I went to high school in a bank. In and of itself, this is funny in that it’s unusual, or out-of-the ordinary. But what elevates this factoid from my life from being one that is merely surprising to one that is comical, is that it was a Jewish school. When I started going there it was a Fleet Bank, but within a year it had switched, to Bank Boston. I remember when it switched because soon-to-be frustrated Fleet customers would stop in during their morning commutes or lunch breaks only to discover that they no longer had any business being there, and that they were now not going to have enough time to do their banking that day.
I could be mistaken, but I believe now it is a Bank of America, which is my bank. The expression ‘too little too late comes to mind;’ it would have been very convenient. I should also mention that the building I speak of that I believe is now a Bank of America is no longer a school. The school still exists, however, the year after my friends and I all left, some family named Gann donated an abundance of money, and it moved from the heart and soul of Waltham to what would generally be considered a nicer area, where there is an abundance of grass and no Arbys Delicatessens nearby. But back when the bank was a Fleet Bank, and was a Jewish high school, with the exception of grabbing free lollipops that Fleet had put out in fish bowls to improve customer satisfaction, we students ignored the ground floor. Our school occupied four small floors above the bank. And so it was that the foundation of our Jewish high school was a bank. Funny, right?
Well, not everyone thought so. There were many benefits to being a part of a school that was still searching for its footing. For example, some things, such as attendance records, were too trivial a concern for a school that was trying to establish itself, and in fear of its very survival. After all, the school was still called The New Jewish High School and I can only imagine that some of the faculty’s morning prayers included a special request from above that they would find a Jew with both the will and the pockets for a Jewish school to carry their legacy. But there were also some down sides to the bank school.
While the school’s small size made for a cozy social environment, coziness is not something one reveres when in the company of those that one finds to be unpleasant. The student population got along, more or less, famously, but the faculty had their favorites, and their least favorites. And for some students, their least favorite faculty achieved a level of disdain that made life at the school especially trying. I was not one of these students, but nearly all of those who were in this population happened to be my friends.
I bring all this up because something else happened recently that I found to be quite funny. My parents recently decided to remove everything that gave the Ehrlich home its character and replace it with modern décor, what I would define as a purposeful pilfering or purging of architectural character in favor of achieving a look that denotes a sense of being ‘of the times.’ As you might have guessed I have yet to reach the humor in this, though it is somewhat funny that this construction or demolition is all being done after the four of us sons have left the nest. Strike that, 3 of us, but Dan is definitely getting close. I could care less now that I’m out of the house, and I hope my parents will be done with it all soon, if only to spare my upper 80-year-old Grandmother from having to house my parents, and from having to listen to my Mom’s attempts at an Irish accent (our workers hail from the Land of the Saints).
While home for Passover a couple of weeks ago, I had to go through my old room and strip it of some of my personal effects. Parting ways with old possessions is never an easy task for me but I resolved to be ruthless in my endeavor. The old playboys were an easy toss out, old trophies and ribbons from my days of athletic dominance were a bit tougher, as were VHS tapes of classics such as Face Off (John Travolta undergoes a medical procedure in which he will have his face removed and replaced with villain Nicholas Cage’s face in order to go under cover. But a faceless Cage wakes up, steals Travolta’s face, and for the rest of the movie the two will Face Off against each other, and thus against themselves…brilliant) and then I came upon a brown paper bag bursting with cards and letters, some of them probably from some of yous, that were given to me when I was 16 after I was diagnosed with Leukemia and promptly removed from the Bank School. I hesitated to rid of these letters, especially after reading through some of them, but I felt I had to toss them, if only as a symbolic demonstration to myself, that while I have endless gratitude for all the support that I was given by my parents, brothers, extended family, and friends, I am fortunate enough not to need it anymore. But as I made the trip out to the recycling bin with the bag of cards, two pieces of artwork fell out.
It didn’t take a genius to decipher that these had to be the works of a single artist: The repeated use of off-white colored construction paper, and the employment of pastels, which from the grinds left behind I surmised, must have been gripped and pressed against the paper with a severe intensity. I examined the first one—Rabbi On The Horizon—which I have posted above; a most curious piece of work for its at-once intimate familiarity with the rabbinical figure, and yet there is a simultaneous infusion of subtle undertones of cynicism and mockery. I had only an inkling of who the author could have been, until I flipped over the second piece, when at-first glance any doubt of which maniacal friend of mine could have been behind these works, dissipated. And I must say, I am beyond impressed by the way this artistic work managed to be hilarious, personable, honest, expressive, deeply disturbing, and all the while, still conveying the message that I, the sick one, was missed. It is too wonderful of a memento not to keep. Thank you.
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