My grandfather spoke during the prayer service at my bar mitzvah when I turned thirteen. He waxed poetic about the importance of leading a good Jewish life, learning Torah, continuing to maintain the rituals with which I’d been brought up and, most of all, about success. He had literally spent his life devoted to Judaism, studying to become a rabbi for his Jewish community in India and then moving with his family to Philadelphia to assume the pulpit at Mikveh Israel, the second-oldest synagogue in the United States.
My grandfather’s last name – and my middle name – is Musleah, an English transliteration of the Hebrew word matzliach, which means “success.” He made reference to our family name often; at holiday meals, family gatherings and, of course, during my bar mitzvah. I’ll admit, the ongoing reminders were sometimes difficult to hear; they carried the weight of expectations that felt impossible to live up to. In fact, during his speech at my bar mitzvah, I leaned over to my father and said, “No pressure, huh?”
In retrospect, I’ve found myself believing (hoping?) that his unceasing focus on success was more about the expectations that he had experienced throughout his life. He was the youngest of three children and, as with any baby born with jaundice in 1920’s Calcutta, a healthy childhood was hardly a guarantee. He was given the middle name Nissim – “miracles” – and dressed as a girl during the first few years of his life to ward off evil demons.1 If I found the emphasis on success burdensome at age thirteen, I can only imagine the anxiety and confusion that my grandfather must have experienced under even greater expectations as a very young child.
And yet, as he became older, the tone of his speeches changed somewhat. Success was still the running theme of each monologue but I remember noting an additional emotion in his words, as well.
It was pride.
He listened more too as the years went on and I watched his facial expressions as I told him about my life. He would nod and smile approvingly when I told him about my job or this blog or, most of all, my wife and children. I noticed the same reactions when he listened to my brothers or my cousins. For a man who was endlessly preoccupied with his legacy, watching his grandchildren grow into adults was the most treasured reward he could have received.
I’ve come to understand that feeling of pride – nachat, in Hebrew – more and more as my children have grown. I recognize it when S completes a puzzle designed for kids two years older than her or when she demonstrates her apparent affinity for drawing. I feel it when E masters a new song on piano or asks a particularly poignant question.
But that pride has never been more apparent to me than it was this week at my grandfather’s funeral.2
E and S were not only present for the ceremony; they participated. They took turns with T and me shoveling earth on top of the coffin that had been lowered into the ground. They brought rocks they had painted and placed them near the grave site to mark their presence and show evidence of their love for their great-grandfather.
E also wrote his own eulogy, a short paragraph about his favorite memories and the things he will miss the most about his great-grandfather. It wasn’t nearly as lengthy as the passages written by the two adults who spoke – E had fewer memories to draw from, after all – but what it lacked in size, it certainly made up for in substance.
He apologized later to T and me for not having been able to read it; he began crying when he heard that it was his turn and I read his words for him. He said that he had been “just too sad” to read. We reassured him, not only that he was allowed to feel sad, angry or anything else, but also that his mere presence had provided an immense comfort to the rest of our family. I said that he should feel proud of himself for writing so eloquently and for being able to articulate his emotions to us.
T and I received a number of compliments about E’s eulogy as the day went on. My relatives who were present expressed their appreciation and admiration of E’s writing. Family and friends who watched the funeral broadcast on Facebook Live sent us messages commending E for his part in the ceremony.
I imagined my grandfather gazing at his great-grandchildren standing respectfully during the ceremony, awash with nachat at their involvement in the ritual taking place in front of them and their connections to their relatives. I pictured the effort that my grandfather put into studying and teaching Torah throughout his life and the enthusiasm that E and S bring to their hobbies and academic activities. I thought of the image of E sitting at his table that morning, putting his thoughts to paper and asking earnestly, “Do you think Saba would like this?”
“He would have loved it,” T and I told him. “A complete success.”
1. Evil demons were apparently only after the souls of boys. And, despite their purported ability to steal souls, they were somehow believed to be overly reliant on their sense of sight, as a simple clothing disguise was considered an effective preventive measure.↩
2. Three days ago, as this post is published.↩
Eitan wrote a beautiful letter. It was emotionally honest.
Side note, his penmanship is also way better than mine was (is). I particularly like how he took care to leave enough space for the word “backgammon” not to be mixed up with the word that came after it.