At a sheva brachos - one of the seven parties religious Jews have for the newly married - for a Hasidic couple, I met Chava, the grandmother of the groom. A teacher for 35 years, she raised five children of her own, three of whom are rabbis. Her husband, who died eight years ago, was also a rabbi. She strongly believes that the only reason any children fail in school is because teachers are not paying enough attention to them. She says that teachers need to show they love the children, and the children should have some love for the teacher.
I didn’t have a lot of teachers who shared Chava’s philosophy. I found that most teachers only knew how to teach one way and couldn’t deviate for any kids who looked at things a little differently. There was very little room for creativity and very little time to work with the kids who needed more help. The idea of teachers loving their students sounded so odd to me when I heard her say it. But I remembered a few special teachers who did make a difference in my life. A tenth grade English teacher, Mrs. Ali, took an interest in me and later had me tested for the Gifted program. At 17, I finally realized I might have been smarter than I thought. By 18, I figured out that I was the wrong kind of genius. My kind of genius can hold a decent conversation, write a good short story about what I did for my summer vacation, and figure out puzzles like the Rubiks Cube. The good kind of genius can help cure cancer. Unless I accidentally eat some kind of berry which turns out to isolate any cancer causing genes, I’m probably not going to cure any diseases. But I can film old people giving me advice.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Mort the Peanut Guy
My friend, Steve invited me to a Dodgers game this weekend. I don’t follow sports – I never did. My dad didn’t, so we didn’t. And on the extremely rare occasions where I find myself at a game, I’m usually at the very top of the stadium. But Steve – who is also my entertainment attorney – has great season tickets with his firm. As their lowest earning client - and the only one who just learned in the last ten years that the Dodgers were no longer in Brooklyn - I have no idea why he wasted them on me. I like playing baseball but never understood the allure of watching the game. Still, the seats were close to the action and almost directly behind home plate. It’s amazing what good seats do for you. I actually found out I loved watching baseball. And when it gets slow there is a constant stream of vendors selling junk food – it’s awesome.
While buying Dibs ice cream bites for Steve’s son, I met a vendor named Mort. I asked him how long he had been working at Dodger Stadium and he told me to guess. 10 years? Not even close. 20? Nope. 30? He laughed. 50 years. He handed me my ice cream, put his money in his pocket, and made his way up the stairs. 50 years hawking ice cream up and down the stadium? I had to talk to this guy. I helped Steve’s son finish his Dibs and told him I’d get him some more. I borrowed a pair of binoculars and spent twenty minutes searching for Mort. I spotted him in another section of the stadium and ran over to talk with him.
When I asked Mort if I could get his advice, he asked me, “Advice on what?” I said, “On anything,” and turned on the camera. He started talking right away. Mort’s one of those rare guys who loves what he does for a living. He loves the customers, he loves meeting people, and he loves the game. He has spent 50 years working the same job. Usually he’s selling peanuts – “people associate me with the peanuts” – but seeing an opportunity on a hot day, he took out the Dibs ice cream.
Mort made my day. He’s warm - and if you care enough to ask, then he’ll take the time to get to know you even when he’s working hard to make a dollar. He’s devoted the majority of his life to working for the Dodgers. And his son is doing the same thing. I hope that the Dodgers pay their respects to Mort this year. He deserves a paid day off where he can sit in the best seat in the house with his son and watch the Dodgers play a game at the stadium. Let someone else bring them some peanuts and Cracker Jack.
While buying Dibs ice cream bites for Steve’s son, I met a vendor named Mort. I asked him how long he had been working at Dodger Stadium and he told me to guess. 10 years? Not even close. 20? Nope. 30? He laughed. 50 years. He handed me my ice cream, put his money in his pocket, and made his way up the stairs. 50 years hawking ice cream up and down the stadium? I had to talk to this guy. I helped Steve’s son finish his Dibs and told him I’d get him some more. I borrowed a pair of binoculars and spent twenty minutes searching for Mort. I spotted him in another section of the stadium and ran over to talk with him.
When I asked Mort if I could get his advice, he asked me, “Advice on what?” I said, “On anything,” and turned on the camera. He started talking right away. Mort’s one of those rare guys who loves what he does for a living. He loves the customers, he loves meeting people, and he loves the game. He has spent 50 years working the same job. Usually he’s selling peanuts – “people associate me with the peanuts” – but seeing an opportunity on a hot day, he took out the Dibs ice cream.
Mort made my day. He’s warm - and if you care enough to ask, then he’ll take the time to get to know you even when he’s working hard to make a dollar. He’s devoted the majority of his life to working for the Dodgers. And his son is doing the same thing. I hope that the Dodgers pay their respects to Mort this year. He deserves a paid day off where he can sit in the best seat in the house with his son and watch the Dodgers play a game at the stadium. Let someone else bring them some peanuts and Cracker Jack.
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