Often when we discuss the inclusion of people with disabilities, the conversation quickly turns into talking about what we should do for them. Do we need to make the temple more accessible? Do we need to build a ramp or put in an ADA bathroom? Do we need to buy prayer books or hire interpreters for deaf or hard of hearing? Do we need tables and chairs at the Onegs so people can sit and mingle? Although these are all essential things to consider, I suggest that a critical way of including us in Temple Life is to need us. I suggest that maybe the best course of adding anyone into a community is to need them, want their assistance, and enable them to do their part in Tikkun Olam.
As a background, I'm a man entering my golden age. I have Cerebral Palsy. I use a motorized wheelchair. I need assistance with almost all my activities of daily living, including feeding, dressing, grooming, etc. I also have a progressing speech impairment and have just begun using this speech synthesizer.
After 29+ years, I retired from Wells Fargo as a Senior Vice President in their IT area to start a business called Abilicorp. Abilicorp is a company that consults on issues and policies related to the employment of people with disabilities. I am on the Board of Trustees at Temple Sinai. I also co-chair the Center for Economic Growth (CEG) at the World Institute on Disability. Most importantly, I am Denise's husband for almost 32 years, and David's father, whom we adopted when he was three months old, is now 28 years old.
To understand how I got to where I am now, probably the most significant thing you should know is that my parents are Holocaust survivors who taught me to be survivors. They both survived the Lodz Ghetto, and my Mom survived Auschwitz. Having a child born with Cerebral Palsy was devastating to them. Disability equated to death. They gave me their survival instinct and a belief that there is always a way to get it done. They were determined to make sure that I was as independent as possible and contribute back to the world.
I genuinely believe that the most important lessons I learned from my parents and my Jewish upbringing were that there were things I HAD to do and that there was always a way to get those things done. My Mom woke me up at 5:30 every morning, so I had time to dress before the school bus came. Twice a week, the bus would drop me off at the synagogue where my Mom helped me walk up to my 2nd floor religious school class. By the way, before high school, these classes were the only classes I had with non-disabled children. My Mom would return 2 hours later to help me climb down the stairs and walk three blocks home. I wasn't allowed to have a wheelchair until I went to high school. At home, I had two dinners every evening. The 1st dinner, I ate independently, causing me to exert so much energy as to make me hungrier after I ate than before. My mother fed me the 2nd dinner! Whenever I complained to my father, he would say, "life is hard, so?"
I am not advocating that our religious school should be on the 2nd floor of an inaccessible location or that we deny children with disabilities wheelchairs. I am advocating that we teach all children, including children with disabilities, how important they are, how needed they are, and how they can do Tikkun Olam.
The time I felt the most accepted was when our son, David, was a baby. Since Denise took care of him all day while I worked, I had night duty. When David woke up hungry at 2 AM, he didn't ask if I could get up and warm a bottle for him. The baby didn't ask if I was too tired or how I would do it. David made no assumptions about what I could or could not do. He cried and demanded his bottle. I was thrilled because David needed me!
Although big banks and big corporations have received bad press lately, working for Wells Fargo was terrific for me. Working there, you understood that if you did well and contributed to the bottom line, it didn't matter what sex you were, what religion you practiced, what color you were, or even how you sounded. There were many nights when there were system problems. They would call me and inevitably find a way to understand what I was saying – because they needed to! One of my favorite stories happened near the beginning of my career before there was online computing. The system crashed at 1 AM. My van was in the shop, and trains in the Bay Area don't run all night. Wells Fargo sent an armored van to transport me and my 300 pounds powered wheelchair to the data center.
The last story I'd like to share with you is about one of my favorite rabbis. Rabbi Berlin. She often relates the story of how her family found a welcoming synagogue when she was a child. Her family, which included a brother with a developmental disability, did not feel welcomed at their old temple. The rabbi at the new synagogue immediately asked her brother to please turn the lights off before Havdalah and turn the lights back on at the end of the service. Her brother was thrilled! From then on, he had his job and knew that the congregation needed. He and his family knew the community wanted them. The rabbi had created an environment where everyone felt valued.
Ensuring every congregant knows what their 'job' is and that they are needed is what inclusion should be. It is Tikkun Olam, and it is Judaism!
Thank you for listening.
Go! Go! Go!
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