Earlier this week Frank Bruni, writing in the Op-Ed section of The New York Times, wrote about “The Families We Invent." Reflecting on reading a book based on NPR’s StoryCorps project, he writes:
how many others had found extraordinary, enduring intimacy outside of that context, stretching the definition of family, making clear that it’s not just or even chiefly about common genes …. It’s about common needs, common generosity. It’s an act of will as much as an accident of birth. That’s worth remembering during this merrymaking, reunion-heavy season, when “family” is usually invoked in terms too narrowly traditional.
Bruni is telling a story familiar to me and familiar to so many of us who have experienced the magic of Ramah: sometimes family is as much acquired and chosen as an inherited given.
In this week’s Torah reading, Vayiggash, we read of the coming together of a fractured, dysfunctional family. As we approach the end of Genesis, the literal and figurative ups and downs of the Joseph narrative help wrap together the father-son and brother-brother conflicts that have motivated so much of the narrative and that come to mind when we first think about the major characters in the book: Cain, Noah, Abraham, Lot, Isaac, Ishmael, Jacob, Esau, Laban, Reuben, Joseph, and Judah. The détente and forgiveness that come at the climax of a story that, looking back, foretells the political and military dominance of the tribes who will descend from Judah and Joseph, eventually serve as lessons to all Jews that our familial ties extend beyond our nuclear or extended families to all of b’nei Yisrael, literally each of the children of Israel/Jacob. The implicit message our tradition presents is that families – in the classical sense – are fraught and complex entities; we must find the common good in others and pursue those bonds for the communal good. This is one of the great messages that resonate on an individual level of the national narratives that take up the next four books of the Torah: while Moses’ and Aaron’s relationship has its rocky moments, the stalwart support that Joshua, Hur, and Caleb provide Moses emerges not from close familial ties but from some shared sense of greater purpose.
In this week’s Torah reading, Vayiggash, we read of the coming together of a fractured, dysfunctional family. As we approach the end of Genesis, the literal and figurative ups and downs of the Joseph narrative help wrap together the father-son and brother-brother conflicts that have motivated so much of the narrative and that come to mind when we first think about the major characters in the book: Cain, Noah, Abraham, Lot, Isaac, Ishmael, Jacob, Esau, Laban, Reuben, Joseph, and Judah. The détente and forgiveness that come at the climax of a story that, looking back, foretells the political and military dominance of the tribes who will descend from Judah and Joseph, eventually serve as lessons to all Jews that our familial ties extend beyond our nuclear or extended families to all of b’nei Yisrael, literally each of the children of Israel/Jacob. The implicit message our tradition presents is that families – in the classical sense – are fraught and complex entities; we must find the common good in others and pursue those bonds for the communal good. This is one of the great messages that resonate on an individual level of the national narratives that take up the next four books of the Torah: while Moses’ and Aaron’s relationship has its rocky moments, the stalwart support that Joshua, Hur, and Caleb provide Moses emerges not from close familial ties but from some shared sense of greater purpose.
In my adolescence, swept up in the power of my Ramah friends and my summer experiences to inspire and elevate the mundane realities of the school year, I likely overstated the power of “invented family,” a.k.a. friends. Growing up away from aunts, uncles, and grandparents, my early childhood was populated by dear friends of my parents who remain crucial figures in my life today. And the multigenerational family that Ramah has provided me is the greatest of many gifts the camp has offered. The opportunities to continue to learn from the wisdom of surrogate Ramah parents, aunts, and uncles; to be counseled, taught, and mentored by versions of the older siblings I never had; and to know the joy of watching my own campers (and, now, “grandcampers” and “greatgrandcampers”) grow up and make me so proud.
I would make one change to Bruni. In my experience, it is less about “common needs” than a common background and interest. The crucible of our summers at Ramah, 24/7 living in a vibrant Jewish environment that pushes our campers to take on many roles beyond their years, creates a second backbone to their lives, one populated by individuals who become almost like family. This is, perhaps, a secret of the relationships in the Torah: so many of the dysfunctional siblings grew up in what probably were de facto separate households. Just as different life experiences can tear apart the value of genetic family, so too, we may imagine, can reinforced shared experiences pull together people of no obvious relation.
Bruni is right about much, including “common generosity.” On Thursday evening, representatives of Nivonim 1994 through 2005 gathered together for a young alumni phonathon, kicking off our annual scholarship campaign with a bang: raising over $20,000 from more than 130 alumni under thirty-five, dollars which have already been matched one-to-one and which will serve to leverage and inspire an additional thousand donors to support Ramah Wisconsin over the course of this fiscal year. Listening to my friends, former colleagues, and campers – many of whom I consider part of my extended Ramah family – reaching out to their peers from camp was a powerful reminder of the shared destiny that Ramah has cultivated in our alumni. The truth of a shared past leads to a belief in a shared future. Common backgrounds and interests lead to communal generosity.
In the weeks to come, our Torah readings will depart from the stories of individuals and family units to encompass a national narrative: a dark descent into slavery, a rapid redemption and victory, and the long and twisted journey towards nationhood for the Israelite nation. That story, and our own, will serve to underscore another correction any Ramahnik would make to Bruni’s title: our friendship families are not “invented,” they are forged by the passion and close quarters of magic-making educational institutions like Camp Ramah in Wisconsin.
Shabbat Shalom
