost of her initial home purchase. She would gladly retire, but the taxes were killing her. We laughed a lot. Dare I say, even flirted.

I sadly informed her that I needed to move on with the day.

Parks and Rec

I sit on the city of Olympia Parks and Recreation Advisory Committee (PRAC) and I Chair a separate Olympia Metropolitan Park District Advisory Committee (OMPD AC). The latter committee meets twice yearly and has a simple task: confirm that the tax allocations of the Park District have been budgeted properly to the city’s parks department. That’s it. A compliance observation function.

But I – and apparently only I – want the OMPD AC to also analyze the relationship between the budgeted funds allotted to Parks and the actual funds that should have gone to Parks if the revenue forecasts were accurate.  Follow that?  Doesn’t matter. Suffice to say, it somehow matters to me, and I received push back from staff and even push back from one other advisory committee member.

This request for additional information – which in my mind is a trust-building exercise and the core purpose of having the oddly established OMPD in the first place (again, too much detail to explain here) – is only one of the problems I’m seeing/causing with my city parks advisory committee responsibilities.  Tomorrow, I have a meeting with the Mayor and a councilwoman to go over a set of suggested changes to PRAC and OMPD AC procedures and department processes. I am (mostly) allied with a set of parks citizen advocates on this initiation.  I’m not at all clear that I have any agreement with the Chair of PRAC who has been absent for much of her tenure and has not responded to my repeated efforts to coordinate the upcoming meeting tomorrow that she too is scheduled to attend.

Did I somehow offend the PRAC Chair? Are my suggestions nutso?  Who knows?  What is clear is that when the objective of interaction with someone who is likely to disagree with you is to understand the other’s ideas and positions, that’s the easy part.  Having anyone listen to your ideas and hopes… much harder.

City of Olympia Security Guard

When one walks into City Hall for an evening PRAC or OMPD AC meeting, there is a security guard who lets you through the door.  Last night I decided to strike up a conversation. An older, heavy-set man in uniform, I asked him whether he was responsible for sitting there only when advisory committees were meeting at night, or every evening.  He said it was the latter.

He then got into a soliloquy about the nature and effectiveness of civic protesting. Not surprisingly, he was no fan of that kind of political action. A fair summary of his basic analysis was that the protesters were stupid, spoiled and counter effective.  I nodded compassionately and excused myself to go to the meeting.

Thai Restauranteur

After OMPD AC, I walked over to meet Jean at the Olympia Center where she was finishing her French class. As the students were departing, they saw me waiting outside and mentioned how wonderful Jean was as a teacher.  I concurred.   Then I took Jean out for a Thai dinner down the block.

The waiter, it turned out, was also the restaurant owner.  He had just purchased the restaurant in the last month and was in the process of upgrading its offerings.  He was a Vietnamese refugee who came to this country when he was ten. His early years in Vietnam were ones of great privation. Poverty, even difficulty in finding food, and a separated family (his mother came to the US first and then brought her children here years later) became drivers for him to succeed in his new country.

He has since gone back to Vietnam twice, witnessed extraordinary economic growth and prosperity there, was critical of over-regulation of business in the US, and was working from 6 in the morning to 10:30 at night every day to make it.  I suggested that some regulation was helpful but didn’t really challenge his basic thesis.

Oh yes, and the meal was beautifully presented and quite delicious. You learn a lot by just listening.

Addendum

A few days after writing the above, some unknowns are now known. TESC administrators reached an agreement with the protesters, who have left Red Square, and are committed to years of committee work to resolve questions of institutional investments and internal procedures and policies. Rabbi Seth has met with Evan and a discussion circle at TBH is on its way.

Never a guarantee, but talking and more talking often works to diffuse differences. The alternatives to talking are almost always worse.

It was late summer or early autumn 2023, Zac called and asked if Jean was around.  I replied that she was downstairs on the computer, and he asked to talk with both of us.  I walked down with the phone, put it on speaker mode, and we heard both Zac and now Vicky on the other line. 

“Vicky’s pregnant,” Zac says with enthusiastic joy. We could hear Vicky laughing in the background.

I can’t remember exactly what happened next, but I think both of them said together, “We’re going to have a boy.”

It’s now six months later, and tomorrow morning Jean and I will fly down to Berkeley and meet our grandson for the first time. I’ve been doing a lot of welling up lately just thinking of this child, and the kvelling is ceaseless.

 Alden Antolept Sung Farber is three weeks old today.  His Hebrew name is Shai (‘ש) which means gift.  His Korean name is Sol (솔) which means a pine tree.

What’s in a name? Zac the journalist, and Vicky the museum curator, take words seriously.  Take identity seriously.  And any newborn baby, every newborn baby, arrives on the planet with a mixture of deep and varied heritages. So, Z and V thought a lot about what to name their child.

As I understand it, they just liked the sound of the name Alden.  But in addition, perhaps Zac’s closest childhood friend was named Alden. And while obscure and unintended, add the letter “i” and rearrange the letters and you have Daniel! (What?  Too far a leap you think?)

Zac’s grandmother, my mother, was born with the name Rivka Antolept. The first time I met Vicky was in New York City where my family was holding a worldwide Antolept reunion.  She thought the name was beautiful.  So, that part of the heritage was included.

Sung is Vicky’s last name and that of her parents. Farber is Zac’s last name. There were discussions about which would come first.  The notion of a hyphen was jettisoned early. They settled on Alden as Mr. Sung Farber.

Shai was chosen as a respectful remembrance of Zac’s grandma from his mother’s side. Shirley Putzer died just a few months ago at the age of 100, but before she left, she knew about the pregnancy.  Ah the power of identity! What Shirley wanted to know was whether the baby boy would have a ritual circumcision (known in Yiddish as a Bris or in Hebrew a Brit Milah).  Sure enough, I was honored by Z and V to be asked to officiate a pre-medical procedure Jewish Bris ceremony.

솔 (Sol), was chosen by his grandmother Olivia for the pine tree that grows green and straight like an honest scholar.

But there are more questions about naming than that of the newborn.  What of his relation to his parents? What of his relation to his grandparents? At his birth, Alden has five grandparents. Vicky’s parents, Yon and Olivia, have decided to go by the names Baba (grandpa) and Nana (grandma). Zac’s mom Karen has chosen the name Grandma. 

Growing up, I just knew two grandparents and I called them Grandpa and Grandma.  But as I explored options for myself, I learned that the common name in Israel for grandpa is Saba and for grandma Savta. Those are actually not Hebrew but the biblical-era language Aramaic. I loved the relationship between Yon being Baba and me being Saba.  So, I’m going with Saba!  Jean isn’t as fond of the alliteration of Savta but may go with that for consistency’s sake.  With her French language background, grand-mère is a possibility. We’ll see.

And we’ll soon see, indeed, our Alden tomorrow.  Here are some pictures to start the oohing and aahing.   I can’t wait to hold and snuggle him.

I was sorting through my computer files, deleting duplicates, trying to
up its organization just a wee bit, when I chanced upon a eulogy that I
delivered at the funeral/memorial for Herman “Hy” Resnick. Hy was a
professor colleague of my father’s at the University of Washington School of
Social Work. He later became a true friend of mine, including even in his older
years, a ping pong buddy.

Below is that eulogy:

“Political Science is not a science!”  Thus spoke Herman (Hy) Resnick three weeks ago at our Post-Thanksgiving gathering along the Washington Coast at the Tokeland Hotel.   We were clustered around the hearth fire, in couches and chairs. Jennifer was wrapped under Hy’s arm.  Mary, Elizabeth and Phil were right there too, as were my sister’s family and my son. The fire felt warm and inviting.  We were talking and talking some more into the night.  And Hy, playing the role of intellectual provocateur, a role that was not foreign to him, was in his element.

I first met Hy and his family as a pre-teen.  He joined the small faculty at the UW School of Social where my dad, Arthur Farber, had been teaching for less than 5 years.  The faculty in those days seemed like an intimate club.  The families would visit each other’s homes.  The kids would connect with other kids, but even more, the professors would interact with us kids in respectful and fun ways.  And the names of faculty colleagues – Rino Patty; Moya Duplica; Cal Takagi; Hy Resnick – would playfully dance in my head even as the dinnertime conversations turned to the serious issues facing the school and the world.

What I grew to learn, was a keen sense that there was a hierarchy of professional and personal connections in that club.  And that hierarchy including Henry Maier, Ben Jaffe, Hy Resnick and Arthur Farber.  In personal connections, Hy and Mary and the kids spent time in our home and we in theirs.  Hy and I and Dad shared the joy and thrill of table tennis.  In professional connections, Dad and Hy became co-principal investigators in the Wallingford Wellness Project.  An intergenerational community health model that Dad had explored in his sabbatical year.  But frankly, Dad wasn’t the best at research, writing or organizational development – he needed Hy for all that.  And Hy was generous in his support to get the project off the ground.

There was something else that Henry, Hy and Dad had in common – they loved teaching. They cared about the teaching art and put effort and skill behind its practice.  Several friends of mine had Hy as a professor.  The picture you get from listening to a number of his former students is of a professor who was emotionally engaging… even demanding.  Many students came to simply adore Hy. Others he pissed off greatly.  Yet, he had a large cadre of devotees.  One friend of mine, upon hearing of Hy’s passing said “thirty years later and I still quote him more than anyone else I’ve met.”

So what made Hy so gifted as a teacher?  And so memorable as a mentor and friend?

Let’s start with his own words. Listen to the titles of some of his articles:

Managing change: An administrator’s View

Strategies of Change from the Top

Leaving Paper Trails and Other Survival Tactics

Manager As Change Agent

Influencing Upward

What Organizational Development Can Do For Social Work

Leadership and Change in Child Welfare Organizations

This guy wanted to change the world!  And his specialty was in change within organizations – organizations where people spend the majority of their waking hours.  That’s important stuff.  And what made Hy particularly important and effective, is that he approached the organizational work with strong insights… no, strong gut knowledge about the psychology of people. Hy grounded his deep caring for people and the capacity to see positive change, in his own modest beginnings as a butcher’s son, the youngest of five children, growing up in a household where, as Mary has written, “As long as there was a home in which to live, food on the table and clothes on their body, kids were seen as cared for. Hy was left alone to find his own way.“

He was fortunate to live within the city of New York, with its dedication to providing all a free college education. At Brooklyn College he found terrific educators who helped inspire him to achieve a Bachelor’s in psychology.  He started out immediately thereafter with an interest in psychopathology and play therapy. (Ah… THAT’s why Hy and Henry hit it off so well!).  This merged with a growing interest in the new social work field of “group work” where he pursued first a masters and later a PhD in the field of organizational theory and development.

Back to teaching.  All the theory in the world does not a great teacher make.  Hy had such a profound effect on so many students because they knew he really cared for them and would go the extra mile.  His 2- and 3-day retreats at the Bear Creek workshop center he and Mary created out of their home became for decades a great opportunity for learning and growth.

So yes, Hy was an intellectual provocateur.  (How many political scientists would agree with his assessment of their profession?)  But he was also an extraordinarily good listener, a wise and witty sage and a dear and dedicated friend.

Last week I received, upon Hy’s request, the 2015 UW School of Social Work Annual report called “Igniting Social Change.”  We had been talking at Thanksgiving about how to deal with the problem of a leadership that was more interested in self-protection and aggrandizement than in the mission of the organizations they purported to lead.  I wanted strongly to talk with Hy and get his insight on this question.  We had a good conversation about it and he suggested I read the brochure.

My conclusion: If there really is a heaven where leadership is getting too big for its britches and needs to be knocked down a peg or two, now that Hy Resnick is around, they would be advised to watch their step.