Single Jewish Male Seeking Soul Mate

by Letty Cottin Pogrebin

  Zach said, “We defended the neo-Nazis’ right to demonstrate. Not their ideology. We called their speech abominable. We didn’t condone it.”

  Cleo turned away. A black assemblyman called out, “We’re not here to talk about Farrakhan, we’re here to talk about real problems, like substandard housing and racial profiling.” A Hillel director objected to anti-Israel activities by black students on her campus; she wanted to know why anyone would side with suicide bombers. A black community leader from Crown Heights said Hasidic Jews were disrespectful to their Caribbean American neighbors and got special breaks from the police.

  Zach felt embarrassed when a Jewish woman in harlequin glasses asked if she could solicit the group’s help with a domestic problem, a personal black-Jewish problem: “My live-in nanny refuses to eat with our family. It just kills me to see her sitting at the kitchen table eating by herself. My kids think she’s punishing them for something; they don’t understand why she doesn’t like them. What should I do?” Advice came flying at the woman from all directions. “Honor your nanny’s wishes; she must have her reasons.” “Maybe your kids can eat with her in the kitchen.” “Ask her how you might make her feel more comfortable about eating with the family.” “Ask if she’d prefer to take a tray to her room.” Though Cleo kept her own counsel, Zach thought he saw her back stiffen.

  Rabbi Kahn pointedly took back the reins. “Before ending the meeting, we want your thoughts on what our coalition might actually do together.” The participants called out their suggestions and Reverend Birmingham wrote each one on the chalkboard:

  “Attend both communities’ cultural events to foster mutual understanding.”

  “Coauthor op-eds.”

  “Watch Roots and Holocaust together.”

  “Speak in pairs at churches, mosques, synagogues, and community centers.”

  “Create a school curriculum on the history of blacks and Jews in America.”

  Cleo’s suggestion was to revisit the entire premise of the meeting. “I’m sorry, people, but I’m still not convinced we need this group at all. I mean why blacks and Jews? Why not Arabs and Jews? Aren’t Arabs your most threatening adversary? For us, the question is, why not blacks and Dominicans? Or Puerto Ricans? Or Koreans? We share our neighborhoods with Latinos and Asians. We patronize Korean markets and nail salons even though they never hire black people in those places. Doesn’t it make more sense for us to organize dialogues with those groups?”

  Somehow Cleo didn’t sound adversarial; she sounded as if she were thinking out loud and inviting everyone to reason along with her. “I see it as a syllogism,” she said. “Blacks have issues with whites. Most Jews are white. Therefore blacks have issues with Jews. It’s not your religion we challenge, it’s your white-skin privilege. When I walk into a room full of Caucasians, I’m not thinking, ‘Which of these white folks is a Jew?’ I’m thinking, ‘Which of these white folks gives a damn that there’s so little research on sickle-cell anemia, or how many of these people care that more black men are in prison than in college?’”

  Affirmative murmurs encouraged her to go on.

  “On your side, it’s different,” she continued. “Jews have issues with gentiles. Most blacks are gentiles. But when you walk into a room full of African Americans, you don’t see us as Christian, you see us as black, and maybe you’re thinking, ‘Which of these schvartzas hates me enough to hurt me?’”

  “I would never use that word for blacks,” Zach said aloud, in response to some audience snickers. “And I certainly don’t assume every black person wants to hurt me.”

  Cleo ignored him. “Any Jew unfortunate enough to be listening to my show a while back heard several African American callers say some truly hateful things about your people, things that made me cringe. But you can’t tell me that black anti-Semites constitute a greater threat to Jews than white anti-Semites. Lord knows, there are more of them than of us, and white folks have a helluva lot more power to do you damage. So why don’t you start a dialogue group with French anti-Semites or Irish anti-Semites? Likewise, why don’t we blacks start a dialogue group with white Christian racists. Lots more of them per capita than of racist Jews. I’ll tell you why we don’t. Because our real enemies are too scary. The people who burn crosses on lawns and paint swastikas on synagogues—now there’s something the two of us have in common. Both blacks and Jews are too afraid to confront the real monsters.”

  Zach protested, “We have more in common than common enemies. We have a connection that goes way back. All of us gave up a beautiful Sunday afternoon to come here today because we occupy a special place in one another’s heart.”

  Cleo Scott had a half smile on her face when she looked at him. “Isn’t it amazing how some Jewish men know everything? Professor Fingerhut told me he knows what I’m going to say, now you’re telling me you know what’s in my heart—”

  Reverend Birmingham cut her off. “I’d like a show of hands: How many of us are ready to sign on right now as official founding members of the Black-Jewish Coalition of New York?”

  Rabbi Kahn counted thirty-nine yes votes, Zach’s among them. Not Cleo’s.

  “This question is for the eleven people who did not raise their hands,” said the reverend. “How many of you are willing to attend the next meeting and then make up your mind about joining?”

  Everyone else was in, including Cleo.

  “Hallelujah!” Birmingham crowed. “The next meeting will either be at my church or Shelly’s temple. You’ll get a notice in the mail. Until then, peace!”

  Zach was almost out the door when he felt a tap on his back. “You free tonight?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Cleo had tied the sleeves of her green cardigan around her neck like a scarf. “I’m done trawling. You’re the one I’d like to interview. Would you come on my show and continue our discussion?”

  “Was that what you call a discussion?”

  She grinned. “The program’s called, ‘Cleopatra’s Needle.’ Tagline, ‘We prick your conscience, we puncture inflated egos, we stick it to the power brokers.’ In other words, you can say whatever you want. I’m not afraid of controversy.”

  “I know. I’ve heard your show.” Zach didn’t say which show.

  “Great. So you’ll be my guest?”

  “You mean your house Jew?” he asked. “Sure. Why not?”

  CHAPTER 8

  CLEOPATRA’S NEEDLE

  ZACH HEARD HER RADIO PROGRAM FOR THE FIRST TIME months before he met her. It was a Sunday night, he was at the Laundromat, zoning out on the suds sloshing against the window of his washing machine while surfing his Walkman when a smooth voice oozed through his headphones.

  “Good evening everyone and welcome to Cleopatra’s Needle. Tonight, we’re going to be talking about blacks and Jews.”

  Zach turned up the volume.

  “Many of you saw the ‘Jews Against Jackson’ ad in today’s New York Times. Its criticism of Jesse was pretty harsh. We want to know how you felt about it. Supposedly, the ad was a reaction to Jesse using the word ‘Hymietown.’ What does that word mean to you? Did the Jewish reaction to it surprise you? And let’s go macro: What’s your overall impression of black-Jewish relations in this town? Or in America in general? The phones are open. Our number is . . .”

  While the soapsuds drained from his machine and the rinse water rose in the porthole, Zach’s headphones were awash in callers’ anti-Semitic accusations: “The Jews control everything.” “Jesse threatens Jewish power so the Jews are trying to destroy him.” “The Jews turned the country against affirmative action by calling it a quota system.” “Jewish landlords gouge us. Jewish storekeepers cheat us. Jewish developers redline neighborhoods.” “The Hasidim’s Grand Rebbe gets a police escort to visit his wife’s grave. My priest gets a ticket for parking in front of his own church.”

  The talk show host dodged and weaved, pleading for reason, but her callers wouldn’t let up, their odious claims mounted, each more outr
ageous than the last.

  “Jewish drug lords hook black kids on crack.”

  “Jewish doctors infect black babies with AIDS.”

  “That’s enough, people!” The host barked, her voice no longer supple but scorched. “The Times ad obviously hit a nerve but this is ridiculous. Now I want everyone to chill out during the break and when we return, I’ll expect to hear more reasoned voices.”

  The spin cycle shuddered to a stop. Zach closed his eyes during the commercials—Salem Slims, Heineken, the Amsterdam News, an auto repair shop, a braiding parlor. Then—

  “Welcome back to Cleopatra’s Needle. This is your host, Cleo Scott, and we’ve been talking about blacks and Jews—much too nastily for my taste, so we’re going to switch gears now and focus on what our two groups have in common, which is plenty. Both Jews and blacks have experienced bondage, the Israelites as slaves in ancient Egypt and us, well, you know our story. In the fifties and sixties, blacks and Jews marched shoulder to shoulder—think King and Heschel, Goodman, Schwerner, and Chaney. Your turn, listeners. What you can add?”

  “Forget the shoulder-to-shoulder thing,” declared the first caller. “The Jews were only in the civil rights movement to showcase themselves. They never treated us like equals. It was all about Jewish paternalism and black deference. The minute Stokely preached black power, the Jews jumped ship. They were never real allies.”

  “Tell that to Andrew Goodman and Michael Schwerner,” Cleo replied, testily.

  The caller punched back. “Just ’cause a couple of Jew boys got killed in a Mississippi swamp don’t mean every Jew is our friend. They’re not!”

  “You’re tarring a lot of good people with that broad brush. I’m moving on to politics now. New caller, you’re on the air. Is Jesse your candidate?”

  “Thanks for taking my call, Cleo, but before we talk about Jesse, your listeners have to realize that the original Israelites were black. The Jews are impostors. The Exodus is an African story. The Jews say they were slaves, but they owned slaves . . .”

  Cleo interrupted. “Give me another call, Marcus.”

  Zach sprang from his chair, bounded to the pay phone on the back wall of the Laundromat and dialed the station. She’d been urging listeners with opposing views to call in but he couldn’t get through, kept getting a busy signal until finally a recording: “Your call will be answered in the order in which it was received.”

  “Who belongs to this?” A black woman with a booming voice was standing in front of Zach’s machine with her laundry basket balanced on her hip.

  “Me,” he replied from the back of the room. “I’m on the phone right now. Could you use another machine?” After all that time on hold, he wasn’t going to surrender his place in the phone queue.

  “The other machines are full.”

  “I’ll unload it in a minute.”

  “You’ll unload it now, Mister! Your wash is done. We all have lives.”

  Zach shook the receiver at her. “I’m on the phone!”

  The woman hauled out Zach’s wash and dumped everything on top of the machine. “Be glad I didn’t throw the whole selfish load on the floor.”

  Embarrassed, Zach hung up and hurried over to transfer his wash to a dryer, after which he approached the woman, who was sitting in the plastic chair in front of the machine working on a find-a-word puzzle with a ballpoint pen.

  “Excuse me, ma’am.”

  She fixed him with a cold stare.

  “I really want to apologize. I had just heard something that upset me and I had to make a call. It had nothing to do with you. I was rude. I’m sorry.”

  He must have looked pathetic because her eyes went soft. “That’s okay, baby.” She waved him away. “I’ve been there.”

  The following Sunday night, Zach stayed home to listen to the radio. This time, he would operate strategically, call the station before her show began and immediately hang up so all he had to do when the host opened the phone lines was to hit the redial button. She started talking as her theme music faded out.

  “Good evening and welcome to Cleopatra’s Needle. After last week’s program, I got to thinking about a fourteen-year-old boy named Isaiah who lived in Memphis, Tennessee during the Great Depression. Isaiah was the eldest of seven. Times were tough back then. Black folks, especially, were struggling to stay afloat. When his daddy got laid off and there wasn’t enough money to feed his family, Isaiah went looking for an after-school job to help make ends meet. He applied to every store and filling station in town, tried the mill, the package store, and the moving company. But there was no work to be had. He was just about to give up when he noticed a Help Wanted sign in the window of a synagogue. They needed someone to help out around the place, collect the prayer books and prayer shawls that got left in the pews, straighten up the sanctuary after services, sweep, wash the blackboards, mop the floors in the Hebrew school, and turn the lights on and off on the Sabbath when the Jews are not allowed to use electricity. It was a menial job but Isaiah was grateful for it since black businesses had nothing to offer and other white folks weren’t rushing to hire a six-foot-two-inch black boy, much less in a religious school where he might cross paths with little white girls.

  “After Isaiah worked at the synagogue for a year or so, the rabbi, a man named Jonah Solomon, was so impressed with the boy’s intelligence, reliability, and good manners that he encouraged Isaiah to apply to college and wrote a letter of recommendation that helped him win a four-year scholarship. The summer between Isaiah’s junior and senior year, the rabbi got him a job driving a truck for a friend of his who owned a lumberyard. One day, a white kid on roller skates hitched onto the truck’s rear bumper and somehow got himself killed. The kid’s father sued for damages and when the yard owner had trouble with his insurance claim, he tried to make the accident sound like it was the black driver’s fault. Rabbi Solomon testified on Isaiah’s behalf—mind you this was in Tennessee, in the 1930s—said he’d known him for six years, talked about how responsible and industrious he was, how honest and kind, said Isaiah was planning to train for the ministry and his life shouldn’t be ruined because some daredevil kid he never even glimpsed in his rearview mirror decided to take a joyride.

  “In those years, most white Southerners didn’t think much more of Jews than of blacks, but a rabbi had some stature in their eyes, so Jonah Solomon’s testimony won the day. Instead of being indicted for manslaughter, Isaiah returned to college that fall, graduated with honors, went on to divinity school, eventually took a pulpit, and became shepherd to a thousand souls. He also married his high school sweetheart and had two daughters. I’m one of them.”

  The silence went on for so long after “them” that Zach thought he had lost the broadcast signal. Finally, Cleo said, “Isaiah Farnsworth Scott was my daddy. He died when I was ten but he’s been on my mind these past few days, came down from heaven to scold me. Jonah Solomon is long gone, too, but I know he’s ashamed of me for what I let happen on this show last week. I’d like to believe most of my listeners were appalled as well and I’m sure some of you tried to call to tell me so but couldn’t get through because the lines were glutted by the nut jobs. Truth is, it wasn’t your responsibility to stop them from hijacking my airtime. I should have stopped their ravings the way I’d want any radio host—any person—to stop a racist in his tracks. Jonah Solomon spoke up for my father when no one else did. But when the Jews were attacked on this program last week, I failed to speak up for them. For that, I owe them and every person in my audience my most sincere apology.

  “Tonight, the phone lines belong to our Jewish listeners and anyone else who felt offended, hurt, or defamed by what was heard on this show last Sunday night. Any other crazies out there won’t be put through. Everyone else: please call in. We want to hear from you.”

  Zach never had to dial the station that night. Not only did other callers express everything he felt, but the host’s closing remarks made whatever he might have said redundant: “Aspir
in, blue jeans, the combustion engine, the polio vaccine, the fax machine, oral contraceptives, the pacemaker, streptomycin, the Heimlich maneuver, sign language, the sonogram; every one of those things was invented by a Jew. So let me put it to you straight, people: if you have any complaints against, quote, ‘the Jews,’ why don’t you just give it all back! Until next week, this is Cleo Scott. Good night.”

  From then on, whenever he was home, her show became part of Zach’s Sunday night ritual. What made her monologues so provocative were the same qualities that had captivated him at the New School before he knew who she was—an intellect both hot and cool, dynamism packaged in an invincible calm. Now that he’d seen her in action, he thought she’d make a great litigator. She was entrancing. Smart. Intriguing. Sexy.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE ONE I FEED

  CLEO’S FATHER, ISAIAH FARNSWORTH SCOTT, ALWAYS wore two silver items on a chain around his neck: a large cross and an oval pendant, a gift from Rabbi Jonah Solomon on the occasion of Isaiah’s graduation from divinity school. One side of the pendant was engraved with a verse from his namesake prophet: They shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks. The other side simply said IFS, Isaiah’s initials. Whether the monogram had given rise to his nickname or vice versa, Cleo never knew, but by the time she came along, her father was called “Ifs,” and many of his parishioners thought he’d been baptized with it.

  Pastor Ifs Scott was a man of God who refused to speak in certainties, a preacher for whom “If” seemed the most sensible way to begin a sentence because, after all, everything was contingent on everything else, and in a world this complex and subject to change, it was hard to know anything for sure. Except Ifs always knew the difference between power and powerlessness, knew who needed him most, and how to reach them.

  Once when asked the secret of his magnetic appeal to children, Ifs replied, “I guess they know I love them.” Cleo thought it was because he listened to them with unwavering eyes and a heedful stillness that she would later find absent in others. He would draw on his pipe or cup its bowl in his palm and listen to children as if they were prophets. “I’ve learned more from babies than from bishops, more from kids than cardinals,” he used to say, though he wasn’t a Catholic, he was a black Baptist minister in the Church of God in Christ in Memphis, Tennessee. The truth is, children’s questions and comments often inspired Ifs’s homilies. When Cleo was eight, she started transcribing sections of his sermons into a blue leatherette journal with gilt-edged pages so she would always have them nearby for easy reference. She titled it “The Wisdom of Ifs Scott” and her first entry was an excerpt from his sermon about God’s mistakes: