Are you better of than you were 48 years ago?

   There was a time in my life when people asked me my age, and I told them that I was born during the Carter administration. That was funny to me for so many reasons. One of them was because some people had no idea when that was or my fave, when some beautiful fool would ask if that was my last name. Cute. It told me a lot about who they were, but it wouldn’t become meaningful until much later that a sixteen-year-old girl from the hood knew who Jimmy Carter was and when he was the President. 

One of my earliest memories is of when Carter faced off against Reagan. The way it was talked about in my house made Reagan sound like a monster, and he was to my community. Until his party would one day spurn even bigger, badder monsters. 

I remember when Reagan took the oath of office, and then hostages were released, and my uncle railed about how Reagan took credit for Carter's work. I wasn’t even three years old yet. But, my family talked politics more than anything else when I was growing up, much like we do now. And perhaps I can’t remember exactly, or I’ve watched tv clips and heard vivid retellings? What I do know is that this country and my community would take a drastic turn after that day. 

Black women would be labeled “Welfare Queens”. We’d learn that only urine trickles down, and my community, still reeling from COINTELPRO, would be hit with a bomb called the crack epidemic that still produces victims to this day. 

I know some will have a problem with my recollections of the Reagan era, but you didn’t come from where I did. For you, “crack babies” were the subject of salacious articles in the NYT or WaPo. For me, they were the shame of my neighbors. And the problem was always those who sold the drugs and not the ones who let them in. Some families could lose loved ones to drug addiction and the street violence that came with selling it. 

Meanwhile, the first Jimmy Carter work project would be held in NYC, and he would start building. 

The accomplishments and selfless work of the man during whose presidency I would enter the world always inspired me, especially as he aged. His example may be part of why I started an organization designed to help people.

 At a time when many of us still struggle to find purpose and relevance, he was building his 100,00th house! 

As I got older, being born during his administration became a massive source of pride.

Americans can debate the merits of his accomplishments while he was president, but no one can ever challenge the fact that the presidency wasn’t his last or most defining act.

It was the concern for humanity that he would still show long after votes no longer mattered. 

Because of Jimmy Carter I am in no rush to run for office, if ever. Party affiliations and backroom deals can hinder you. It can make you “obstinate,” “difficult to work with,” and “unproductive.” The White House took much away from the life of someone like him, but he got every minute of it back by building homes for others. 

At this moment, I think we should all ask ourselves if we’re better off now than we were 48 years ago. Some may say no, but others, pondering the question under a roof built by the hands and heart of the 38th President of the United States, may disagree.

Same day. Same time. Next year.

Eight Years ago, we hosted a holiday party in the basement of a local church. It was marvelous. There were dozens of children, and to our delight, there were even more toys. It was also the year that MASK received the deed to our new home. 

After the party, we found ourselves still in possession of lots of toys. There was no Ash then. He would have benefitted tremendously from our surplus!

We called around to children's hospitals, women's shelters, and churches, but not many people answered, and the ones who did told us they had more than enough, so our contribution wasn't needed. 

Christmas day comes, and we still have all of these toys.  

My mom, a couple of friends, and one of my cousins- I'm certain everyone knows which one- head out on Christmas morning. And it was pre-climate change cold out. 

We planned to drive around until we found a church that could use our donation. Ironically enough, we couldn't find a church open at 11 am on Christmas morning! Who knew? 

So, we're driving aimlessly at this point, and then we see a man walking down the street with these two little girls. Again, it's freezing outside. 

I yell out of the window, “ Do you all want some new toys?” The kids scream in the affirmative.  I put my car in park, put on my blinkers, and jumped out of the car with an arm full of toys for these two little girls. Their father thanks us profusely.  Traffic is kinda messed up for a minute, but it's Christmas and freezing, so who cares? These kids are warm. And that's all that matters. 

I get back in the car, and we decide that we're going to go where people, like the guy with two little girls, are. We're going to go where people need the most help. 

We pulled up in front of a dollar store where a young man walking by told us that he wasn't going to be allowed to see his children that day because he didn't have any presents for them, and what we gave him made it possible for him to be with his family that day. We were then told to head east to the south shore, where there were tons of poor people in large apartment buildings.  That's where we were off to next. 

When we got there, it was just as we were told it was. Lots of people needed help but didn't trust outsiders. Instead of ringing doorbells, knocking on windows, or invading their space. We parked on a main street and let the curious come and check us out. We were fresh out of toys in about 15 minutes. 

This would change the way we would do Christmas from then on.

One of the lessons we learned was sometimes when people say they don't have it, they really don't. We threw a party and had toys left over, but maybe that was because some parents didn't have bus fare or gas money. They may have had to work multiple jobs. We don't know what the circumstances of others may be. So, sometimes we have to go to them. 

And that's what we've done for the last eight years. 

Our giving circle and caravan have grown exponentially in the last few years. The majority of the toys we give away each year don’t come from houses of worship or elected officials. It comes from the “unlisted”—people who claim no religion or are just religion adjacent. 

We don’t just get contributions from the people who can quote the bible cover to cover. We get them from everyday average people who still struggle with their humanity and good and bad inclinations. 

Sometimes, when we go to Temple, Church, Mosque, etc., we believe because of our attendance or some other superficial reason, we are as good as we’re going to get, and paying tithes and showing up on weekends is enough. It’s not. We’re only as good as the amount of engagement we have with a problematic world that constantly challenges us.

We often do great alone or when we’re separated from the world. It’s easy. It’s not hard to deal with people with whom you have lots in common. They don’t test you.

 It’s the ones who are never satisfied. The ones who say, yes, you gave, but not enough. It’s those who still will accept your goodwill while at the same time implying you may worship Satan and be suffering from an identity crisis because you’re Black but not Christian. It’s the ones who don’t seem to even know the meaning of the word gratitude. Those people try you. They make you walk the talk. And while they may be irritating to no end, they’re necessary. 

They show us who we really are, and if we’re as patient with others as we’re taught, G-d is with us.

Every year, no matter what happens or how we are tested, I am honored to be part of a group that still shows up. 

Our caravan has grown so much that we’re weighing whether we will turn it into a full-blown parade next year. Can you imagine a parade, with alternating routes every year, going through the most blighted neighborhoods on Christmas morning with Santa, multiple DJs, and thousands of gifts for all of the children along the route? That would be epic.

 Chicago could use some more good days and every year, the people who show up to donate, drive, knock on doors, and pass out gifts create them. I could thank the people who showed up and made some kid's Christmas unforgettable, but that seems too small. Maybe there’s no need for a thank you. We just owe each other another year. They didn’t do it for me, and I didn't do it for them. We did it for the kids, and that’s what we’re all committed to. 

See y’all next Christmas (and others in a few weeks for giveaway day)!

That's what Christmas means to me!

I have done a Christmas Day Caravan every year for the last seven years Year eight is happening in just a few days. And every year, I get the same question: How does a Jew lead a Christmas Caravan every year? The short answer is because that’s not ALL that I am. Yes, I am Jewish, but I also belong to my family and the Black community. Both of these come with their own set of traditions and responsibilities. And being Jewish doesn’t make me exempt.

 I still have to do my part. 

And my part looks like all my Jewish friends who may not be so busy on Christmas morning along with many of my non-Jewish friends who have made the caravan their new Christmas morning tradition, loading our cars with toys and sharing the love with kids all over the city who may not have much under their trees

 Our involvement may be motivated by different things but the goal is the same:: to fulfill the commandment of showing actual real love to our neighbors. 

We’re not phoning it in. We aren’t hitting a send button. We’re on your street. In your yard and knocking on your door. We are showing up together. And we may even hug you? 

That’s how the spirit can move you in the moment. 

 I didn’t just get this way, though. As I said, there are traditions and responsibilities in Black families, and mine is no exception.   

My uncle Terrell participated in the very first Toys for Tots in 1972. They weren't giving away new toys at that time; they were just giving out refurbished ones. He did that from his hospital bed at a local rehabilitation facility. He was a paraplegic, and he became that way after he was shot in the back by a police officer when he was just 18 years old. 

He would eventually succumb to that injury just a few days after this picture was taken, on Christmas Day. He was only 34 years old. 

He died a few years before I was born, but my mom and her siblings talked about him constantly, so he never really “died”. They saw him in their children, whom he never got to meet. One of us had hair like his, and some had his complexion. It was made clear that he would always be a part of our family because he was part of each of us. On some level, we got to experience love for him through the palpable love our parents had for him. It was really kind of remarkable. It was almost as if he were to walk through the door; I would've known exactly who he was. However, I'd never laid eyes on him. 

It couldn't have been easy to be a young man confined to a wheelchair when he should've been out loving, living, and enjoying his youth. 

He had plenty of reasons to be filled with bitterness. But he wasn't. 

He still gave. Everything he had. And from his hospital bed, he made sure some poor kid somewhere got a gift for Christmas. He was the definition of what I would one day come to know as a mensch: a person of honor and integrity. Also, a person who is admired for their kindness. That’s who he was. 

My grandmother was a lot like him, or vice versa. I grew up in the house with her. And she was amazing. She had these magical bottomless pots and pans and a tiny home that seemed to have endless places for people to sleep. She was the go-to, the port in the storm. She, too, gave. Of her whole self. All the time. She didn’t have any money, but people still always sought her out when they were struggling the most because it’s not always money that people need. Sometimes, it’s kindness, concern, and a bit of familiarity.

.  On Christmas, she always had oranges, pecans, and walnuts. I always enjoyed all of it, but I wasn’t aware until adulthood that this was another one of those traditions. It was passed down from slavery. Fruit and nuts were considered an extravagance that “generous” owners would bestow upon their slaves on Christmas Day.

Along with their gifts, they got a day off from work and time to visitt with family and friends from other plantations. 

I don’t know if the focal point of Christmas was ever the birth of Jesus for her, or honestly, any of them? It always felt to me as it does now, a day off to spend doing something nice with and for each other.

When I started Jewish Day School, we gave tzedakah and canned goods to food pantries. She would give me a dollar and two cans of vegetables and send me on my way. She was happy that the values of giving and caring about the welfare of others that I was being taught at home were being reinforced in my classroom and in my faith. 

So, it shouldn't have been surprising when I could not sit on the sidelines while kids in my community were in need of so much. It wasn’t just what my faith dictated that I do or even my own fear. It was in my DNA. I was hardwired to care. Just like my uncle and my grandmother was. We talk about generational curses, and boy, do we have them, but I live my generational blessing every day. And to the dismay of some, I live it even on December 25th. 

As a Jew, I can’t imagine intentionally not giving or helping someone in need on that day because it may be taken the “wrong way.” And as my grandmother's granddaughter, I don’t have it in me. Long before I knew what the words Tzedakah, Mitzvah, or Mensch meant. Long before my family reverted to Judaism, they were good people who lived a life full of Torah and didn’t even know it. Taking care of one another went back to the ships when we were separated from our homeland and families. Slavery created legions of orphans and widows and strangers, and we survived by the kindness of each other. It was us looking out for children who were sold away from their mothers and still needed watching over when they were strangers on a new plantation. It was helping the newcomers coming up from the south and piling into a Black Belt on Chicago’s Southside when it was already bursting at the seams. It was my grandmother and my auntie Vera putting the little they had together to feed both families. It’s my cousins, who aren’t my cousins, but they cried when my grandmother died too. 

Now imagine me not helping those same people if they were in need on Christmas because I’m Jewish? These are the same people who put the chicken on the grill first at summertime cookouts and make sure there’s perch at the fish fries, but I can’t give them toys for their children on December 25th? They can try to accept and respect who I am, but I can’t reciprocate? 

I am of a people within a people. Both are whole and fully formed cultures with separate histories and identities, and one can’t or shouldn’t be diminished to be fully visible to the other. They both deserve respect. And to sacrifice one on the altar for the other is to kill both. I’m never more proud to be Jewish or more faithful to it than when I get a day to opt-out, but don’t. That’s just how I was raised.

I'm not celebrating Christmas or anything like that. There's just room in my Judaism to still support those that do.