Oh, And Another Thing

I was at a party talking about an upcoming trip to New Zealand. Someone pointed across the room and said, “Go talk to my dad, he just got back. He’s narcoleptic, but he’ll talk your ear off about the trip.”

I went over. “Your son says you just got back from New Zealand. Which island do you recommend?”

“Well, we loved the north. It was—” And with that, he closed his eyes and his head tilted to the side. I thought he died.

After a minute, which is a lifetime when you’re watching a stranger sleep, he opened his eyes and looked at me. Patient, unhurried, as if he’d simply stepped out for a moment. I was the one who was rattled. He just picked up where he left off.

“The south,” he said. “Definitely the south.”

What the hell? Didn’t he just say the north? I was so thrown I started blathering about every vacation I’d ever taken. He fell asleep again somewhere around my 2011 trip to Peru and I scurried away.

It’s usually harmless when I ramble.

Sometimes it’s not.

When I was admitted into rabbinical school, I became a finalist for the national Wexner Scholarship. Being a Wexner Fellow would be a huge honor. I left my corporate career to pursue this rabbinic path. My friends said it seemed early for a midlife crisis. If I won, I could say, “See, I belong.”

I felt like an imposter during the initial interviews, but the further along I got, the more confident I became. Now I just needed to crush the final interview. Then I’d call my wife and say, “I got it!”

The last session was wrapping up. One of the older rabbis asked, almost in passing, “Mark, how will you address the intermarriage problem?”

I knew that question was coming. I’d been intermarried for years. My parents too. And we were all doing just fine. It wasn’t a “problem.”

Still, I knew my job was to politely dodge the question. All I needed to say was something banal like, “I want to help all people find joy and meaning, no matter their upbringing.”

That’s it. Zip-zap. I’d get the prize and be forever known as a Wexner Fellow.

But something cracked open. I thought, here’s my chance.

“The problem with intermarriage?” I asked. “The only problem with intermarriage is that some people think it’s a problem.”

I gave a five-minute dissertation on how intermarriage is beautiful, enriching, and statistically helpful. One of the younger rabbis tried to rescue me, but I kept talking anyway. I watched myself speak and couldn’t stop.

I finished my rant and they said, “Thank you. We’ll be in touch.”

I walked out of the room, and the rabbi who sponsored my candidacy pursed her lips and nodded softly. We didn’t need to speak. I left the building, alone.

I still have the rejection letter. It didn’t say “why did you talk so much?” It didn’t have to.

I replayed that interview for years. I’d be in the shower or driving to the grocery store when it would hit me. Maybe I didn’t belong. Who was I to become a rabbi? Some days I don’t even like people that much. I told myself I didn’t really want the award anyway.

The rabbinic program lasts five years. That’s a long time to sit with a mistake.

I try not to babble when I’m feeling insecure anymore, and sometimes it works. I was at a board meeting recently where I argued we needed to remove an ineffective leader. I didn’t have anything against the person, but he was holding the organization back. I laid out my case. I even closed my laptop for emphasis.

There was silence for a moment, and I worried I wasn’t convincing anyone. Then I remembered something else I could say. “Oh, and another thing,” I almost said. It felt like a sneeze I couldn’t stop.

But I waited.

Have you ever seen a child hold their breath? Their cheeks fill up with air, and they look like they’re going to explode. That’s how I felt. Blood hammered in my skull, but I stayed quiet.

“I agree,” said one of the other members.

And so did everyone else.

Or maybe they were already there, and this time I didn’t talk them out of it.

The conversation moved on quickly. Someone was already talking about next steps. I had a brief, stupid urge to say, just so we’re clear, that was my idea.

I didn’t.

I exhaled.

I know myself well enough to know that next time, there will be another thing I want to add. There’s always another thing.

The urge to go on and on or to say, that was my idea—I don’t think that’s about vanity, exactly. It’s more like fear. Fear that if you don’t say it, it didn’t count. You didn’t matter.

That man at the party would just stop mid-sentence and disappear for a minute, patient and unhurried.

I’m trying to learn how to do that while I’m still awake.

If you’ve got your own “and another thing,” I’m all ears.