As a little kid in synagogue, I loved playing with my dad’s tzitzit. I used to twirl the thread around my finger, forward and back, not out of boredom, but out of pure fascination. If I had to guess, this childhood fascination is not unique to me. I am sure that kids throughout history have been equally amazed with the tallit worn by their parents. However, in my family, this connection has its own special story that goes back over four generations and begins with a fishbone!
Every Friday, in the small southern town of Lynchburg, Virginia, my savta’s grandmother, Rebecca Hiller, made gefilte fish for dinner. She always saved the cooked fish head for her husband, Abraham. One fateful day in 1946, Abraham ate the fish head and realized his throat was in pain. Rebecca called the local doctor, who made a house call to check Abraham’s throat. The doctor looked down Abraham’s throat every which way but couldn’t find anything wrong. By Sunday, the throbbing still had not gone away.
The doctor made an appointment for Abraham at the University of Virginia, located a few hours away by bus. Rebecca did not like to travel, so Abraham brought his youngest daughter, Mary, my great-grandmother, with him on the trip. The doctors at the university found a long, curved fish bone stuck in Abraham’s throat and removed it. After the procedure, the nurse told Abraham that he needed to stay overnight to be checked by the doctor in the morning. Abraham refused to stay. He explained that he was Jewish and said, “I didn’t know I would be staying overnight, so I didn’t bring my siddur, tallit, or tefillin for my morning prayers!”
Finally understanding the problem, the nurse explained that there was a Jewish boarding house nearby and someone there would surely be able to help. Abraham and Mary walked to the boarding house to see if anyone had what Abraham needed. They knocked on the door and the landlady answered. Abraham explained his problem, and the landlady called for a handsome young medical student named Harold. She explained that Abraham was looking for a tallit, tefillin, and a siddur. Sure enough, Harold happened to have extra, which he lent to Abraham. While Abraham and the landlady were talking, Harold asked Mary if he could take her on a walking tour of the University campus – and in my savta’s words, “the rest is history.”
My great-grandparents were married in 1947, and by 1954, they welcomed their second child, my savta, Elise. When Savta was six, she remembers her grandfather, Abraham, moving in with the family. She watched her grandfather wearing his tallit every morning to daven. The sense of wonder she felt in those moments stuck with her growing up. Even though her family attended a Conservative synagogue for most of her childhood, Savta was never allowed to wear a tallit. It just wasn’t something women were permitted to do at the time. Savta grew older, but the feeling of wanting her very own tallit never went away.
By the time she was an adult living in California, Savta started wearing a tallit to have that connection that she longed for as a child. She also wanted to set an example for her three daughters, including my mom, that they could define and shape their own Jewish experiences. One day at synagogue, Savta overheard someone talking about how there was a problem with their tallit. There was a stain that just wouldn’t come out. Savta had always been good with fabric and sewing and offered to try to repair the tallit. She brought the tallit home and worked on it, pouring her heart and soul into the beautiful work of art. This tallit inspired her with wonder — just like Abraham’s tallit all those years before.
Since then, Savta has become a tallit artist and made lots of tallitot for many people. I love sitting with my Savta in her tallit studio, watching her skillfully make each tallit, choosing each fabric, and designing it with care. When I was younger, I couldn’t wait to receive my very own Savta-made tallit. It was finally my turn last year when I had my bar mitzvah. Before the services started, Savta brought me my tallit. When I put it on, I ran the tzitzit between my fingers and felt the weight of the tallit on my shoulders. I finally had the connection that I had been waiting for.
In my family, there have been a lot of things that have been passed down, many of which are my biggest connection points to Judaism. The tallit just happens to be one of the most meaningful. The tallit weaves all of the generations together, just like the strings of the tzitzit. From Abraham, who wore his tallit every morning, to Harold, who was buried in the tallit that brought him to Mary, to Savta, who shares her love in every tallit that she makes, to me, who wears the tallit with pride. I am connected to everyone who came before me. In this way, the tallit is more than just a physical thing; it is a huge, majestic tapestry that stretches across the generations; our job is just to add to it.
This essay was submitted as part of Exploring Judaism’s L’Dor V’Dor Essay Contest. To learn more, or submit your own essay, go here.
