Literatura científica selecionada sobre o tema "The Jewish folk school of Newark"

Abstract In 1969, My present, sister, and I moved from our row house apartment in the Jackson Heights section of Queens, New York, to a first-floor rental in a two-family house on Long Island. The reason was the racial desegregation of our neighborhood public schools. The civil rights movement, whose first stirrings had focused on southern school systems in the 1950s, had spread the country and was increasingly coming closer to home. This was apparent in the racial violence that now engulfed cities like Newark no less than Birmingham. Perhaps even more frightening than spectacular eruptions like the riots that followed the assassination of Martin Luther King were more lasting structural changes in everyday life. The previous year, a political struggle over school integration erupted in the Brooklyn neighborhoods of Ocean Hill–Brownsville, and in the ensuing arguments, which resulted in a state takeover of the schools, even former allies—the teachers’ union, black activists, Jewish residents—found themselves bitterly divided.

Abstract The first coach of the Dixie Flyer is divided into three parts: a long Jim Crow section; a cubbyhole which is the Jim Crow smoker, consisting of two seats that face each other on each side of the aisle; and a long section for whites. The Dixie Flyer was hurtling through central Georgia. It was late at night, and alone in the smoker, I had snatched a doze when their voices woke me. They were in the khaki of naval cadets. I could tell from their accent that they were from the North. They were criticizing the famed hospitality of the South. They had wanted to sit together, but nobody in the coach behind would move to another seat. A couple of fellows had refused a direct request even though they would have to sit beside a stranger in any case. Maybe the passengers detected that Yankee twang. So the cadets had come up to the Jim Crow smoker. One was dark-haired and short, looking a bit Jewish. The other was a tall blonde. As they scoffed at the local folk-ways, I ventured my question, “Where are you fellows from?” New York and Newark, they told me. I was just through an irritating experience at the Atlanta bus station and was hot and dog-tired. “God’s country,” I said.

Abstract Every Day During My Fourteen Years in New Haven-six in graduate school, eight on the faculty-I trudged across a large thoroughfare on my way from breakfast at Naples Pizza to Linsly-Chittenden Hall, home of Yale’s famous English department. On Fridays, the corner was occupied-there is no other word-by a group of Lubavitcher Hasidim who sought out Jewish-looking folk like myself, walked up to us, and shouted in our ears, “Excuse me, sir, are you Jewish?” Needless to say, they presented me with so ething of a dilemma. Had I answered yes-I never did-they would have escorted me into the back of their mitzvah-mobile, taught me a prayer or two, and helped me on the path toward Jewish enlightenment. I had no interest in this, since my own Jewishness consists of a passionate belief in voting the straight Democratic ticket, fasting on Yorn Kippur, eating bagels and lox-and doing no more. Had I answered no, however, I would have been disavowing not only my own Jewishness but also that of my family who after all, certain Europeans had tried to stick in ovens a generation earlier and who had only escaped their fates by a series of flukes too fortuitous to be believable.