The Dear Dr. Feldman

Hello, everyone. I greet you today in heavy spirits. A man beloved by many has recently passed away. His name was Samuel Abraham Feldman, and he was a psychologist of great importance in Florida. I can't say much about his professional life. I was neither there to witness it nor around to hear about it. What I can say is that he will be missed. He will be mourned like a dear friend by people who only met him in passing or hardly remember his face.

I'm ashamed to say that I can hardly remember his face, having seen him only once in the last thirteen years. Still, I know of him. I remember his words and his legacy, if not his appearance. It is always telling when a man has a legacy before he is gone from this world, and Doctor Feldman was one of those men. He was a hero. There is no other word for him. Perhaps he didn't run into burning buildings, but even with my extremely limited knowledge of his life, I can tell you specifically of five lives he saved. It is uncountable, unknowable how many lives he saved in the end.

When my older sister died, it was the day after my third birthday. It was Doctor Feldman who coached me through that time, stopping a vulnerable, distraught toddler from falling into a pit of despair that she would've never been able to escape. If it weren't for him, I might've crushed myself under the guilt of what had happened. It was my birthday, my celebration that resulted in her disappearing from before our eyes. I could've easily decided to bear that weight, but I didn't. Because Doctor Feldman got through to me when no one else could, I didn't ruin my own future, and really, what is a life if not a future?

Another family, one with which I'm close enough to call my own, had a similar tragedy years ago. A child died, but two children were left behind. Both parents were overcome with grief, but the mother was hit especially hard. Her darling was gone. Her baby. Her love. Her sky. Her world. Her everything. She wanted to die. She was ready to die. Doctor Feldman convinced her not to, and in the process he saved the lives of a mother, a father, a little boy, and a little girl. He taught them --  all of them -- how to go on living. Now, that mother has taken it upon herself to speak with innumerable strangers when the tragedy of death strikes, helping them along through a time of need whether she knew them previously or not. She tells them, as she tells me, "Pass it forward."

If there is one thing for which I am grateful, it is that he saw the longterm affects of his work in me. Years after his initial appearance in my life, he showed up again. This time, we were at a meeting for JCURE. We arrived early and at exactly the same time, so we explored the hallways together until we discovered the room in which we were supposed to meet. He questioned me on our organization, and I answered as thoroughly and enthusiastically as I could. I'm told that he talked about me later that night, surprised and delighted by my involvement. Only later did I find out that the kind, smart man I met that night was also the man that saved my life, and I believe it was only later that he found out the mostly mature, mostly intelligent young woman he met was me.

Months later, my mother and I were on a plane to North Carolina. We landed. We stood. My mother's phone powered on. And we got the news that Doctor Feldman had passed away in one of North Carolina's hospitals. If I believed in God, and I know many of you do, then I could hardly deny this was his work. Just imagine. I was there to view colleges. To secure my future. Need I say more?

Doctor Feldman is a man with a legacy. He lives on. Not only in the souls of his family or the hearts of his friends and coworkers. Not only in the memories he has left behind or even the deeds he has done. Every life he saved brings forth a touch of him to the world. Every life I touch and every life that follows from there will contain a bit of his essence because Doctor Feldman started this chain reaction of kindness and life that continues to ripple through the masses.

It is a small world, but Doctor Feldman is a big presence. He always will be.

"Pass it forward."

(Image Courtesy of the Miami Herald)

In Loving Memory of Dr. Samuel Abraham Feldman

Happy New Year!

Happy New Year, everybody!

Recently, JCURE submitted a proposal for our first grant. If I were religious, I'd invite you to pray that we succeed. Since I'm not, I'll be hoping in my plain, old, secular way, and you guys can hope or pray or both. Dr. Failer, Aliza, Ayala, Michelle, and everyone else that helped, thanks! Whether we get approved or not, we're one step closer to our goals.

Now, I'd like to start of the New Year by announcing my resolution via a story. (I love stories, in case you guys haven't noticed).

A few days ago, I delivered a couple of the Loving Baskets JCURE was putting together so that people in need could enjoy a sweet Rosh Hashana. My sister and I sang, laughed, and chatted for more than four hours as I drove around in search of a Kosher chicken and the intended house. After we had finally delivered my Basket One on Day One, my sister asked me, "How do we know that she actually needed that?"

"JCURE has got it covered," I replied.

About ten minutes later, we were back at home, and my mom asked me the same question. How did I know that these people weren't taking advantage of our kindness?

"Well.....um.....you see...." I mumbled, my brain taking forever to start moving. In my defense, I've never been good at thinking on the spot. Asking me to think and speak simultaneously is like asking someone to rub their tummy, pat their nose, and brush their hair at the same time. Finally, I came to a conclusion, but it was a different one this time. "If I help ten people," I said, "and nine out of those ten people are taking advantage of me, then I'll still do it for that one person that really needed help."

People have told me my whole life to be skeptical of what I see.

A classmate might smile and congratulate me on a good grade, but I'll feel guilty and upset because I'm not sure s/he really means it. I have a friend whose eyes water whenever she gets the highest grade in the class (which is often) because she just isn't sure that we mean what we say.

A man could make an egg appear out of thin air, and everyone in the world could agree that the trick was impossible to pull off: it had to have been magic. But I would doubt. As much as I yearn for magic to be a real thing -- for fairies to fly, mermaids to swim, and balls of light to skip off my fingertips -- it wouldn't matter how much evidence was presented to me, I would doubt.

Most importantly, an old woman could be standing in rags in the rain with a cardboard sign that says "Starving. Homeless. Need money for food," but she might be a drug addict who really only wants her next fix. For that reason, I ought not to give her money. But I never have a random sandwich on hand. So I've gone my whole life ducking away from those people in the rain because of the mere chance that they were something other than what they seemed. Even if only one-in-ten of the people I saw like this were actually in need, I could've already helped hundreds that were actually starving.

Skepticism comes in handy a lot of the time, but I'm tired of being too skeptical to help people. JCURE will be vetting our clients with psychologists, drug tests, and the like. I don't have to worry about skepticism here. But in my life in general, I've decided that if ten people ask me for help, I'm going to help all of them, just for the one, two, three, or even ten, that actually need my help.
 

A Little Bit of Wisdom

JCURE Cares. It really does.

When Nili Perchiya lived in Golden Beach, the synagogue was having something called a Smicha program -- a program to create Rabbis. Rabbi Gurari, a young and already wise man, was the leader of this Smicha. One day, Nili went to him, introducing a friend that gave and gave and gave but refused to take credit for any of her good. Now, the nature of charity is to give out of the goodness of your heart, rather than for the validation that others may bestow upon you for the deed.

But.

There comes a point when you should make your giving known. If you give and give and give, and never tell anyone, then how will anyone know to follow in your footsteps? Your footsteps, after all, will be invisible, washed away already by the sands of time. Just think. If Mother Teresa -- by blood, an Albanian. By citizenship, an Indian. By faith, a Catholic nun. Thus demonstrating the universal spirit of charity -- had not let her good deeds be known, then people would not still act in kindness and pronounce her legacy as their inspiration.

That wise, young Rabbi already knew of this truth, and so he told the giver to stand up and "show everyone the right way to lead our lives in this world."

Now, today, there is a call for this same action, and Nili is one of those calling. "So dear anonymous, great women," great men, great people, you can be anonymous, but when you spot a tzedaka box, put a few coins in and let everyone in the store see as you give out of the kindness of your heart. And then hope.

That everyone in the store will follow you.

(JCURE's recently completed Tzedaka boxes <-- boxes to collect money for charity)

In keeping with the theme of this post, I will pass on the spirit of giving by thanking the people that have donated money in order to help a family that can't pay their rent:
1. Monica
2. Michelle
3. Amira
4. Nili
5. Ayala
6. Shoshana
7. Diana
8. Esther Amar
9. Anon.
10. Mr. Weiss
11. Batya
12. Shoshana Katz
13. Aviva Angela
14. Shiran Brosh
15. Ayellet
16. Betty Levy
17. Hamora Ela
18. Esther Brass
19. Aliza Daga
20. Tali
21. Anon.
22. Mazal ben David
23. Anon.
24. Chenina
25. Tamar
26. Anon.
27. Chana.
Thank you all! May many more follow in your footsteps.

Checks can be sent to 5612 North Park Road Fort Lauderdale, Fl 33312, or go to https://www.youcaring.com/jcu-resources-enrichment-inc-553529 to donate and help us grow JCURE.

One Woman's Story

JCURE Cares. It really does. 

On or around July 3rd, one of our founding members was emptying her storage. Her name is Nili. It was afternoon or maybe morning. Anyway, the sun was out. Clanking and dragging and shoving her stuff into a car, she was hot. You know what I mean: the Miami heat isn't forgiving. 

After laboring away for an hour or so, Nili was done and prepared to leave. A lady came up to her. She was dressed in a dress, comfortable and loose and stripped with bright blue. A pair of cheap sunglasses hung from the neckline. Her hair was curly and cute, made up in a messy bun. Her hands were wrinkled -- old. "Are you going home?" the lady asked. 

Startled and slightly confused by the question, Nili replied, "Um, yes."

"I ain't!" the lady remarked with a bitter laugh, and suddenly the strength of her character was known. This lady's head was high, her stance exuding an air of power that was likely invisible to both of them at the time. 

Nili blinked. Cocked her head slightly. "I ain't," the lady had said. Well, why not?

A few minutes later, this lady's strength became clear to Nili. The lady was eighty-years-old. Homeless. She wasn't going home because she didn't have one. Instead, her safe haven was a mall parking garage. The mall was one of the rare places that let people stay late, but its image could not be sacrificed for these people. So they slept sitting up. 

But there are plenty of shelters, plenty of places that help the homeless, right? Well, sure. But there are plenty of homeless people too. Priority has to be given. The system can help if you are in danger, and apparently this woman's situation isn't. 

Isn't dangerous. 

Isn't urgent. 

It isn't dangerous? How could that be? An eighty-year-old woman sleeping in a parking garage isn't dangerous? Even if it is next to a mall, am I to assume that there is security at the parking entrances? Is there even an alarm system? Is there at least a locked door? 

It isn't urgent? According to a USA today article published on October 9, 2014, the average life expectancy for a woman in the United States is 81 years of age. Of course, that was published two years ago, and the life expectancy could have risen since then. In fact, according to the Social Security Administration, a woman turning 65 today can expect to live until she is 86.6 years old. But all that data doesn't account for sleeping in the germ-invested environment of a parking garage. It also doesn't account for how that unfortunate "home" might affect a woman whose cells are already decaying with age more severely. Never mind the lack of hygiene, it is known that stress itself can bring on physical sickness, and what could be more stressful than having no home? Never mind the psychological effects, we haven't even considered the life expectancy gap between a white woman and a black woman.

According to the Cambridge Dictionary, "Urgent" means "needing immediate attention." If her situation does not need immediate attention, then I suppose it doesn't matter at all because how much more time does she really have? 

She did look strong, though. Maybe she will live for many more years. Maybe she'll live to ninety. Or a hundred! 

And then, on her death bed floor, she will get to look back on the last twenty years of her life and remember all the beauty that comes with the spots of gum on the floor. 

However, this particular homeless woman did have the pleasure of meeting Nili, a woman that shares the homeless woman's strength of character. This woman also had access to $600 a month to pay for a room, so with the help of Nili and our fledgling organization, she was directed to various places within her price range.

We can all be rest assured that she will not be looking back on twenty years in a place like that.

While people like this and people worse off than this seek help from our members, we find ourselves too short on resources to help more than one to two people a week. However, we have a plan for fundraising that is ready to be put into action and will be as soon as possible. 

Meanwhile, our baby organization is now working to help the other homeless people in that garage, despite our lack of funds. 

Visit the site itself for more information at jcure.org. 

The Very Beginning

JCURE Cares. They really do.

My aunt, Ayala Avroya, has always been the fun figure in my life. She was the one that would stop by with her five kids and a pizza that was literally the size of an S.U.V's roof, command me off my laptop, and force me to participate in a crazy evening I was sure to enjoy. An evening jam-packed with little cousins, big pizzas (naturally), and medium-sized panic attacks.

As an orthodox Jew, she has five kids. I know. Five! As the niece of an orthodox Jew, I am asked, every so often, whether or not it's strange to have such a deeply religious person related to me especially because I'm about as secular as a person can be. It's inspired more than one debate. You see, for some reason, people seem to assume that being an orthodox woman means you are weak-willed -- a slave, really, to your husbands desires. Maybe some are. But the community I know? Well....have you ever heard of JCURE?

It stands for Jewish Communities United: Resources and Enrichment. My aunt, along with another orthodox woman named Nili Segal, started it after spotting a problem in their community and realizing that they alone could not solve it. You see, my aunt is not a wealthy person, but when she started noticing the number of people in her own community that were living out on the streets, she decided to do what she could to help. Desperate people, thrown out of their homes days ago or years ago, would call her because no other organization had room. No one had the resources. So she fielded their calls, though related in no way to the organizations that were meant to help, and at the same time she educated herself as to the extent of the problem and the systems in place to rectify it. That's when she found just how large the gap is, and after spending her time and her scarce money to help those individuals find help elsewhere, she decided it was time to do something about it.

So the idea of JCURE was conceived. But they will not just put a Band-Aid on the problem. No, they will take these people in at their weakest moment and provide them with temporary housing as long as they make use of JCURE's resources and work actively to build themselves back up. Hence, JCURE's goal: To help others help themselves.

Instantly, her whole community was on board (or at least it seemed instant to me), contributing their own particular skills to create something wonderful.

I, being the niece, was pulled in early on as one of the few completely secular additions as well as a significant youth connection, seeing that I am still in high school and technically still a "youth." And so I had the great privilege of attending a meeting one Wednesday night. There were multiple PhD's in attendance, one of them a rabbi with a history of community service successes. Another man in attendance was named Fred Stock, the CEO of the Jewish Community Services of South Florida. Earlier in the day, at a meeting I had not attended, he had agreed to contribute $20,000 to the founding of JCURE, but only if we can match it.

I was overwhelmed to say the least. Me, a junior in high school, was getting the privilege of interacting as an equal with professional businessmen, doctorate-holding psychologists, social workers, and the leaders of actual charity organizations. Even more overwhelming was the number of women there and the power they exuded. We had all ages and all ranges of the religion. The common thread was only the Jewish value of charity running through their souls and pushing them to do something. I remember thinking at some point, what a remarkable thing I was witnessing. I was not participating in a fundraiser for the long-existing Cancer Club at school, contributing for the service hour requirement that my school imposed. I was participating in the creation of something. In the birth of something bigger than myself.

The meeting ended up running for three hours. So roughly 3 T.V shows in my time. It seemed much longer, but not because of boredom. It was out of the effort I put into remembering every detail.

The room was dark. The lights were bright, but through the windows you could see that night had already descended. And the walls were beige, giving the room that dark, but cozy feel that you get when sitting around a campfire. There was a small tile dance floor behind us, the one indication that we were, in fact, in the party room we had been told to find. Meanwhile, the table at which we sat was harsh and business-like, though the people sitting around that table were kind and business-like. I was among our three youngest attendees. Another girl my age was seated next to me, and I took an immediate liking to her. She had the look of a bookworm, and her mother across from me looked like a lawyer despite the casual outfit she was wearing. The third youngest, named Danielle, is an orthodox. She has the spark of a hard-partying college kid, but she knew what she was talking about. Her career as a graphic designer has been a big help as JCURE has begun to build their internet presence and will continue to be. When we went around the table later, speaking about what brought us there, she told us a story about an old woman she used to know. The woman had been begging on the streets when Danielle first met her. When Danielle realized she was Jewish, a sister in this religion that is shared by less than 0.2% of the world, she began to shabbat food and holiday food to the homeless shelter where she stayed. It was a place where the alcoholics were allowed to drink and the druggies allowed to smoke. One day, the old woman vanished into the system when the shelter was bought out by the city because they wanted to clean up the area.

Even more powerful than that, the part of the meeting that affected me the most was when the girl next to me stood up. With a slight smile on her face, she told us of the way her family had moved here from Israel. As American citizens, they came here hoping to find better care for one of the children in the family, only to find themselves without a home. Alone in a foreign country but for the grandparent that was willing to lend them a room, they called the many South Florida organizations that exist, searching and praying for just the chance to build themselves a life. To find themselves a home. Eventually, they picked themselves back up, and they decided they had to prevent someone else from from suffering in the same way. Or suffering even worse. As this girl told the story about a situation that she had personally experience only three years ago, I was stunned by her strength. A girl my age had been forced to deal with not only the pressures of high school but also the pressure of having no home to do homework. To think, she had nowhere to truly call home. It was such a shock, such an unexpected admission from this smart and collected teenager, that I don't think I ever said anything to her at all.

Not a wow. Not a thanks-for-sharing. Not a word out of my mouth.

That was the beginning of my involvement in this organization: silence.

But that will not be how it ends.

(My very first meeting)