MY NEIGHBORS, mostly working class folks, never complained about our steady stream of guests and unusual characters, although a few took notice when my students would pay me a Shabbos visit. It was a sight to behold. I'd return from the synagogue all decked out in Shabbos duds only to find two or three of my crew sitting on my front steps listening to a rap song on WBLK, one of the black radio stations. Sometimes they rode their bikes over. Other times they just walked it.
We'd talk a bit, they'd chow down on some cholent, ("Man, that stuff looks nasty!"), and they would be on their way. Everyone was, in fact, pretty nonchalant about the whole thing.
One Shabbos day, however, our phone started ringing. After about 45 rings in a row, we began to get nervous.
"Maybe it's serious," I said, "Should we answer it?"
"It's probably just a wrong number," Gittel responded.
"Right. And they're letting it ring for twelve minutes straight just for the fun of it?"
"Let's have one of the kids pick it up, okay?"
We picked up our youngest child, brought her near the ringing receiver and, right on cue, she picked it up.
The voice sang out, loud and clear.
"Yo, Mr. Laz, you home?"
It was Terrence. I couldn't believe it. We laughed out loud.
"Some emergency," Gittel said, in that I-told-you-so tone of voice.
"Yeah, really!" I said. "He's certainly got patience."
Terrence, hearing voices, continued to ask for me from the ivory colored phone that was now lying on our kitchen floor.
"You have to tell him not to call here on Shabbos," my wife said to me. "And tell his friends not to call here, either."
"Say what?" came the low, muffled response from the receiver.
We then maneuvered our little girl into picking up the receiver and resting it back in its place.
I knew that as strange as Terrence's behavior was to us, our reaction to his call had to look mighty unusual to him. Chalk up another episode of multi-culture experiences! I had to do some heavy explaining back at Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Community School that Monday.
"You guys want to visit me on weekends, no problem," I said. "It ain't too exciting on our Sabbath, though. We don't listen to radio. We don't watch TV."
"No even for a good ballgame?"
"Afraid not, pal. Not even to watch the Juice, a.k.a. OJ, (before all his post-football troubles), or the Buffalo Bills."
Of course, I didn't tell them we didn't even have a television in our home. Way back when Gittel and I were dating, we decided for a million reasons not to own a "boob tube."
"Look at it this way. For one day a week, you don't have to be bothered by all the nonsense. You don't have to see 83.6 murders per hour. You don't have to listen to seductive women telling you to buy mouthwash or toothpaste or milk that's guaranteed to bring you happiness and success for the rest of your lives. You ain't gonna be bombarded by all this garbage."
"Sounds like you don't do nothin' but bum out the whole day!"
"Yeah, what do you do anyhow?"
"It might sound crazy," I said, "but we are comfortable just spending time with each other. You know, we eat together. We don't rush. No quick down-the-gullet gulping and then bomb out the door to do some fast shopping. We eat a long, leisurely meal. It gives us time to talk and listen to one another. Sometimes, we even sing songs together."
"Sounds cornball to me."
"Nothing corny about funky soul music, is there?" I asked. "Well that's what we sing. Jewish funk soul!"
A few of my students reacted with long, sneery laughs. I ignored it.
"So what's it matter if I call you or not?" Terrence jumped in. "I ain't asking you to watch TV with me."
"This is a hard, difficult topic to explain," I said. "But, basically, we try to make our Sabbath very different from the rest of the week. We don't use phones either."
"Man o' man, one of them said in exasperation. "I'd go crazy just doin' nothin'!"
"Me too."
"Man, that's like goin' back to the dark ages or something!"
"Look at it this way," I replied, giving it one more shot before moving on to their math lesson. "It's the one day a week we're not bothered with doing business, making money, or being aggravated about money."
"Okay, so forget about money for a day," Leland said. "Don't you get bored just eatin' and talkin'?"
"Sometimes, sure," I replied. "But we're not just hermits hanging out a whole day. We go on walks, and go to the synagogue a few times. It's also a day we try to get closer to God and to who we are on the inside. Our real selves."
I paused, waiting for the impact of that word to sink in. I had almost caught myself, but it managed to sneak past my teeth and lips and somehow express itself in the air, forming that small but explosive three letter word: God.
They could never appreciate the daily effort it took not to mention this word. Hey, it was taboo, a real no-no, a violation of the supposed separation of church and state. This was a public school, brother, not some Yeshiva!
But at Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Community School, this separation was a joke. Our assemblies, particularly at New Year's, Easter, and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr's birthday, sometimes resembled a holy-roller convention more than a public school. Guest reverends often led the school body in open and closing convocations, with their customary "in Jesus' name," conclusions. Most of the student body respectfully bowed their heads. I kept my yarmulke on, of course, and stood out of courtesy, but I didn't bow my head to these prayers, which were definitely not non-denominational. I respect other people and their beliefs and I'd give 'em the shirt off my back any day. But I embrace my freedom to choose whether to participate in a religious act that is not of my own faith. No one ever hassled me about this. For the most part, it went unnoticed.
"Oh, yeah," Phil nodded. "The boss. That's cool."
"The boss?" I responded.
"That's what my momma calls him. You know... God."
I had always felt that many of my inner-city students, these supposedly tough, hard-core rejects, were highly sensitive to religion and had an innate sense of belief. My earlier jabbering about walks and talks and songs and time together sounded okay, but somehow off the mark to them. When I mentioned that our Shabbos was a day to get closer to the "Boss," the questions ceased. There were no sly comments, no laughs. It was as if I had finally said something that made perfect sense, something true.
Unfortunately, it took them about four consecutive Sabbaths, complete with two minute long nerve-wracking Ma-Bell rings, before they accepted the notion of no phone calls. They may have developed sensitivity, but they were bullheaded, too.