Alef: The NEXT Conversation
Model Genius
by Rafi Samuels-Schwartz
My great-uncle Sammy was, by all accounts, an actual, honest-to-god, genius. Â
Born to Russian immigrant parents (my great-grandparents) in Minneapolis, Uncle Sammy was the only person I’ve ever known who wrote letters to Albert Einstein, and actually got one back. After earning his MD at the University of Minnesota, he quickly established himself as a world expert in blood disorders. By the mid-1940s, Uncle Sammy was tapped by the federal government to lead a 25 person team at the University of Chicago, secretly investigating the effects of radiation on blood. Project codename: Manhattan. Â
I told you he was a genius. Â
Still, it doesn’t mean he was all that smart.
When I was about 7, I noticed that Uncle Sammy was missing the top half of his right-hand ring finger. It turns out that just because someone helps design an atomic bomb doesn’t mean they understand that, when trying to clear a twig out of a lawnmower, the engine should be turned off first. Â
He used to like to tell a story about how he and his research partner once had to collect blood samples from a bull for some research he was conducting. I don’t know what the blood samples were for, or why he couldn’t wait until the bull was sedated by a professional, but I know the punchline of this adventure by heart: “I quickly learned how to calculate the velocity of my ass over a fence.” That’s my uncle Sammy, the world-class doctor, hauling his tush over a barnyard fence to avoid being gored by an angry bull. Â
Like I said, a genius, but sometimes not all that smart.
And yet…
He raised a huge family: 9 kids, dozens of grandkids, even a few great-grandkids. As THE patriarch for an extended network of nieces, nephews, cousins, foster kids, and other hangers-on, he raised Rabbis, doctors, professors, and dancers. Even more, as an ardent labor-Zionist, dedicated to the state of Israel and the rights of her workers and kibbutzniks, Uncle Sammy may have even helped Israel hone the atomic capabilities the country emphatically denies having. At least, that’s the family legend. Not sure if it’s true, and to be honest, I kind of like it better not knowing.
Frankly, I’m not sure if the bull story actually happened, either. And, that letter back from Einstein? Well, we can’t actually find it. So, while I really hope the lawnmower story is true, that isn’t really the point. See, that’s the thing I’ve learned about geniuses like my Uncle Sammy–they’re larger than life. Everything they do, whether it’s escaping a marauding bull, or smuggling nuclear secrets, is either because they’re brilliant, or in spite of it. Sam Schwartz was the kind of person who, either by virtue of being there, or telling you about it afterwards, gave every moment something special, something more-than-normal. And sure, working on the Manhattan project is nice. And, having a medical test named after him is great, too. But making people feel special just for knowing him? Â
That’s genius.
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Read more posts from Issue #10: “Geniushood.”
Under Pressure?
Earlier this week, we posted an essay about how one Jewish girl’s parents affected her career choice. Now Alef wants to turn the tables on you.
Feeling pressure from your parents, or is the icon of the ‘overbearing Jewish mother’ simply an urban legend?
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Read more posts from Issue #10: “Geniushood.”
Photo by Rennett Stowe, licensed under Creative Commons.
The Career Choice
by Gabriella Reubins
Sometimes it’s nervous laughter, other times it’s an eyebrow raise along with “oh really?” or just a simple “huh.” It depends on who I’m talking to. Whatever the situation, when I tell people that I’m the only child of two psychiatrists, it elicits a response. It subtly says “yes, both my parents are physicians” and “yes, they are intellectuals” and “yes, I am their only child so you can imagine the pressure they put on me.”
Yet, growing up in their household there were never insurmountable requests, just one simple career expectation. I was never threatened, no H-bombs were dropped (“you better go to Harvard or else”), nor was anything taken away from me if I didn’t get all A’s, which I did anyway (getting good grades was a given for me). My mother neatly summarized this expectation when I told her that I was thinking of pursuing a career in a creative field. I was in college, tormented by my undetermined future and abysmal science grades, when she said, “Well, you can do whatever you want…after you graduate from medical school.” It may have been a joke but in my vulnerable state, so willing to hold on to any strong recommendation, I took it as doctrine.
My parents made it clear to me that study and knowledge are inherently Jewish values. As the people of the book, learning is a fundamental part of what we do. We read, we argue, we read some more, and so on. It comes as no surprise that so much emphasis was put on the particulars of my education. When I was very young my father told me that the Nazis raped us of our possessions but they could never steal our intellect. Being a learned person is something no one can take away.
So my mother’s wish that I become a physician didn’t come as a surprise. All my life it was expected that I’d become a doctor even while my time outside of school was spent on artsy pursuits.
I took up oil painting.
“Oh, my little painter, you are very visual. How about dermatology or ophthalmology?” my mother suggested.
Late nights, after I was finished with my homework, I would sew or make jewelry.
“You love to work with your hands. You know hand surgery is a great field,” my dad told me.
In secret I would write poems and during the day I wrote for the high school newspaper.
“There are plenty of physician writers! Look at Chekov.”
My creative interests were always linked to a medical subspecialty (and surprisingly, a subspecialty that made good money). Since I had a perceptive eye, enjoyed writing and manual tasks, a career in medicine would allow me to employ all these aspects of myself. I mean, what else would a smart Jewish girl like me do? Really? Sure, painting was fun but were they really going to pay for the Rhode Island School of Design? I didn’t think so.
After a liberal arts degree, acquisition of three languages, a couple more fine arts class, and two years of advance biology, I finally did make it to medical school. A good one at that. And I’m graduating this May. My parents are so proud (I didn’t make AOA, but they’ll live). I’m pretty damn proud of myself as well. Medicine is a wonderful career choice. The volume of what I know and what I know I don’t know overwhelms me with awe. Perhaps it sounds cheesy, but it’s incredibly fulfilling taking care of people, to learn their ins and outs, what’s going on under the surface and how to make it all better. I love all that. At the same time, I’ve been plagued by this gnawing feeling that I still need to express myself creatively. With residency starting in a few months I’m petrified that I might not have the time or energy to nurture my creative spark. I’m waiting for time to unfold what I ultimately need to do and how I need to go about doing it. For now, I’m happy to be a tangential member of the physician writers community and sometimes I even peek at the Iowa Writers Workshop website, you know, for kicks.
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Read more posts from Issue #10: “Geniushood.”
Photo by DeaPeaJay, licensed under Creative Commons.
What is a Jewish Intellectual?
By S. Plotner
“The Jews have the best average brain of any people in the world…They are peculiarly and conspicuously the world’s intellectual aristocracy.” (Mark Twain’s Notebook, 1935, p. 151)
We Jews are often associated with “intellectualism.” Whether a Jewish intellectual conjures up images of college professors and doctors or of crazy-haired individuals toting pocket protectors and slide rulers, one thing is clear: there’s many a Jewish mamma who would be thrilled to have their child get into Mensa. I know my mom was.
Yes, I am in Mensa, and no, we don’t have secret handshakes (but we do have bad jokes), and no, we do not all look like Einstein. We are fat, skinny, old, and young. Some of us look like we spend our Saturday nights on Geek Patrol and some of us look just like your neighbor. So, there must be a Jew or two…right?
The first time I went to a Mensa meeting, I was greeted by a very nice, older woman (We’ll call her Rachel).
“Want to volunteer?” she asked. After being there for only a few hours, I was already getting involved.
“Sure.” I gave her my information and spelled my last name: P-L-O-T-N-E-R.
Upon hearing it, she paused and said, “That is a very interesting name…”
Another long pause. Prolonged eye contact.
“Is that Jewish?” she asked.
I panicked.
You are probably wondering why I would freak out when a nice lady named Rachel asked me if my name was Jewish. We’re just playing the Jewish Name Game, right?
Right. But the problem is: I converted. Yes, I said it: I am a Jew-by-Choice. My name isn’t Jewish; it just sounds that way. Plotner. Jewish, right? Right, but not for the reason you might have thought.
Not wanting to launch into a saga of my personal history with a woman I had just met, I had to think up a way to answer the question.
“No,” I said, “It’s actually a German name, but yes, I am Jewish.”
Without skipping a beat, Rachel said, “Nice, I am Jewish too! Wow, now there are three of us in our district.” Then she paused, and half-jokingly said, “Yeah, watch out, we’re going to take over the world.”
“Wait a minute,” I thought, “There are only 2 other Jews in my district? I thought we Jews were the ‘world’s intellectual aristocracy.’ Where did everybody go? Are they hiding?” Never mind that I myself broke the Jewish stereotype, I was too busy wondering what had happened to my stereotype.
Before I could find an answer, Rachel began telling me about her life, her children, and how her mother had miraculously survived the Holocaust. I listed, saddened by the story and amazed that so many years later, I was talking to its outcome.
Some time after meeting Rachel, I decided to look up my last name just to see she why assumed it was Jewish. I found a list of Jewish-German names online: Ploss, Plotke, Plotzheim. No Plotner. Hmm. Maybe there was a similar sounding one under “B”?
Blath. Blatt. Blättner. My heart stopped. My surname, Plotner, was originally Blättner before my great grandparents came to the States, where it was changed during immigration. Everyone I’ve ever known in my family was Christian, but…was there a Jew in there after all?
The paucity of Jews in Mensa had distracted me so much at the time that I have only now realized that as a Jew-by-Choice and professor with a Jewish last name, I am an unlikely fit for the stereotype.
It’s ironic that I worried about sharing my conversion story with this complete stranger who had no qualms about sharing her Jewish identity with me. I am not a Torah scholar, and maybe Rachel isn’t either, but what I learned from a cheerful, outgoing Jewish matriarch about being Jewish was … well, I still need to figure that one out.
So what is being a “Jewish intellectual” all about? Your guess is as good as mine.
Read more posts from Issue #10: “Geniushood.”
Photo by eflon, licensed under Creative Commons.
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