Life of Yeshiva Guy

The Prejudice of Pride

I raise the glass flute to the light. Truthfully, I haven’t got the faintest idea of what it is that I’m supposed to be looking, but the purplish color tinting the chandelier seems right…whatever right is. Setting the glass down again and swirling it at the base, I glance over at my Shabbos host. He’s a little preoccupied at the moment listening raptly to his eldest son’s Dvar Torah. As he has been for the last half hour or so. The only pauses have been for the occasional witty comment he interjects every couple of minutes. The rest of us are spellbound by the eight year old kid, and his unending cheder vertalach. Not.

Leaning my chair back (yes, I know, it’s impolite, but don’t worry, the host is far too absorbed in his kid, and the hostess is in the kitchen preparing the cholent in the kitchen), my eyes glazing over, I think for a moment about what is going on here. It’s a situation I see all too often. Usually, however, I’m only privy to the catastrophic aftereffects of the disaster taking place in front of my unfocused eyes. Rarely do I have the opportunity to witness the future tragedy as it unfolds. Like the spectre of the accident that we didn’t see until after the fact, situations like these often have me wondering what they must have looked like in the making. Often haunt me. Why, I wonder, did no one jump in and save the kid…why didn’t anyone scream to save this precious child? Was he/she just not worth saving? Or is the answer that the effort involved just too much…effort?

The handsome kid in front of me spouting off Divrei Torah like he swallowed the Talilei Oros for breakfast is clearly intelligent. Like his father. And like his father, he isn’t above taking the occasional compliment or two…or more. That’s OK, though. That’s natural. There’s a part of me, too, that revels in compliments, that basks in the warm glow deep inside of me that they create. Lincoln said that “Everybody likes a compliment”. But most of us, like when enjoying the physical warmth of the log cabin’s hearth, know how to leave the log cabin when the day’s labors call. Honest Abe didn’t become President by soaking up the heat of the hearth and staring at spitting embers all day long. We know when to abandon the false sense of security that these comfort blankets proffer. Unfortunately, this parent doesn’t know when to skip complimenting his kid in favor of teaching him a thing or two. What we call chinuch. He’s too busy basking in the glow of all that he believes is his little wunderkind.

Shifting my gaze over to the Totty in question, I debate telling him off- in a polite way, of course. But then again, I think, who am I to say anything? In fact, wouldn’t it be arrogant of me to speak up? After all, I’m just a young bochur, with no practical chinuch experience to speak of. What do I know? I keep my thoughts to myself. An unpleasant taste rises inside my throat as I watch the proud, yet prideful father soaking up his son’s stuff. It’s the taste of my distaste for the haughty, for the prideful.

Slowly, I raise my glass again. Tilt it back against the base of my lower lip. The cool alcohol enters my mouth, and as it does so, I replace the glass next to the vase of flowers and the white china plate it has been keeping company. On its circuit of my inside cheeks and lower mouth, I taste an array of flavors in the wine. Well, maybe not an array. But a few. Some bitter, some sweet, some fruity. Not unlike my thoughts at the moment. Returning to which…

Deciding against saying anything, I grimace at no one in particular. I grimace because I’m scared that I’m taking the coward’s way out. I grimace because I know that one day, I’m scared I’m going to meet an arrogant, haughty young man. And he’s gonna be on me, to a certain extent. And the thought terrifies the flip outta me.

But then another Lincoln saying flits through my mind. “I don’t like that man. I must get to know him better”. And I can’t help but wonder if my initial distaste for the fellow had me prejudiced from the get-go. Had me perceive every action he took, every thought or emotion I read, in a negative, unfair light. Did it? Perhaps. Maybe I’m the prideful, prejudiced one here. Maybe I need to get to know this guy better. Maybe he could teach me a thing or two about life…even about pride. Maybe I was wrong. I hope so. And I hope that kid turns out all right.

But I’m also hoping I won’t bump into that kid down the line. I have a feeling he won’t turn out too well.