Tsar Alexander II died of injuries after a bomb attack on March 13, 1881. Cary Grant was Jewish; his real name was Archibald Leach, and he performed stiltwalking at Coney Island for a living before becoming a famous movie star. The Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society assisted Jewish immigrants in seeking lodging, employment, and peace with their new, demanding surroundings. Isaac Spier was a bigamist who served time, along with hundreds of other Jews, at the Sing Sing prison in New York state; his great-grandson would research enough about his life, and the lives of other Jewish criminals, to write The Jews of Sing Sing. The first Jews to arrive in America were Sephardic Jews, in the 1600s, followed by Ashkenazi Jews from Germany in the 1830s, and then some more Ashkenazi Jews from Eastern Europe and Russia in the 1880s.
The above are "tid-bits" of information that I garnered from the five books I borrowed from the local library; I self-denied the extensive use of the Internet, a rebellion of sorts from the common habits of my unfortunate generation. I was asked to demonstrate and converse about a knowledge of some of the historical content I drank in while sailing through five books for information -- that task I have completed.
To complete that task I had to satisfy myself with the one, monotonous font that Weebly offered. The irony: with the Internet's increasing speed and expanding possibilities and gadgets always lauded in my father's computer magazines, we still need to be content with some of the limitations of so-called "innovative" web-design sites like Weebly are strapped with. Thus, I still, in contrariness to one of my teachers, adore Google Sites, for it at least offers more than one font choice; I would readily select that for making the next web-based project because of its advantages in aesthetics. Yet patience and "dealing with it" are traits one should develop as our world bull-dozes its way, past old ways and warnings, into a digitized, accelerated world. Twenty-first century skills, to sound modern and exude an air of smarts.
Some limitations that I, not Weebly disappointingly, possess include the inability to stay focused for long periods of time. Inconveniently, with a mind thinking of bedtime, I turn out the best work the night before the assignment is due. I have decided, from these experiences, that I am one who needs sufficient pressure, and no far-off deadline, to stay effectively on task for a substantial period of time. With time to allow my adolescent neurons to properly connect and with real-world work experience, I should be able improve my procrastinating habits and work faster on the work assigned to me. I can live with my slowness until then.
I knew, from the moment the Project Week project was announced and that there would be an exciting (at least, for me) social studies option, what I wanted to do. That was my greatest strength throughout the project, my interest. They say that you should only voluntarily pursue a great project or course in life if you hold a passion for it. That may be too "New Age" of a philosophy for all of my actions, yet it aided me considerably in my drive to learn about and my understanding of the topic. For an explanation of my interest in Jewish immigration during the nineteenth century, you may choose to read the paragraphs below, but it isn't necessary. It is simply necessary to know that I am proud of my project, though there are many ways in which I would improve it. However, I didn't have a year to research and draft a sufficient presentation of my rich topic, I only had a week. I will content myself, using my new-found "twenty-first century skills," with that.
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The first Jew I knew in my early life, besides two Jewish pastors my church associated with, Brother Weiss and Brother Berkin, was Bill Tall, a plant nursery owner whose business my gardener mother frequented for seeds and succulents. He rarely wore his kippah, but one day, when I was only three-feet high, he did while manning the counter and I never forgot it, and when I call his robust figure into my mind, his kippah dutifully follows him into the synthesis. But during that insignificant age, I couldn't comprehend that he was Jewish, someone special, just as I couldn't comprehend, or care to discern, that black people were black or Asians were not technically whites. Simply put, I didn't know to discriminate, or care.
He was simply Mr. Bill.
He proudly owned a two-acre stretch of land that contained his beloved nursery -- flower plants, fruit trees, succulents, pottery, railings, manure, and garden art galore -- a building for business and the sale of seeds, doves, baby chicks, hand-crafted jewelry, hats, books, gardening tools, garden-themed toys, and the display of Mr. Bill's son's Pee Wee collection, a deli named after Mr. Bill's dad who always wanted to operate one but died before it opened, a building that Mr. Bill rented out to an upholster, a plain, industrial-appearing four-residence apartment building (also owned by Mr. Bill), Mr. Bill's stately house, built by him, and, best of all, a barnyard full of white geese, loud ducks, innumerable chickens, curious goats, shy ponies, and temperamental turkeys.
He was simply Mr. Bill. He always had advice, even if he didn't know what you were talking about, and plants to recommend. He had plentiful resources, so that when the hill behind your house slid down and destroyed your backyard, as ours did, he would obtain enough railroad ties to construct terraces to contain the mud and stabilize what was left of the hill. He had a good sense of humor (He's Jewish, why wouldn't he?). When his son was learning to drive, they practiced in a cemetery. "Everybody here is dead, so you don't have to worry about killing anyone." He had no fear of getting dirty, so it got done, unless you didn't let it get done.
He was simply Mr. Bill. He killed his own turkeys for Thanksgiving, and invited all his friends over for a kosher Thanksgiving. It didn't matter that it was during the week of Hannukah, he just relied on the expectation, as an American, that you didn't mind it if he wore his kippah to the party and kept his Menorah burning. Egyptians, sons-in-law, Kentuckians, and theater lighting technicians all found their way to his Thanksgiving party. It was like New York City -- everyone was there, and you left nostalgic. When you got bored, he readily gave you permission to amble your way to his library, well-- somewhere in the basement. When you finally found it and got over the spine-tingling pitter-patter of mice feet, Dostoevsky, Beauvoir, awaited behind the broken espresso machine and canvas-covered what-nots, and a large collection of musty Jewish prayer books gathered age and significance underneath two shelves of children's books. I don't touch the cookbooks, or the record collection.
And just simply knowing Mr. Bill is why I want to learn more about where he, his family the Talls, came from -- that deep sense of humor, that resourcefulness, that authenticity. I found my chance, right here on this site.