MY HOMETOWN'S SHAME

WROTE THE BELOW COLUMN ON DEC. 6, 2008

MY HOMETOWN’S SHAME
But Wal-Mart incident reminded me of my late father’s courage

By Martin Zabell

I left my hometown 26 years ago after graduating college and stopped visiting it when my widowed mother moved several years later.

Nevertheless, Valley Stream, N.Y., is my hometown, the only place where I grew up and went to grammar and high school.

In truth, Valley Stream is – or was – rather nondescript. It’s had about 35,000 residents for decades and is just like any medium-sized town that’s just outside a huge city – New York City, in its case.

But, Valley Stream is my only hometown, the place where I learned the values and work ethic that have helped – and hurt me – throughout my life. I’m proud of my hometown.

Several years ago, I was shocked to read in U.S. News & World Report that my alma mater, Valley Stream South High, was ranked as the 33rd-best public high school in the USA. I was covering school districts at the time and I couldn’t help but tell every educator on my beat – and every friend off the beat – about this. I still think that I got a lousy education, but the overwhelming pride I had for my hometown was more powerful than my negative memories.

I’ve also overreacted with pride whenever I heard that someone accomplished was from Valley Stream, including a classmate who was an absolutely horrible student and was contemptuous of me because I was a nerd. I beamed when he was mentioned prominently in a Sports Illustrated article because he was following in the footsteps of his famous horse trainer father. I bragged that I knew him.

I’ve even rooted for the classmate who broke the unwritten student code to help other students. In Chemistry, quizzes were graded by the student two seats to the left of you, and the teacher constantly overruled her harsh grading of my work.

That same arrogance made her a valedictorian and a Harvard University scholarship winner. I’ve always thought – and hoped – that someday she’d be in the news for some extraordinary achievement.

TRAGEDY IN MY HOMETOWN

On Black Friday, though, I was at a loss about how to feel about my hometown.

Throughout the day, I heard radio reports about a Wal-Mart employee being trampled to death by a crowd looking for bargains – and people refusing to leave the store after being told it was being closed because of the death. The reports kept saying the store was in "New York" – New York City, I assumed.

On the Internet, I saw headlines for the story, but refused to read it. The story disgusted me. In the evening, though, I finally read a story on the incident. The store was "20 miles east of Manhattan," the story said. Now, I was curious.

I kept reading. And there it was. The store was in my hometown. Frankly, I didn’t even know there was a Wal-Mart in Valley Stream.

"Where exactly was this store?" I wondered. "Should I phone my brother and sister?" I thought. What would you do? Ultimately, I did nothing.

MY FATHER FOUGHT RACISM

Later, my mind flashed back to the other time Valley Stream was prominently in the news. My hometown, you see, is 0 for 2.

While studying in London decades ago, I picked up an International Herald Tribune newspaper and read that a cross had been burned on the lawn of an African-American family that had just moved to Valley Stream.

It was really weird seeing my hometown in the news for the first time while I was half a world away, but what happened afterward was more important to me.

Shortly after my return home, I attended a temple service because of a post-service ceremony honoring my parents and about 20 other congregants who had traveled to Israel with the rabbi while I was in London.

During his sermon, the rabbi said something to the effect that Jews were superior to Catholics because the cross burning was in a Catholic neighborhood. Dozens of congregants audibly gasped. (Back then, all the neighborhoods in my hometown were segregated.)

Then, the rabbi said blacks "should live with their own kind." This time, hundreds of congregants audibly gasped.

After the service – and just before the ceremony honoring him – my father approached four other men who had just spent two weeks with the rabbi. My father was angry. He suggested that they denounce the rabbi to his face for his racist sermon.

And they did. While standing next to him, my father approached the rabbi and lit into him as dozens of people milled about. His friends nodded their heads as my father spoke, making it clear that they agreed with him.

Frankly, I can’t remember if any of my father’s friends ever said anything to the rabbi. All I remember is absorbing the lesson I was learning. Tears are streaming down my cheeks as I am writing this.

CONCLUSION

My father died suddenly the next year. (Just after praising my father at the temple's weekly service, the rabbi endorsed Ted Kennedy for president out of anger about Andrew Young, Jimmy Carter’s United Nations ambassador, meeting with the PLO.)

During the 2008 presidential campaign, I wrote and talked about the rabbi’s sermon in arguing that it was absurd to hold Barack Obama responsible for the stupid rantings of his pastor. It’s my experience, unfortunately, that religious leaders tend to be the most dogmatic, inflexible, intolerant, and ultraopinionated people around. Exactly the last group of people others should be listening to.

My guess is that more than 90 percent of the people in temple that day disagreed with the rabbi. I’m also guessing that none of them left the temple in protest.

Perhaps, though, I should have been writing and talking about my father – and the values I learned while living in my hometown.