An elderly black man with a bandage on his head leaned toward me on the bus and said, “You’re Jewish, right?”
I hesitated for a moment, clocking his intentions, then said … “Yes.” I’d brought this on myself when I decided a year ago to wear my yarmulke en route to temple on Shabbat because there were no Jews visible in San Francisco, and I wanted us to be visible. When I lived in New York and Los Angeles there were many areas where you could see Jews walking down the street. Suddenly, I move to this beautiful city and can’t find any Jews out and about. There’s no physical presence. I know there are Jews here, but there’s no evidence of it. So, though I’m not Orthodox and have never worn my yarmulke outside of a temple, I decided to try it as an experiment.
This morning, I was in a rush. I was late — to temple. And I am now part of the davening team, leading people in song and prayer, so I can’t just sneak in late in the back. I almost took an Uber. I didn’t want the stares. I didn’t want someone to ask me about Israel. Usually it’s OK, but not today. I put on sunglasses, not because it was a sunny day, but because I just didn’t want to talk to anyone. I even placed my yarmulke on the very far back of my head so you wouldn’t even see it if you looked at me head-on. Didn’t work.
The man, who seemed to be about 70, leaned in to speak to me, and I took off the stupid shades. I looked in his eyes, which were full of pain. As I noted the large silver cross dangling around his neck, I asked myself: What did he want?
In the second before he spoke, I thought about the relationship between the black and Jewish communities and how it was so strong 50 years ago and has deteriorated. I thought about Bernie Sanders and Killer Mike, a black hip-hop artist who is a vocal supporter of the presidential candidate, and about Sanders’ inability to connect with many black voters.
Then I became aware of my surroundings. I felt very out of place on the bus as I realized I was among the few white guys on board, and probably the only Jew. I was afraid of what the teenage Asian punk with a pink mohawk to my right would say of my religion. And then the old man opened his mouth and his voice cracked.
“Do you think I can be forgiven?”
“Um…” He’s the Christian; shouldn’t he be the one who believes in guilt and forgiveness? My book is about justice. But I didn’t hesitate.
“I think everyone can be forgiven.”
“It was only one night.” He began to cry. “I got drunk. Too drunk.”
“I’ve been there. Most of us have been there.”
“But what can I do? The things I did.”
The tears kept coming.
I began to wonder if he thought I was a rabbi. Maybe he was thinking it was God’s will to put this “clergyman” before him. And I didn’t see how it would benefit either of us for me to disabuse him of that notion.
The bus was loud, and he spoke quietly, so I leaned in and he talked to me mouth-to-ear. It was strangely intimate in a noisy, smelly, public place.
He began to detail his sins as though we were in a moving confessional. He mentioned his wife and others dear to his heart, and how he wronged them.
Then I realized we were two stops from where I had to get out. I stopped him and let him know I was going to have to leave and I said: “It sounds like you’re asking me for advice.”
“Yes.”
“OK. Who am I? I’m no one, but if you want my advice, find the people who you think you have wronged and apologize to them. Do not make any excuses. Ask how you can make things better. Then do what they ask you to.”
He nodded with quiet gravity, agreeing it was good advice. This was something he could do, something he needed. The tears began to slow. I took his hand, said goodbye and wished him good luck.
As I headed for the door, a teenager I hadn’t noticed called out:
“Hey! Shabbat shalom!”
I smiled. So unexpected. I’m always on guard when I wear my yarmulke, always afraid I’m making myself a target — a willing target. I steel myself for a debate about the occupation at any moment. I prepare for slurs, but I’ve only gotten goodwill. And it’s happened often. Perhaps he just overheard my conversation. I have no idea if he was Jewish. But maybe he was, and somehow seeing me wear a yarmulke on my way to shul reminded him of his youth, or his parents, or his own bar mitzvah. So I said:
“Thanks. You too.”
Then I jumped out of the bus and smiled as I raced down Valencia, dodging past the homeless with bandages on their heads, reeking of piss and stumbling through the street. They suddenly looked more familiar. More human. More part of my community. The one in which everyone could be forgiven.
Just another day going to temple in this jewel box city.
David Rodwin is a filmmaker, opera composer and storyteller who’s won the Moth StorySLAM and is a member of The Kitchen (for which he wrote the Hello Mazel video).