Demagoguery Makes Anti-Semitic Violence Possible

A friend of mine is spending several months in Australia, navigating a new phase in his life. When I heard about the shootings at a Hanukkah celebration at Bondi Beach in Sydney earlier this week, I messaged him to say that I was sad and angry, and that I hoped he was safe.

The one thing I did not say to him was that I was surprised.

The night before, Barb and I had sat in an almost empty movie theater watching Nuremberg, the new film about the 1945 to 1946 trials that held Nazi leaders accountable for war crimes, including the murder of six million Jews. Watching it now, nearly eighty years later, felt less like a history lesson and more like a warning that we keep needing and keep failing to heed.

Antisemitism does not sleep. Whether it is called the Final Solution or Globalizing the Intifada, whether it erupts at the Nova Music Festival, Bondi Beach, or the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh, it is the same unbroken chain of centuries of hatred, cruelty, and inhumanity directed at my religion and my people.

I have lived long enough to recognize the rhythm. As a child, I experienced a few anti-Semitic incidents firsthand, brief but unmistakable. As an adult, it has become increasingly prevalent in our world, first at the margins, then more closely, and now spoken openly with a confidence that would once have been shocking. That confidence is not accidental. It is cultivated.

Demagogues understand how this works. They rarely call for violence directly. Instead, they lower the threshold. They normalize suspicion, repeat accusations, and offer explanations for why anger is justified and blame is obvious. They speak in insinuations and slogans, and then they wait. When violence follows, they deny responsibility. They did not pull the trigger. They simply made it easier to aim.

What unsettles me most is how ordinary this has become. Antisemitism no longer appears only in history books or headline tragedies. It seeps into conversations, into social media, and into the background noise of daily life. That is how dangerous ideas survive and expand, not just by shocking us, but by wearing us down.

As I watched Nuremberg, I thought about the play I am writing, which examines art as a way to confront and resist hatred. It is not about offering easy answers or comfort. It is about bearing witness and insisting on memory, using creativity to push back against the forces that depend on forgetting and distortion.

I think about that as I text a friend half a world away to make sure he is safe. I think about it as I watch my grandchildren grow up in a world where armed guards outside synagogues are routine and Jewish fear may be dismissed as oversensitivity. I am sensitive because I have been paying attention.

That is why I was not surprised by what happened at Bondi Beach. I am angry. I am grieving. And I am writing because silence, too, has a history.

A musical detour from rock anthems to orchestral surprises — and why I’m loving it

Classical music was never part of my childhood soundtrack. I never watched Leonard Bernstein’s Young People’s Concerts. My family visited the Art Institute of Chicago often, but we never once stepped inside Orchestra Hall. The LPs in my parents’ cabinet were all show tunes, Allan Sherman parodies, and Sing Along With Mitch. Everything I know about opera I learned from the World Book Encyclopedia while preparing for Jeopardy! But for the last month, I’ve taken a deep dive into classical music. Here’s why.

Recently, I revived my morning workout routine: climbing a never-ending flight of stairs on the elliptical in the basement. My constant companion for these cardio-crushing challenges has always been classic rock, whether it comes from my CDs or from satellite radio. I fit my headphones over my ears, close my eyes, and push through as the minutes roll by. But lately, I’ve been bored with all that Pink Floyd, Bruce Springsteen, and Steely Dan. It was time for a change.

Scrolling through the stations on SiriusXM, I decided to try Classical Pops. I didn’t expect much, just something mellow to fill the background. But within minutes, I was hooked.

To be honest, I’m not even sure what I’m listening to. I don’t know who the composers are, where the orchestras are from, or who the conductors might be. Am I hearing a symphony movement, a fugue, an étude? I can’t tell, and it doesn’t matter. It sounds good, it’s got a good beat, and I don’t even care if I can’t dance to it.

And I’m amazed at how much of it sounds familiar. I’ll hear a melody, and suddenly “A Whiter Shade of Pale” or an Emerson, Lake & Palmer riff pops into my head. Sometimes it’s more subtle, just a fragment that stirs up some half-forgotten tune from years ago.

The experience has been fun, and surprisingly mind- and ear-opening. I may conduct some research and learn more about this old genre I’ve newly discovered. And who knows? Next summer, I might even enjoy a symphony concert at Ravinia or the Petrillo Bandshell.

And as for my usual music? It’ll still be there when I want it. As Bob Seger told us, rock and roll never forgets.

A quiet Chicago night in a hotel lobby while my girls sing “Sweet Caroline” next door

I’m sitting by myself in the entry lounge of a downtown Chicago hotel. The atmosphere is restrained, with only a valet behind his desk sharing the space with me. I’m not sure if he can see me; in any case, he pays me no mind.

Music from the bar one flight up filters down—disco, soul, a bit of ’80s pop. The music is blotted out whenever the sliding front door opens and the wind, followed by overcoated, chattering guests, howls its way into the foyer.

Tonight I am a designated driver. Barb and our two oldest granddaughters are at the theater next door, enjoying A Beautiful Noise, a musical that I have seen twice before and have no desire to see a third time. Barb has been eager to see it again and to experience it through the girl’s eyes.

Earlier this evening, traffic flowed well on our drive into the city. We arrived downtown with time to spare, parked at a garage near the theater, and walked to JoJo’s Shake Bar, a fun and funky diner across the river. Burgers, sandwiches, salads, and milkshakes—big, creative milkshakes— left us all sated and sugar-buzzed for our trek back to the theater district.

So now the girls are enjoying the show while I watch the minutes pass by in the hotel lobby. I begin to read the novel I have brought with me, the newest Dan Brown thriller. I can already picture Tom Hanks playing Robert Langdon once again in the inevitable Netflix adaptation.

I’d been resourceful enough to grab my earpods when we left the house earlier. So after a while, I use my phone to access our home network and watch today’s episode of Jeopardy! The sound is a bit out of sync, the contestants’ responses a bit delayed, but the current champ continues his streak, crushing two more victims and moving over $300,000 in winnings.

Barb texts me at intermission. She tells me everyone is enjoying the show, though the audience is subdued. Unusual for this show—usually the musical numbers have people dancing in the aisles. I guess Tuesday nights don’t bring out the Neil Diamond party animals.

I’ve got about an hour before the show is over, so I stroll a bit through the hotel. No one questions me as I walk through several lounges in search of a Diet Coke. I finally find a counter selling soda and snacks at minibar prices. But $5 for the three hours of shelter while I wait for the girls is a pretty low price to pay.

I return to the front lounge. The valet and a custodian are discussing their NFL favorites and what prop bets to make for the coming weekend’s games. A woman in skin-tight leather pants consults her phone before heading upstairs to an assignation. And through the window of the hotel, I see the first people leaving the theater.

Just like that, my quiet little night as a chauffeur-in-waiting ends. The best part? Seeing my girls spill out of the theater, thrilled and chattering as they walk toward me for our late-night drive back home.

3 Generations of my family couldn’t disagree more.

When Erin White confessed in her New York Times essay that she “made dinner for my family because I wanted to and because the world told me I had to — and then, three years ago, I just stopped,” I nearly dropped my fork. Stopped? Dinner? The family dinner? The sacred nightly ritual that has kept generations fed, sane, and mildly annoyed but still talking to one another?

White goes on to reassure readers that “your family will remain connected and whole; your kids will still grow up to be well-adjusted humans” even if you skip the nightly sit-down. That may be true in her house, but I will defend every family dinner we have ever had.

I grew up with family dinners as a non-negotiable part of the day. Every evening, no matter what chaos life had thrown at us, we gathered around the table. The television was never on. I may have missed out on hearing about the day’s events from Walter Cronkite, Chet Huntley, or David Brinkley, but it gave me time with Mom, Dad, and my sister Linda. We were our own nightly news.

When Barb and I started our own family, we didn’t even have to discuss it. Family dinner was just what we did. And I kept my rule: no television. Vanna White was turned on after we were done. Instead of Wheel of Fortune, we talked, we laughed, we argued, and we invited friends over for Taco Tuesday. No one got a free pass; no one wanted one.

In her opinion piece, White worries that the pressure to produce nightly family dinners is overblown, writing, “The messaging on family dinner is intense! Family dinner will make your children smart! It will keep your children off drugs!” Sure, that’s a lot to ask of one Chicken Kiev. But she’s missing the point. It’s not about the meal’s miracle powers. It’s about the moment.

Dinner was our family’s daily reboot before rebooting was a thing. It might not have lasted more than twenty minutes, but it was where the kids learned to tell stories, disagree politely (mostly), and learn our family history and our ethos. Sometimes it ended in laughter, sometimes in frustration. But it always ended together and resumed the next day.

Did it matter? Here’s the kicker: our grown kids now do the same thing. Both our son and daughter have carried on the tradition with their own families. Dinner together. No screens, no exceptions. I take that as proof that something about those dinners stuck, maybe even meant something.

So, with all due respect to Erin White, I’m for keeping the family dinner alive and well. It’s not a performance. It’s not a punishment. It’s just the one time of day we all show up, sit down, and actually see each other.

And if sometimes the chicken’s a little dry or the mood a little dark, that’s family. And Vanna White is still hanging around.

Jet lag, creativity, and what to do with one extra hour

Spring ahead, fall back.

“It’s great,” they say. “Get an extra hour of sleep.”

That sounds like it would be invaluable to me, my body still grappling with 17 hours of jet lag that won’t let go. I crave an extra hour of deep REM sleep.

But I know that if I stay in bed, instead of softly snoring while dreaming of sushi and samurai, I will be tossing and turning, tugging at bed covers, disturbing Barb’s sleep, and annoying the kitten sleeping at her side.

There are so many things I can do with that extra hour. I can continue the revisions to my latest play, newly inspired by the informative comments at last week’s online reading. I could complete the blog about family dinners that I started yesterday, sitting half-completed on my computer monitor.

I could use the hour relocating the patio furniture to the garage—though that would be best put off till later in the morning, just before the Bears game. On a more relaxing note, the extra time could be spent trying to move from “Expert” level to “Genius” on today’s Spelling Bee, or tackling Sports Connections, freshly inspired by last night’s Dodgers World Series victory.

And I know Cooper will be rising soon, unaware of any time change, eager to get out of his crate and have his first morning walk. I can’t keep the big fellow waiting.

The sun is rising now, and I’ve chosen to use these last few spare minutes to write this short post and wish you all a happy extra hour. Use it wisely, use it well, and be refreshed for the day ahead.

Reflections on a journey through Tokyo, Hakone, Osaka, Kyoto, and Hiroshima — where ancient grace meets modern precision.

After a 38-hour journey home, the jet lag has finally lifted enough for me to make sense of our two-week adventure through Tokyo, Hakone, Osaka, Kyoto, and Hiroshima. What lingers most are the contrasts — between noise and calm, ancient and modern, the intensely busy and the perfectly polite.

Japan’s cities hum with energy: crowded, colorful, sometimes chaotic. Yet amid all that motion, one sound was curiously absent — car horns. In two weeks, I heard maybe five. And no one jaywalks. The quiet civility of Japanese drivers and pedestrians mirrors a deeper courtesy that runs through the culture.

On our tour, we were thrilled by a samurai demonstration, entranced by a geisha performance, learned the rituals of the Japanese tea ceremony, and even got our hands dirty making fresh sushi. Experiences like these are what make travel truly memorable.

Shrines and temples seem to appear at every corner, though that may partly reflect our tour itinerary. Shinto and Buddhist traditions coexist gracefully, overlapping in a way that suggests spiritual harmony rather than competition.

Traveling by high-speed train was effortless, though the trains felt slightly slower and less dramatic than those we rode in Germany two years ago. What they lacked in speed, they made up for in punctuality and comfort.

Service workers in Japan deserve their global reputation for warmth and attentiveness. They anticipate needs almost before you’re aware of them. Tipping, I learned, is rarely expected and sometimes politely refused — a reminder that good service is viewed as duty, not transaction.

Department stores are vast, immaculate, and fully staffed, evoking the long-lost glory of Chicago’s Marshall Fields. Each features an astonishing basement food hall, filled with beautifully packaged meals to go. It made us wonder if many Japanese families ever cook dinner at home.

Eating gluten-free proved challenging in a land where miso and soy sauce find their way into nearly every dish. Thanks to our wonderful tour guide, I was able to enjoy modified versions of local favorites — including a specially made gluten-free okonomiyaki in Osaka, crispy and delicious in a city that takes food seriously.

The visit to Hiroshima’s Peace Museum and Dome was deeply affecting. Standing at ground zero of the first atomic bombing, we learned why Hiroshima is fully habitable today — and were struck by the absence of bitterness among the Japanese people we met. Their grace left us humbled.

A good tour company and a great guide can turn a complex trip into pure discovery. I won’t name ours publicly, but you can reach me at lesrraffblogger@myyahoo.com if you’d like details.

Japan left me with more impressions than I can neatly summarize — but perhaps the clearest is this: in a country where trains run on time, horns stay silent, and courtesies are instinctive, it’s hard not to feel both a little awe and just a little envy.

You can always reach me at lesrraffblogger@myyahoo.com. I love hearing from you.

An End and A Beginning

Diane Keaton’s death hit me harder than I expected. Not because I followed her career closely. I couldn’t even name many of her movies. I had to be reminded that she played Michael Corleone’s wife in The Godfather. But I’ll never need reminding that she was Annie Hall.

What made Annie Hall so special to me wasn’t just that it was a glorious, funny movie with Woody Allen at his creative (and spider-killing) best. It wasn’t the men’s ties or floppy hats that Annie made famous. It was the time in my life when I first saw it.

In the spring of 1977, I was a medical student at the University of Illinois in Chicago. Though I lived on campus, I spent most of my free time with friends in Rogers Park. We’d hang out, hear some music, go to the movies.

One night, a movie-loving friend called to say he wanted to see the new Woody Allen flick, Annie Hall. I picked him up in my beat-up Mercury Comet, and we headed to suburbia for the 8:00 show.

I loved the movie, without realizing it would be a kind of ending. Annie Hall was the last film I’d see before a new part of my life began.

Annie Hall was the last movie I saw without Barb. We’ve been sharing coming attractions, armrests, and Raisinets ever since that spring of 1977. She may not be much of a Woody Allen fan (who is these days), and we don’t always agree on what deserves two thumbs up, but she’s a damn good movie partner.

So, Miss Keaton, I’m sure Annie Hall will be streaming again soon. Maybe I’ll talk Barb into watching it with me — or maybe I’ll call one of those old friends instead. We can kill a spider or two. No big deal.

Or as Diane Keaton’s Annie would say, “la dee dah, la dee dah.”

AI Can Wait

“I don’t see why anyone should even care about teaching cursive handwriting anymore. That time would be better spent teaching kids how to use AI.”

It is no surprise that the friend saying this to me was a technologically proficient 30-something woman with an East Coast background. She was quite confident in her pronouncement. And I am confident she is wrong. Swapping cursive for AI is a trade I’m not interested in making.

I am aware of the arguments against teaching cursive. Who needs it? After all, who really writes anymore in a world of keyboarding, thumb-typing, and voice recognition?

The “technical” answer is that learning handwriting helps with other skills: fine motor skill development, hand-eye coordination, memory retention, and the ability to read historical documents.

Besides those “hard” reasons, there are “soft” ones, too. Handwriting is an opportunity for creativity. Calligraphy is a true art. And the little flowers and hearts that dot i’s and j’s have so much more personality than emojis chosen from the same list as everyone else uses.

If we applied a similar logic, the argument against teaching cursive could extend beyond the handwriting issue. Art, literature, music— for most students, none of those will lead to lucrative careers in medicine, technology, or the law. Why expose a second-grader to them at all?

“Let them learn how to use AI instead,” she said.

I am quite fond of AI. I frequently use it in its various forms. But I began using them after I had learned how to think critically, how to frame an argument, and how to write an essay (or a blog post).

If I were still involved in education and designing a curriculum, cursive would remain a primary-grade staple. AI can wait. Kids don’t need to meet ChatGPT until they know how to live and learn without it.

It’s not all about football.

I rarely spend time on online videos. But the other day, a Facebook reel titled Eight Minutes of Ridiculous caught my eye. I clicked and spent the next eight minutes enjoying perfection.

The video was a compilation of kick-off and punt returns by Football Hall of Famer Devin Hester, the return man who electrified Bears fans for almost a decade.

You don’t need to be a football fan to appreciate the flawlessness of those plays. Hester would field a kick, glance at the eleven angry men charging at him, and in an instant make his choice. Sometimes he’d hesitate, other times he’d surge forward, or when it seemed prudent, cut back or dart to the side.

He could slip past tacklers or simply outrun them, with bursts of speed that left defenders gasping. You could feel his joy, as well as that of the teammates who threw their bodies into blocks to clear his path. For the man who returned more kicks for touchdowns than anyone else in NFL history, his end-zone celebrations were strikingly modest.

The videos also capture the amazement in the voices of countless announcers. Even neutral broadcasters couldn’t help but sound awed. But it was Jeff Joniak, the Bears’ radio voice, who immortalized Hester with his call: “Devin Hester, you are ridiculous.” Ever since, in Chicago, “Hester” and “ridiculous” have been synonymous.

Perfection is rare: Nadia Comăneci’s perfect 10 in 1976. Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa. The first iPhone design. Some say perfection is the enemy of good. But for eight minutes in my office, perfection in motion brought me joy at a time when joy can be hard to find.

Thank you, Devin Hester. You are, indeed, ridiculous.

I Missed Out On Jury Duty, But My Perry Mason Dream Lives On.

The benefits of aging are numerous: a Senior property tax exemption, healthcare from Medicare, and an income stream from Social Security. But I recently learned of a new “benefit”, and I find it bittersweet. I will soon lose the opportunity to be a juror.

I thought I had a chance. I had received a summons to be available for jury duty at the county courthouse next week. I kept my schedule clear, and Friday night was set to visit the county website to find out which days I should report to the courthouse. But the county beat me to it. I received a text telling me that my service would not be needed at all.

And that probably ends my prospects for being a juror. In less than four months, I will hit the magic age after which compliance with a summons to jury duty is no longer compulsory. My birthdate will become an automatic “Get Out of Jury Duty Free Card.” I doubt the county will bother to summon me again.

I am disappointed. Jurisprudence runs in the family. Barb has sat on a jury for a pair of trials. My mother served on the jury for the infamous Mirage Bar trial in the 1970s. But I’ve never taken a juror’s oath. On my only previous summons, I made the drive north to the county seat, but never saw the inside of a courtroom.

Why do I want to sit in the jury box? It’s a childhood dream. I want to be there when the music plays and Perry Mason, attorney for the defense, strides into the courtroom.

I grew up watching Mason humiliate prosecutor Hamilton Burger every Sunday night, week after week, year after year. I admired investigator Paul Drake and was smitten with legal secretary Della Street. I waited along with the rest of America until the turning point in each episode. I knew that under Mason’s intense questioning, a witness would break down and admit to the crime Mason’s client was accused of. Mason never lost, and justice always prevailed.

TV law shows today are too muddy and indecisive. The Lincoln Lawyer has some tricks up his sleeve, but compared to Mason, he’s barely passed the bar. Has he ever terrified a witness into confessing on the stand? Jurors at his trials must be nodding off to sleep out of boredom.

Which makes it just as well that my only jury duty will be in my imagination. I may never serve on a real jury, but I’ll keep my Perry Mason fantasy intact. And my Della Street one, too. That verdict is final!

If you want to send me a message without going through Substack, email me directly at lesrraffblogger@myyahoo.com