Sitting Shiva for Squirrel Hill

I never know what to say in a shiva house. I don’t feel like I have the right to say something, especially when someone else may have known the person better. So I show up and listen. I may share an anecdote I remember about the person but I know that it’s not my job to talk.

That’s actually one of the rules of a shiva house: the visitor is not supposed to begin a conversation, they are supposed to wait for the mourner to receive them. Let the mourner talk.

Over the past few years, I have followed the same rules for commenting on events on the internet. Someone else probably knows more than me. Someone else is affected in some way that I cannot fathom. And I never feel that I have something to add to the conversation that would elevate as opposed to analyze. It’s not my job to provide analysis, so I have been very careful to educate myself, to not try to be part of the noise. It’s my job, as a human and as a member of civil society, to listen.

I fought the urge to share the empathic pain I have felt during public tragedies. I restrained myself when I wanted to write harsh words in capital letters and no punctuation. I composed and deleted political diatribes on numerous occasions. (I have slipped up, naturally. I tweeted about what I thought should have been done to members of Congress who voted against common sense gun laws, but even that was written with restraint.)

My family has lived in Pittsburgh for more than a century and in Squirrel Hill for more than 70 years. It was the place where my paternal great grandparents came when they emigrated from White Russia. But it is not my place to tell their story. Or about the family’s deep relationship with the Jewish community of Squirrel Hill. Or to use my family or my friends in the neighborhood as a device to make political point about what I believe should be done.

I went to high school in a suburb of Pittsburgh, and began by living at my grandparents’ home in Squirrel Hill, a few blocks from the Tree of Life Congregation. As the family was Orthodox, we would pray at one of the Orthodox synagogues in the area. I’d go swimming at the JCC. I’d go to the library on the corner of Murray and Forbes, and buy CDs from a record store on Forbes.

On Shabbat, everyone would be walking outside. We’d walk home from shul. We’d walk to the homes of friends for lunch or after lunch. It seemed like everyone had an open door policy.

My grandmother would always have a delicious meal and a table filled with fascinating guests from all backgrounds. My grandfather would regale us with stories of the history of Jewish Squirrel Hill, the founding of the various local Jewish schools and organizations, and about his time serving in the United States Army in Italy and Oran. People would stop by throughout the afternoon and evening just to say hi.

Sitting around that table, I learned the definition of a community.

When I learned about the horrific attack in Squirrel Hill yesterday, I cried. I cried for the murdered, even though I did not know them by name. I cried because it could have been the synagogue a few blocks away where my family and friends attend. I cried for the community that will not feel safe again. A community where the new normal will be locked doors. I cried for my friends and family who will have to explain to their children how a person could be so evil. (I cried a lot.)

I don’t understand how someone could become so evil.

But I’ve been learning what it means to be ignorant.

I’ve spent the past few years learning about things I did not know, much of it through theatre, art, television, movies, books, and essays. For example: I knew nothing about the AIDS crisis that was killing hundreds of thousands of gay men through my high school years. I did not understand privilege. I did not understand the extent of the conditions and the disenfranchisement that people of color in this country experience on a daily basis. I did not comprehend how fearful people of color are that their children would not come home safe at the end of the day. And I did not know enough about the history of legalized oppression Black people face in this country. I knew nothing about the trans experience and the struggles and discrimination trans people go through, or even about the importance of something as basic as pronouns. I knew nothing about the pains of being a new arrival in this country, whether as an immigrant or a refugee. And I knew nothing about the domestic violence, abuse and sexual harassment that so many women have experienced in their lives.

There is still much that I don’t know. So much that I don’t understand, or cannot fathom or comprehend. And so much that I will continue trying to read, watch, listen and learn. And please know that silence is not always complicity, sometimes it is just giving the mourner the chance to be heard.

As my friend Joshua Tranen wrote so beautifully in a tweet yesterday, there is one thing that visitors are supposed to say in a shiva house: “May the Place (God) comfort you among the rest of the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.” He explained “I like the idea of God as Place, dispersed throughout the air. May all Jews find comfort today in their respective places, with friends, family, community.”

I pray that everyone who experienced tragedy over these past few years will quickly find comfort in this Place that seems to be unwilling to provide a moment of respite.