Lion's Cub
One of the first lessons my father taught me about my family is the meaning of our last name. In Hebrew, he told me, “Gurien” means “Lion's cub.” I suppose that Dad wanted us to embrace the meaning of our name because of the vision and values it represented. Being a lion’s cub meant that we were in line to rule our kingdom: to be leaders and trailblazers, to command and demand the dignity afforded us by the status he presumed for our family; to celebrate the natural laws that determined our "regal" and "stately" fates.
Dad expected my brothers and me to live the lives of lions. We were to be chieftains and innovators. His constant hope for us was that we would never be satisfied with "good enough." When we earned the highest grade on an exam, Dad wanted to know why we didn't get a perfect score. When we started our first jobs, Dad wanted to know when we expected to earn a promotion. It wasn't that Dad wasn't satisfied with our accomplishments. You could read the pride on his face even as he drove our ambition. But it was clear that Dad had a vision for his family: he expected that, as lion's cubs, we would someday be revered by others in his community. Dad wanted to make certain that we were worthy of, and deserving of, that respect.
Dad was enamored with hierarchy and status. He was a Cohen--the Hebrew tribe descending from Aaron that became the Temple High Priests--and he wore that membership as a badge. He identified his lineage to any rabbi with whom he spoke and he made certain he knew the regulations that his priestly affiliation bore upon him. But Dad's pride in his tribal membership had nothing to do with being regaled as "supreme" among the Jewish community. From Dad's point of view, being a "High Priest" meant a certain moral obligation that he had to the Jewish community. Like a lion defending his pride, Dad was vigilant in upholding Jewish traditions.
I suspect that it was in part because of this perception that Dad took it upon himself to defend the entire Jewish community against persecution. When I was a child, Dad once wreaked havoc in my grade school because the school cafeteria was adorned with Christmas trees and decorations, and with nary a hint of Hanukkah. Dad stormed into the principal's office, shouting cries of anti-Semitism and threatening to call the Anti Defamation League. No sooner had the school administration soothed my father's rage than were silver and blue Hanukkah decorations hung along-side the Christmas ones. And this was just the beginning. Over the years, Dad sent my brothers and me to private school because he feared the anti-Semitic math teacher in the public middle school who dared to give my older brother a "C" on his report card. When I got a call-back for a Civil Light Opera play, Dad wouldn't let me go because the audition was held on the second night of Passover, and when I graduated high school he wouldn't let his valedictorian daughter attend the senior class convocation event because it was to be held in a church. Dad's antics in defense of his religious beliefs continued throughout his life, in fact, to just a few weeks ago. And though my brothers and I would want to run and hide any time Dad went on one of his binges, it was simply because he demanded that his family be treated with the same respect and dignity as others, and that we be allowed to cherish and celebrate our heritage publicly. Though he often drove us to tears, Dad's intention was simply to ensure that his lion cubs were equal in the eyes of the community.
Lions and their cubs didn't design the laws of nature--they didn't choose to be "kings of the jungle"--yet they are bound by forces beyond their control to obey them. Likewise, Dad adhered staunchly to the tenets of his faith and he indoctrinated his young cubs accordingly. At the dinner table, Dad put us through the drills: Which prayers are said during Hanukkah? What do Jews believe about heaven and hell? Which animals are kosher? As young children, Dad would ask us, "What will happen to you if you marry a non-Jew?" We would dutifully respond, "You will disown us and write us out of the family." Dad would smile in approval. He made it clear that while he didn't write the rules it was nonetheless incumbent upon us to honor them.
And yet...
When it comes to self-preservation, lions can defy the laws of nature. There have been instances where a lion would actually place itself in peril, extend its own neck in submission, and choose its own death rather than sacrifice the lives of its cubs. So too with Dad. When it came to choosing between the laws of nature and preserving family, Dad always chose his family. When his sons married the women they loved--even though the women were not Jewish--Dad moved heaven and earth to welcome them into our family. When the Hassidic parochial school refused to allow me the honor of reading from the Torah for my Bat-Mitzvah, Dad risked his own ostracism and my expulsion (which I myself would have preferred!) by joining an egalitarian synagogue so that I could learn to read and recite the liturgy. Time and again my father turned laws of nature on its head: where his family was concerned, no rule, no law, no commandment took precedence. He fought against his own natural urges and tendencies and was willing to embrace living in contradiction. And it was in these actions that Dad, our lion king, earned the respect and recognition of his cubs.
On December 2 of this year, Dad woke with a terrible headache. Moments later he collapsed to the floor from a massive stroke, never to regain consciousness. Yet his body lingered long enough for his cubs to gather and pay homage. Though we have yet to achieve the leadership status of Dad's ambition, we each represent a fierce independence and a forceful passion bent to see Dad's family thrive. And though none of us observe or celebrate my father's Jewish traditions, we strove to ensure that his medical care followed the letters of the laws he held so dear. Dad's rabbi was present to help my brothers pray over my father's body and even I acquiesced when that rabbi informed me that my prayer contributions would be meaningless in the eyes of Dad's God. We explained the required religious behaviors and procedures to the nurses, and while not a single one of us understood the logic or the rationale, this community of strangers helped us to ascertain that Dad's body was shown the reverence and deference that he demanded in his life.
But like Dad bending and ignoring rules that threatened the sanctity of his family, there were limits to how far his cubs could go. Hassidic Jewish tradition requires that once a body is kept alive on life support, such intervention must be continued until the body expires on its own. Yet my brothers, mother, and I could endure my father's suffering only for so long. He was, undeniably, brain dead but still his heart beat on. Our gentle nudges and strokes would not wake him from his slumber and it was clear that we would have to make the decision that would require love for Dad to prevail over religious doctrine. Caregivers surrounded us, insulating us from the passage of time, from outside events, and from cleric strangers who demanded that they knew better than we my father's wishes. Practitioners offered a berth wide enough to allow us to do what needed to be done.
As we removed the thorn from my father's paw our hearts tore in agony, our bodies seared with pain, and our souls wretched with grief. Moments later, Dad passed peacefully. Though his time had come far too soon, Dad died as he lived: with dignity and with respect.
Dad expected my brothers and me to live the lives of lions. We were to be chieftains and innovators. His constant hope for us was that we would never be satisfied with "good enough." When we earned the highest grade on an exam, Dad wanted to know why we didn't get a perfect score. When we started our first jobs, Dad wanted to know when we expected to earn a promotion. It wasn't that Dad wasn't satisfied with our accomplishments. You could read the pride on his face even as he drove our ambition. But it was clear that Dad had a vision for his family: he expected that, as lion's cubs, we would someday be revered by others in his community. Dad wanted to make certain that we were worthy of, and deserving of, that respect.
Dad was enamored with hierarchy and status. He was a Cohen--the Hebrew tribe descending from Aaron that became the Temple High Priests--and he wore that membership as a badge. He identified his lineage to any rabbi with whom he spoke and he made certain he knew the regulations that his priestly affiliation bore upon him. But Dad's pride in his tribal membership had nothing to do with being regaled as "supreme" among the Jewish community. From Dad's point of view, being a "High Priest" meant a certain moral obligation that he had to the Jewish community. Like a lion defending his pride, Dad was vigilant in upholding Jewish traditions.
I suspect that it was in part because of this perception that Dad took it upon himself to defend the entire Jewish community against persecution. When I was a child, Dad once wreaked havoc in my grade school because the school cafeteria was adorned with Christmas trees and decorations, and with nary a hint of Hanukkah. Dad stormed into the principal's office, shouting cries of anti-Semitism and threatening to call the Anti Defamation League. No sooner had the school administration soothed my father's rage than were silver and blue Hanukkah decorations hung along-side the Christmas ones. And this was just the beginning. Over the years, Dad sent my brothers and me to private school because he feared the anti-Semitic math teacher in the public middle school who dared to give my older brother a "C" on his report card. When I got a call-back for a Civil Light Opera play, Dad wouldn't let me go because the audition was held on the second night of Passover, and when I graduated high school he wouldn't let his valedictorian daughter attend the senior class convocation event because it was to be held in a church. Dad's antics in defense of his religious beliefs continued throughout his life, in fact, to just a few weeks ago. And though my brothers and I would want to run and hide any time Dad went on one of his binges, it was simply because he demanded that his family be treated with the same respect and dignity as others, and that we be allowed to cherish and celebrate our heritage publicly. Though he often drove us to tears, Dad's intention was simply to ensure that his lion cubs were equal in the eyes of the community.
Lions and their cubs didn't design the laws of nature--they didn't choose to be "kings of the jungle"--yet they are bound by forces beyond their control to obey them. Likewise, Dad adhered staunchly to the tenets of his faith and he indoctrinated his young cubs accordingly. At the dinner table, Dad put us through the drills: Which prayers are said during Hanukkah? What do Jews believe about heaven and hell? Which animals are kosher? As young children, Dad would ask us, "What will happen to you if you marry a non-Jew?" We would dutifully respond, "You will disown us and write us out of the family." Dad would smile in approval. He made it clear that while he didn't write the rules it was nonetheless incumbent upon us to honor them.
And yet...
When it comes to self-preservation, lions can defy the laws of nature. There have been instances where a lion would actually place itself in peril, extend its own neck in submission, and choose its own death rather than sacrifice the lives of its cubs. So too with Dad. When it came to choosing between the laws of nature and preserving family, Dad always chose his family. When his sons married the women they loved--even though the women were not Jewish--Dad moved heaven and earth to welcome them into our family. When the Hassidic parochial school refused to allow me the honor of reading from the Torah for my Bat-Mitzvah, Dad risked his own ostracism and my expulsion (which I myself would have preferred!) by joining an egalitarian synagogue so that I could learn to read and recite the liturgy. Time and again my father turned laws of nature on its head: where his family was concerned, no rule, no law, no commandment took precedence. He fought against his own natural urges and tendencies and was willing to embrace living in contradiction. And it was in these actions that Dad, our lion king, earned the respect and recognition of his cubs.
On December 2 of this year, Dad woke with a terrible headache. Moments later he collapsed to the floor from a massive stroke, never to regain consciousness. Yet his body lingered long enough for his cubs to gather and pay homage. Though we have yet to achieve the leadership status of Dad's ambition, we each represent a fierce independence and a forceful passion bent to see Dad's family thrive. And though none of us observe or celebrate my father's Jewish traditions, we strove to ensure that his medical care followed the letters of the laws he held so dear. Dad's rabbi was present to help my brothers pray over my father's body and even I acquiesced when that rabbi informed me that my prayer contributions would be meaningless in the eyes of Dad's God. We explained the required religious behaviors and procedures to the nurses, and while not a single one of us understood the logic or the rationale, this community of strangers helped us to ascertain that Dad's body was shown the reverence and deference that he demanded in his life.
But like Dad bending and ignoring rules that threatened the sanctity of his family, there were limits to how far his cubs could go. Hassidic Jewish tradition requires that once a body is kept alive on life support, such intervention must be continued until the body expires on its own. Yet my brothers, mother, and I could endure my father's suffering only for so long. He was, undeniably, brain dead but still his heart beat on. Our gentle nudges and strokes would not wake him from his slumber and it was clear that we would have to make the decision that would require love for Dad to prevail over religious doctrine. Caregivers surrounded us, insulating us from the passage of time, from outside events, and from cleric strangers who demanded that they knew better than we my father's wishes. Practitioners offered a berth wide enough to allow us to do what needed to be done.
As we removed the thorn from my father's paw our hearts tore in agony, our bodies seared with pain, and our souls wretched with grief. Moments later, Dad passed peacefully. Though his time had come far too soon, Dad died as he lived: with dignity and with respect.
posted by Lion's Cub | 6:44 PM
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