ON THE WAY TO ONE of our class outings, I stopped at my house to pick up supplies. Of course, my students were extremely curious to see my "crib."
"You Jews probably live in tents," they liked to rib.
"Yup," I'd respond. "Even got some camels to take you to your crib in the dang desert!"
It was about ten in the morning when we invaded our small North Buffalo home located in a middle class, university area. Although this section of Buffalo was semi-integrated, one of my neighbors was a staunch racist. He wasn't too thrilled about having some real McCoy Jews living next door, but he kept reminding me that he was at least grateful we weren't black. To say he was a bit off, (or not playing with the proverbial full deck), is putting it mildly. He'd trim his lawn with a pair of scissors. No flippin' joke! Or, during winter, I'd see him battling away against a blizzard. He'd load a shovel full, move forward a foot or so, and return to the previous spot because it was covered in snow again. He seemed mighty strange to me. On this particular day I'm sure he was not overwhelmingly pleased to see me exit my car accompanied by a gang of inner-city youths. I warned my students not to walk on this guy's lawn. "He'll use his shotgun," I warned them. "Or his scissors."
Sometimes, however, calling attention to a problem only makes it worse. Unfortunately, as they got out of the car, they began shouting:
"We're here to git ya."
"Some crazy black boys here to shake things up!"
"Let's get his color TV set."
"You got any eligible daughters?"
I quickly hustled them into my house. Once inside, they were well behaved. I'd have killed them if they weren't. My wife asked them what their names were. When Shane responded she did a double take.
"Oh, yeah?" she said, surprised. "You've got a Jewish name."
"Really?" he asked. "What's it mean anyway?"
"Shane means good-looking, handsome. How do you like that?"
It was as if the president had just pinned a medal on him. He put his thumbs up to his chest and did a little jive strut.
"Yeah, handsome," he said out loud for all to hear. "I know it. I know it. I could've told you that."
For the two years that Shane attended my classes, he flaunted this information like a weapon in his hand. If I got mad at him, which really wasn't too often, or if I had to give him an extra homework assignment, he'd say, "You can't do that Mr. Laz. I got me a Jewish name!"
The clincher came during one of our class camping trips. As an official scout troop, we were allowed access to the Boy Scout Association's incredible resources and facilities. On this occasion, we had an entire rugged scout camp all to ourselves.
One of my university buddies, Sheldon Soman, came along to "ride shotgun." We went through his gear the day before the trip. Besides the usual jazz, like a change of clothes, towels, extra hiking boots, knife and canteen, Sheldon had a few surprises in his backpack – four six-packs of ice-cold Michelob!
"Yo, brother Sheld," I called out after making the discovery. "I see you planned well."
Sheldon and I have the steady custom of talking to each other in exaggerated jive talk.
"Yo, Mr. Laz," came the response. Just trying to be a good scout. You know, be prepared and all."
"Let's save that stuff till afterwards. If we survive, we'll party and do it up right."
We compromised, and only one six-pack made the trip.
"When the little sweeties are fast asleep," he assured me.
As I continued to check his equipment, I noticed that an important item was missing.
"Where's your Jew straps (tefillin), Jew boy?"
"Long gone, Mr. Laz," he replied. "Don't think I've worn 'em since my Bar Mitzvah days."
"No problem. I'll strap you with mine."
"If it'll help me live through this trip, I'll do anything."
True to his word, I was strapping him up the next day in front of our cabin. I had just gotten the hand tefillin on when Shane ran over.
"Yo, Mr. Laz," he panted all out of breath. "I'm next."
"Next for what, Shane?"
"Them Jew straps! I'll go next."
Sheldon and I cracked up.
"You can't put these on, guy," I said, searching for a way to let him down as easy as possible.
"Why not?"
"Well...You're not really supposed to."
"Why not?" he demanded. "I won't tell anybody."
"Well, you see," I said. "You got to be Jewish to put these on."
"But I got me a Jewish name!"
He stood there with his hands out to his sides, waiting for an answer.
"Good luck, Mr. Laz," Sheldon whispered in my ear.
Finally I came up with a brainstorm.
"How old are you, Mister Shane with the Hebrew name?"
That was the green light to start some serious freestylin' rhyme bustin' – and the whole motley crew got in on the reverie. They did this thing where you went around in a circle and everyone had to come up with something impromptu right on the spot. If you hesitated too long, or they felt it was too easy or stupid, you were out. These jiving poetry circles were always exciting to watch, and I gotta admit, they helped me hone my skills.
"Shane got the name..."
"But he ain't got no game..."
"But all just the same..."
"The kid shall remain..."
"The Shane off the chain..."
Sometimes our freestylin' sessions went on for several minutes. In the car, when we'd travel to and from our destinations, they could last well over an hour. This showdown lasted only a few minutes and Bro. Shane, "Off The Chain," was still waiting to "wrap the straps."Tefillin!
"So Shane, how old are you?"
"Twelve." He answered, hands still on his hips.
"Sorry, old buddy," I said. "You gotta be Bar Mitzvahed!"
"Huh?"
"You gotta be thirteen," I said. "We'll talk about it next year, okay?"
"All right," he said, somewhat disappointed. "But don't think I'm gonna forget about it, either!"
"These guys never cease to amaze me!" I said, turning to Sheldon.
"Look at it this way," he said. "You've got an entire year to think of something good."
Earlier in that fall, they had asked to look through my wallet. They were fascinated by its contents. I'm not talking about the credit cards, (which were zippo), but the pictures; including my wife and kids, one authentic 1960 Mickey Mantle baseball card, two close-ups of the Three Stooges, one Bob Marley card, and photos of the previous and present Lubavitcher Rebbes. They were particularly impressed with the Rebbe pictures.
"That yo grand-daddy?" one of them asked.
"No," I said. "Not really."
Then, thinking out loud I added, "Well, in a way, I guess he's like a wise grandfather."
"Well, who is he anyhow? He sure looks like you."
"He's a holy man, boys. Don't mess with him."
"He know voodoo?"
"What he knows," I responded, "makes voodoo look like Mickey Mouse."
During a later visit to my house, they noticed a large picture of the Rebbe on a bookcase. For a minute, they all congregated around the picture. As I walked by, I heard one of my students say, "There's that holy man. Don't be messing with him!"