Rabbi Adam Rosenwasser

February 26, 2010

Shabbat Zachor: Welcoming the Stragglers

I want to tell you about a man I had never heard of until this past week by the name of Brad Cohen. How many of you have heard of Brad? Well, Brad was raised in St. Louis Missouri. When he was a little boy, his parents were divorced. Brad barked and twitched constantly, and he would knock his knee against the inside of a car door. Doctors initially told Brad’s mother that his odd behavior and tics were an emotional reaction to the divorce. Somebody even asked his mother if she had considered an exorcist. When Brad was in the fifth grade, his teacher made him come to the front of the class to apologize for the noises he made and promise he would never make them again. Brad, as you might have guessed, was eventually diagnosed with Tourette’s syndrome.

This disability was very difficult for Brad, and caused him a great deal of emotional distress. Amazingly enough, it somehow also managed to motivate him. In a newspaper article, Brad was quoted as saying, “I always felt like the kid in the corner. I really needed support and acceptance from my teacher and didn’t get it. From then on, I knew that I wanted to be that teacher, one who would offer support and acceptance and really be there for each kid.” After graduating from college, Brad applied for teaching positions. He was rejected by twenty four schools including Jewish day schools. The interviewers could not get past Brad’s twitches and shouting. Finally, Brad was hired at the Mountain View Elementary School near Atlanta, Georgia. A few years after, he was awarded the Sallie Mae First Class Teacher of the Year in 1997. He went on to become a school administrator, and two years ago, Brad’s book called Front of the Class: How Tourette Syndrome Made Me the Teacher I Never Had, was turned into a Hallmark Hall of Fame TV movie.

I tell you Brad’s story tonight because February happens to be Jewish Disability Awareness Month. Additionally this Shabbat before Purim has a special title, Shabbat Zachor. That designation comes from the maftir, the extra Torah reading that begins as follows: Remember- Zachor- what Amalek did to you as you were leaving Egypt. He came upon you, and struck down the stragglers –the necheshalim in your midst.

We read these verses every year right before Purim because our tradition links Amalek to all those who have tried to destroy us throughout the ages from Haman to Hitler. But tonight I do not want to focus on Amalek. I want to focus on the stragglers, and what it means for our own community when we leave people behind. Brad Cohen felt like the kid in the corner, the straggler. Had he been with our people trekking through the desert, he would have been among those cut down by Amalek.

I have a straggler in my family, my mom. Almost three years ago, mom was in a terrible car accident. She spent two months at the University of Michigan medical center, clinging to life in the ICU and then recovering in one of the wards. Her pelvis was shattered, many of her ribs broken, and in the early days, pneumonia threatened to take over her lungs. Thank goodness she survived, and she has done remarkably well. But mom will always be physically disabled. And this experience has completely altered my perception of those who struggle with disabilities.

When Shalom and I moved to Mountain View, we chose to live in an apartment on the ground floor so my parents could come over when they visit. But they still are not able to comfortably spend the night because our bathrooms lack guard rails. Whenever my family goes out to eat, we have to make sure the restaurant is accessible and can accommodate mom’s scooter. At Beth Am, we mapped out the best place for my parents to park so that mom would have the least amount of difficulty entering the building.

Those are minor inconveniences compared to the public humiliation I witnessed. Mom came to New York City for my ordination. It was her first trip out of Michigan since the accident, two years prior. One night, we decided to go out for a celebratory dinner in the East Village. We called a cab which pulled up next to the hotel. Mom decided to walk the short distance from the lobby to the cab, twenty feet at most. But walking twenty feet with a cane in both hands takes my mom a great deal longer than it takes an able bodied individual. A car pulled up behind the cab. The driver began honking and screaming obscene profanities, even as he clearly saw my mom slowly hobbling toward the car. Thank goodness the cab driver was not intimidated, as he stayed put and waited for her to get inside. I don’t think I’ve ever been so angry in my life, and it took all of my strength not to scream back my own profanities at this most disgusting display.

People with disabilities face incidents like this all the time. But often, the difficulties they face are more subtle, things we do not even think about until we are forced to face them ourselves. In her speech to our congregation last spring, Rabbi Marder articulated a vision of Beth Am as a place of inclusivity and accessibility. I want us to take a moment to honestly evaluate how accessible we really are. Our campus has lovely winding paths which make all our buildings accessible. We have a portable ramp that we can put up to allow the disabled to access our bima. The signs outside of my office read Rabbi Adam Rosenwasser in brail. Our education programs include a self-contained class for children with special needs. It is geared to children who would not benefit from a typical religious school experience. Additionally, we provide tutors and aides who give our children with special needs access to the least restrictive environments. These are all important steps, but they are not enough. We still have stragglers among us whose needs are not being met.

Here are some concrete steps we should seriously consider taking at Beth Am to “ramp up” our level of inclusivity. First, our ramp to the bima should be permanent. I for one did not know we had a ramp until it was put up the night of my installation so that Cantor Unterman and my mom would be able to join us on the Bima. But how about those who are disabled who just come to services once in a while? Do they know we have a ramp? That they too can be called up for an aliyah? Or even worse, how about those who come to services and never come back because they don’t see a way in? Like many things, a ramp would be a significant expense to our congregation. It might involve remodeling a good deal of the sanctuary. A committee seriously looked into putting in a permanent ramp during the past decade. I applaud their efforts, and I strongly feel that it is time to revisit this issue. I would highly encourage our board and all members of our community to place this near the top of our priority list. A permanent ramp would provide constant accessibility to all. It would allow all members of our community to receive blessings all the time, not just when they ask.

Second, our worship services and major programs at Beth Am should include sign language interpretation. Perhaps some of you here tonight know sign language, or have a friend who knows sign language. Perhaps you would be willing to volunteer your time, or teach some of us so that we may communicate better with all members of our community. Like the permanent ramp, these services should be provided without people having to ask for them. Beth Am in many areas is seen as a stellar example of a successful and inclusive congregation. If people in the community and potential members knew that our services and programs were signed, it is more likely they would come and join us which would greatly enrich the wellbeing of our community.

Next, kids like Brad Cohen should feel comfortable in our religious and Hebrew programs. Our education programs are designed to welcome in all of our children. Yet we alone, the professional staff, cannot do this alone. We all know that kids with differences experience teasing and harassment. We all need to be comfortable talking to our own kids and all kids about accepting and loving all children. A few months back, we screened a wonderful film called Praying with Lior, which is about a young boy with Down Syndrome and the struggles he faced to become Bar Mitzvah. Part of what got him through was the love and overwhelming support of his community. Let us make sure all of our children receive the love and support they need to achieve.

Finally, we need to respect what we already have. There are a number of parking spots for the disabled at the top of the property. However, these spots are sometimes taken by able boded adults dropping off their kids for programs. Even though this may only be a matter of minutes, if a disabled person wishes to park and there is no space for the person, he or she may very well feel excluded, angry, and may leave. Unless you are disabled or somebody in your car is disabled, you should not be parking in those spots. It is illegal, unethical, and destroys our sense of a sacred and welcoming community.

What I have proposed, a permanent ramp to the bima, signing at services and programs, caring for our children with disabilities and special needs, and respecting parking spots for the disabled, are achievable goals. They will ensure that people like Brad Cohen and my mom feel absolutely welcome in our midst. When we abandon our stragglers, we leave them vulnerable, and we weaken our own community. Brad, in spite of his disability, won an award as teacher of the year. He made a difference in the lives of many of his students, and inspired them. My mother, and others in scooters and wheelchairs, are often overlooked, seen as a nuisance, or talked down to, as if they are stupid. When we reach out to the disabled, we are not “doing them a favor.” We are strengthening our own community, making it a more inclusive, accessible, and just place.

Tetzaveh, our Torah portion for this week, opens with the following verse:

And you shall command the children of Israel, and they shall take to you pure olive oil, crushed for lighting, to kindle the ner tamid, the eternal light.

All of us are commanded to bring oil forward, to contribute to the lighting and maintenance of the forever burning light. The Ner Tamid reminds us of God’s presence in our midst, but it only stays lit with human help. May all of us, by truly welcoming in all stragglers, the disabled and those with special needs, help Beth Am radiate our own light of justice and inclusivity.