Ode to Torah

Betsy Joseph

May 7, 2022

You emerged in the early Eighties

as Torah High School of Texas,

barely a blip on the consciousness or conscience

of a historically conservative city,

beginning and ending your eight years

in the classrooms of an unadorned synagogue

in a quiet North Dallas neighborhood.

You provided a bedrock of stability

for young Orthodox males who hailed

from all over the U.S. and even Canada,

boys as young as fourteen who arrived in their new city

homesick, uncertain, but strong in their faith and goals.

They graduated, some at seventeen, others at eighteen

matured and enlightened scholars of the scrolls

while also firmly guided and grounded

in their secular coursework, in which I took part.

Then, in the mid-Eighties, the breath in our city shifted

as a fresh wave of anti-Semitism blew through

and tested the innocence of the young.

You had protected your students, had thought them safe

from rancor rising once more from the darkness,

a darkness you hoped  had been vanquished,

that you prayed would not release its poison again.

But then one lovely spring evening the actions of four boys

driving around, possibly bored and looking for something to do,

challenged our perceptions about history repeating itself.

Jack, a student of mine, was strolling to a nearby 7-Eleven.

When the pack of teens noticed Jack’s yarmulke,

they became his pursuers, first heckling him for a block or two

then finally jumping from their car, each beating Jack savagely.

With your solid loving care and strength of faith,

joined with the language of the prayers,

Jack recovered and school resumed.

Still, I don’t believe we felt wholly safe again.

There continued to be that reminder of a world

populated by people bent on confusing wrong with right.

Though later circumstances had you choose to close your doors,

your legacy prevailed with lessons taught and learned,

with insights gained and valued—

all bolstered by the healing flame of your faith.

Betsy Joseph lives in Dallas and has poems that have appeared in various journals and anthologies.  Her poetry collection, Only So Many Autumns, was published by LULP in 2019.  Lamar is also publishing her forthcoming book, Relatively Speaking:  Poems of Person and Place, a collaborative collection with her brother, poet Chip Dameron. In addition, she and her husband, photographer Bruce Jordan, have produced two books, Benches and Lighthouses, which pair her haiku with his black and white photography.