I’ve spent this summer interning at two very different locations. The first is the New York Genealogical and Biographical Society, where, among other duties, I compiled a dense history of my father’s family. My other job is at Archaeology Magazine, writing articles for their website. To my surprise, as I dug deeper (pardon the archaeological pun) into ancient history and my own history, more than one connection stretched across time—that of my Jewish heritage.
My search for my father’s side of the family took me everywhere from Brooklyn to the southern tip of Manhattan. Born in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, my father, when he took me back to his hometown, showed me a childhood very different from my own. I saw a young boy chasing a baseball down sun-soaked streets, dodging bicycles as his sneaker-clad feet thumped the pavement. Stickball was the name of the game for those kids. This trashcan was third base; anything beyond that avenue was a homer. Grandparents cast a brief glaze at the little ones scampering through the street, then returned to gossiping on their front porches. The bright awnings over their front doors belied the figures in the shade, shadowed from the brilliant summer sun. The childhood he painted for me seemed like one long summer.
My research took me even farther back. I could see my great-grandparents, hands lightly clasped, facing a bearded rabbi who solemnly intoned the responsibilities of marriage as the bride’s family crowded about in their small Lower East Side apartment. The tiny, squirming little bundle of energy that was their first son, my grandfather. The short, barrel-chested man he became, very much in the vein of his stocky father, a quiet Russian immigrant. My sharp-witted great-grandmother, rushing in and out of the kitchen in a long, flower-printed dress, tossing a remark over her shoulder to a child to finish his milk in time to watch cartoons that morning. My great-grandfather slowly and methodically intoning Friday night Kiddush, his lips forming each word carefully and his eyes closed in reverence.
When I did research for Archaeology, a different image presented itself. The hustle and bustle of a mid-size Syrian town called Dura-Europos glimmered distantly in the heat haze of time, thousands of years removed, but still tangible through its well-preserved ruins. It contained one of the earliest synagogues ever found outside of Israel. Its paintings were largely intact, showing images that must have reminded each patron that walked through its doors of the richly decorated temple. Bright colors of the wall paintings shone softly in the dim light, the reds and golds of a biblical narrative in one shining off a young man’s close-cropped dark hair. The familiar melodies came to mind as the service began, sweetly melancholy notes floating like specks of gold dust on the air from one mouth to another.
These images are part projection of my imagination—especially the ancient ones—part second-hand remembrance from years gone by from a loved one. Both jobs mentally took me places I’d never been before—from my great-grandparents’ wedding, infused with the hope of the newlyweds to an ancient synagogue, breathing in the warm desert air while murmuring prayers taught to us by our fathers. No matter what job I take, my Jewish heritage, fictional imagery or not, will be with me.
