Sid Stein Goes to Church

Many traditions die hard. Some are good. For example, I have been attending Siena College basketball games with my father for nearly 25 years. Together, we have watched the program grow from a small Division III school to a Division I mid-major contender which has gone to the “Big Dance” the last two years in a row. The team used to play its home schedule at the school’s 4,000 seat gym – the ARC. For quite a few years now, Siena has held court at Albany’s 13,000-seat Times Union Center which has all the size, amenities and feel of a major civic center. Going to Siena games is a father-son tradition I cherish. We sit in the same seats every year with the other season tickets holders, most of whom we only see during basketball season. Each November, when the season starts, it’s like a family reunion. We reacquaint ourselves with the other members of the Siena “family,” catching up on news and what has transpired in the off-season. Without a doubt, it’s something I look forward to year after year.

On the other hand, some traditions are bad - racism, for example. The election of Barack Obama notwithstanding, racism still exists. Here in Albany, there are two distinct African-American neighborhoods, one north and one south of the downtown area. Both are impoverished and both are generally avoided by the area’s white residents. If that’s not quite racism, it’s a vestige of racial division. Beyond bemoaning the situation, there is little I can do except participate in the political process and try to elect officials who stand for change. For anyone familiar with politics in Albany, change comes slowly if at all.

Siena basketball has become so popular that parking downtown for games has become a problem. Although parking on city streets is free after 6:00 p.m., the spots close to the arena downtown fill up quickly. Even the garages and surface lots have more cars than they can handle when there is a big game. Although parking in a garage isn’t too costly, getting out of the garage after a game can be a nightmare, so I always tried to find a spot on the street. One never knows when one has to make a quick getaway.

Faced with ever growing crowds and my own inability to get out of the house early, I found myself in a parking predicament. Where to park? Driving around searching for a spot one evening, I found a solution which has worked every time since.

Even though Herkimer Street isn’t far, just a few blocks south of the arena, it is located in a poor, predominantly African-American section of the city called the Pastures. The Pastures was once the center of Jewish life many years ago and over the years, I have heard stories from my parents and others about various Jewish businesses which once thrived there. On Herkimer Street itself, stands the old synagogue Beth-El Jacob, where my grandfather (deceased) and my father sometimes worshipped. Even though it is now a church, St. John’s Church of God in Christ, Hebrew letters carved into the stone above the front doors are visible as well as a big Jewish Star of David in stained glass.

Besides the comfortable feeling I got from my historic connection to Herkimer Street, I discovered that there was always a place there to park. I thought how fortunate I was to find a regular parking spot so close to the arena. Then, I felt guilty. After all, my good fortune was the result of racism. White people are apparently nervous about parking in a black neighborhood. Other people’s misfortune has given me a place for my car. Despite my natural Jewish urge toward guilt, it hasn’t stopped me from parking there. I mean, why should I perpetuate racism even if I am, in some small way, taking advantage of it?

Confident that I would have a parking spot, I set off for a game this past December. Sure enough, I found a spot on Herkimer Street and made my way to the arena. I was looking forward to a fun game and spending time with my father. Even though I hadn’t eaten much that day, I was in such a good mood that I decided to have a beer. The line at the Brooklyn Brewery kiosk was short so I bought a flavorful lager. I found my way to my seat, sat down with my father and the other members of my Siena “family” and enjoyed the first half. Siena was playing a team from Delaware which was sorely overmatched. I was glad I decided to have the beer.
During halftime, I walked back to the Brooklyn Brewery kiosk and ordered another beer. I thought, why not? It’s one of those fun games when you know your team is going to win without a struggle. Might as well enjoy it fully and hope for some great dunks.

By the time ten minutes had passed in the second half, I was bored. The game was a blowout. Figuring that the Siena coach would start to play his bench, which usually means sloppier play and more free throws, I decided to leave early. I was also a little buzzed.

I put my jacket on and made my way out of the arena. I was in a merry mood as I headed down South Pearl Street toward Herkimer. It’s not more than a leisurely five minute walk. When I got to my car, I was dismayed to find a whole row of cars double-parked on Herkimer, blocking my exit. Now what? And, I had to pee!

On the stoop of a brownstone by my car stood a group of five or six African-American twenty-somethings clad in what best can be described as ghetto gear – hoodies, caps and bling. Is this what I get for taking advantage of racism? I turned to them, looked them over and asked if they knew why so many cars were double-parked. They laughed and told me that everyone was at church –except for them, of course. I said that I guessed I would have to go to church and find out what was going on. One of them replied that I looked a little too tipsy to be going to church. They all laughed again, but my mind was made up. Besides, this would be an opportunity to visit the former Beth El Jacob synagogue. And off I went.

As I approached the steps, I stopped to look at the building. I made my way up the steps to the front doors of the building. They were wood and looked old – maybe original. The first door I tried was locked. So were the next two doors. I wondered if anyone was in church at all. Had I been lied to? Was the group down the street still laughing at me? I tried the fourth door. It was open. I went in.

There was a small anteroom which led to the main sanctuary. I peeked through the glass in the sanctuary doors just to make sure there were people there. The church was only about a quarter full and someone was preaching. It was clear that the service wasn’t over yet. Since I had two beers, I decided to find a men’s room before I joined the congregation. I hoped that no one would see me. I didn’t want to look like a tipsy homeless person just looking for a warm place to pee.

I eventually took a seat in a pew toward the back of the church. I became the sole white attendee. Yes, I felt out of place, but these were good Christians who were more interested in worshipping the Lord than worrying about why I was there. There was preaching and singing. A real revival! A small combo consisting of an organ, drums and maybe a bass guitar accompanied the singing. There weren’t any Mahalia Jacksons there, but the gospel singing was pleasant, warm and uplifting.
The service was everything I expected. Congregants were singing for Jesus and dancing around the sanctuary. One teenage boy showed his jubilation by running exuberantly around the room. As I enjoyed the sights and sounds, I was wondering what people might expect from the lone white person there. Was I supposed to do cartwheels down the aisle like John Belushi in the Blues Brothers?

I didn’t engage in any acrobatics. Instead, I sat there quietly, somewhat overwhelmed by the history of the place. Except for a simple large cross which adorned the wall behind the altar, it didn’t look like much had changed from when it was a synagogue. Above the cross was a large round, stained-glass window depicting a Jewish Star of David. On both side walls, there were four smaller but long stained-glass panels with the same Jewish star adorning the top of each one. At the bottom of the eight smaller windows, the names of the Jewish donors of each window were still visible in the stained-glass.

I receded into a long-forgotten Jewish history as I listened to gospel music and preaching. I thought about my now deceased friend, Nathan Rosenstein, who used to own a market not far from the synagogue and how he might have prayed here on the Sabbath and High Holy days. As I soaked up the sweet sounds of the gospel music, I contemplated how the Jewish community in Albany has changed over the years, migrating from downtown to uptown and beyond to the suburbs. Somehow I was filled with bittersweet memories which were not my own – memories which had now been supplanted with the hope of salvation through Jesus.

A few people stood up to testify about how Jesus had entered their lives during difficult circumstances, helping them manage one crisis or another. Some spoke of minor “miracles” about finding their way after being lost on a trip while others spoke about help bestowed upon their family in a time of sickness. There were many “Amens.”

At some point during the service, a man stood in front of the congregation. He brought out two wicker baskets which he placed on a table in front of the congregation. The preacher spoke about the importance of supporting the church. When he was finished talking, worshippers stood up and approached the table, depositing their donations in one basket or the other. Not wanting to be the only person who didn’t pay his dues to the Lord, I reached into my pocket and pulled out two five-dollar bills. I stood up and walked down the center aisle, a five in each hand. As I reached the baskets, I smiled and deposited a bill in each one before returning to my seat.

Before long, the service concluded. People got up and began talking to their fellow worshippers. I stood up too and was immediately greeted by a woman who said, “G-d bless you.” “G-d bless you too,” I replied. More than one person came up to me and greeted me in a similar fashion. It was very endearing.

Still feeling a little tipsy, I approached the altar and found an older woman standing by herself. I told her the following story:
“You know, I wasn’t planning on coming to church tonight. I went to the Siena game and parked my car here on Herkimer Street. When I got back, I discovered all these cars were double-parked blocking me in so I came into the church to see what was going on. I didn’t want to disrupt the service so I sat in the back. I am Jewish and my grandfather and father used to worship here back in the days when it was a synagogue. I just want you to know how happy I am to find that this building is still a house of G-d. So, even though I started out by going to a basketball game, I guess G-d wanted me to come here and find some religion.”

The woman was thoroughly delighted with my tale, blessed me and asked me to come back again. I was so delighted that she liked my story that I went around and repeated it at least five times to other members of the church. They were all delighted as well and offered to help me find who was double-parked. I told them not to worry about it. I said I was happy to come to church and was sure that because the service was concluded, my car would be freed soon. Amen!

With a big smile on my face, I left the church and walked back to my car. Sure enough, someone had left allowing me to navigate out of my parking spot and head on home. The same twenty-somethings who had laughed at me when I first arrived were still there. They were still laughing, but now somewhat impressed that I had actually ventured into the church. One of them added: “You don’t look so tipsy anymore!” And off I went.








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Sid Stein Gets Bouncy

When my wife and I split up, I moved into a house we owned and rented out. We lived in the house for a few years when we were a young couple with young children. Neighbors change over the years and I was pleased to meet a young couple who had just moved in next door. They were both nice and the young wife quite pretty. I also learned, through the chain-link fence which separated our yards, that she liked to sunbathe in her backyard. Sadly, they decided to spoil my viewing pleasure by erecting a wood fence just high enough so that I couldn't see over it. I couldn't see through it either, for that matter. So, I bought a trampoline. Granted, it's not as easy as just turning your head to catch a glimpse of the bathing beauty, but it is fun and they can't really complain. Another neighbor bought one too!

Speaking of things bouncy, I went to last year's local Irish festival held at the Altamont Fairgrounds. It was my first one and I had a nice time with all the Irish people even though I felt very self-conscious as a Jew. I bought a t-shirt which says: "Irish Girls Rule." That seemed to endear me to the crowd. Anyway, to my surprise and delight, they had a Bouncy Bounce ride there. However, since it was an Irish festival, it was a Guinness bouncy bounce. Go figure!

Sid Stein vs. The Ku Klux Klan

I recently celebrated my 51st birthday. Although I try to enjoy the day from year to year, certain birthdays have been more successful than others, as I assume is the case for most people. Some have been memorable, some forgettable, some happy, some sad. For my 51st, I didn’t make any special plans. Because all my children were going to be out of town, I decided to keep things low-key and just go out dancing with a friend – simple, yet fun. However, when I realized that my birthday fell on the same Saturday as Albany’s St. Patrick’s Day Parade, my expectations for having a good time were significantly lowered. They were reduced even further when I learned that we were anticipating the best weather enjoyed by the parade in recent memory – sunny and warm, a rarity in Albany during March. Given that the Irish population in Albany County is large, approaching 25%, and given Irish drinking predilections, I was less than hopeful that there would be a lot of people with whom to celebrate that night. I expected most people would be drunk and tired by dinner time. So, I was not surprised when I didn’t hear from my Irish-American dance partner.

Even though the weather was great, I did not attend the parade. With our high concentration of Irish, it often seems like we celebrate St. Patrick’s Day every week. In other words, after living here for so many years, I just didn’t need another Irish-centric day, even if I could have enjoyed telling people that the city threw a parade in honor of my birthday.

However, when the reality of being stood up on my birthday sunk in, I was feeling quite down. Even though I wasn’t expecting the best birthday celebration ever, I certainly didn’t consider the possibility that I would be alone. I should have known better than to make plans with an Irish girl on the day of the St. Patrick’s Day Parade. Live and learn.

As the evening wore on and I began to sink into the depths of despair, I rallied. I wasn’t going to let my disappointment get the best of me. There was always karaoke at Maggie’s to lift my spirits. And, I knew there would be spirits. And people too! Even people who liked and appreciated Sid Stein! So, I hopped into the shower, dressed and set off to Maggie’s Sports Bar.
Maggie’s was packed. Based on all the new faces I saw when I walked in, and their rowdy demeanors, it was clear that many of the patrons had wandered in after the parade. The more the merrier, right?

I made my way to the bar, stopping to say hello to the DJ and some of the regulars. Many were anxious to hear me sing “Gin and Juice” by Snoop Dogg, so after I ordered a drink, I put the famous rap song in with Johnny the DJ. I had finished my first drink and had started another when I got the call to sing. Since the song is partially about drinking, I always feel more comfortable with a little alcohol in my system before I go up.

I was feeling it that night. It was my birthday, so I felt more inspired than usual. I sauntered around the room as I rapped, making eye contact with my fans at Maggie’s and making the girls giggle when I shouted BIATCH! They loved it. Applause! Applause! Then I turned around.
In the past, I have encountered some resistance from a minority of people when I sing “Gin and Juice.” There was that one woman who slapped me, an incident I recalled in a previous story. My friend, Greg the DJ, from Pinto and Hobbs, told me that an African-American patron once mildly protested and asked him to prevent me from singing it. Greg defended my right to sing whatever I wanted pursuant to the Freedom to Rap Clause in the First Amendment. Greg was not about to institute different rules for different races. 5950 caps off to Greg.

When I turned around after finishing “Gin and Juice,” however, I was confronted with a spectacle I had never quite expected. To say that the man bearing down on me was huge is a gross understatement. He was a mountain. At least 6’5”, he weighed a good 275 pounds. His biceps were the size of my thighs. He was white, bald with a goatee and reminded me of a very scary Hells’ Angel. He did have a bit of a belly, but it was one of the iron-looking stomachs on which you would probably hurt your hand if you hit it.

As this skinhead pointed his finger at me in a very threatening manner, he was shouting –“You’re white! You’re white.” I didn’t know how to react. I just stood there stupefied and stared at him, as if to say, “What the fuck is your problem?” Of course, no way was I going to say that to him. He could have popped my head like a cherry tomato. Apparently, my detractor objected to my singing a song by a black man, and more particularly, a rap song. As I continued to stand there dumbstruck by his outburst, he said, “If you don’t stop looking at me like that, I am going to fucking kill you.”

Yikes!

At this point, Maggie stepped in and confronted this miscreant. As she did, he started pounding his fist in the air while bellowing “White Power! White Power!”

At that point, I thought it best to work my way back to the bar and get far away from this guy. I even took off my bowler hat to be less conspicuous. Then I tried teaching myself how to breathe

again.

As I sat at the bar, a scuffle broke out behind me. I turned around to find the neo-Nazi and a few of his friends involved in a pushing and shoving match with Jimmy (a regular) and a few others. I had no idea what caused the confrontation, but I was just as glad not to be a part of it. All of the guys were bigger than I. There was a good deal of shouting going on but I wasn’t sure what was being said. Girlfriends were trying to push their muscular boyfriends back to keep them out of trouble. You could almost hear them. “Please don’t fight! Stay out of it!” Adding a little humor to the scene, some guy was trying to sing a ballad the entire time. Johnny the DJ had to cut it short.

Order was finally restored but there was a pervasive unease at Maggie’s. Jimmy didn’t help matters when he subsequently sang “Rapper’s Delight,” the original rap song, by the Sugarhill Gang. The Grand Dragon stood up and shouted something but didn’t renew any physical hostilities. Jimmy, although tall, is as skinny as a rail and was clearly pushing the safety envelope. Still, I appreciated the fact that he was backing me up.

I suppose I should pause here and say something poignant about racism. It still exists.

I stayed on my barstool while karaoke continued. I wanted to go out and have a smoke, but that

would have meant passing the table where the Klan was having its post cross-burning party. I wasn’t taking any chances. I considered quitting.

I did, however, have a chance to find out about the specifics of the scuffle. It was about me, or more correctly, about the song I sang. Apparently, Jimmy asked the Grand Dragon something to the effect of “what the fuck is wrong with you?” Talk about taking chances. I was impressed. In response, Mr. White Power said to Jimmy, “I eat guys like you for breakfast.” Jimmy even had an answer. “It sure looks like you do.” Now that’s what I call testosterone.

I was a little surprised that Maggie didn’t throw the guy out, but that may have caused an even bigger problem. There was no one there big enough to handle my new enemy (he was with friends too) and it would have meant calling the police, which is never good for business. And, Maggie knew something I didn’t. This guy was a corrections officer at some jail or prison in the area. He probably knew the cops. At least Maggie didn’t throw me out. I guess she just crossed her fingers and hoped for the best.

Things did calm down after a while and I soon felt comfortable enough to go out and have a smoke. Of course, I did avoid any eye contact with New York’s biggest supporter of David Dukes.

While I was outside, I was approached by some guy who turned out to be a friend of “Sarge.” Apparently, that was either his rank or nickname or both. It was this guy from whom I originally learned that Sarge was a corrections officer. He tried to explain to me the stresses of the job and how working in a jail can change a person. I had no idea that working with the “scum of the earth” (his phrase) turned someone into a raging racist, but hey, you learn something new everyday. Sarge’s friend went on to explain that Sarge was really a great guy but maybe had too much to drink. It was the day of the parade, after all. He even offered to bring me over and introduce me to Sarge. I politely declined. I explained that maybe if Sarge wasn’t so drunk, it might be different, but I didn’t think it was prudent to take any chances that night. As if! In any event, he told me I wouldn’t have to worry about anything else that night, not from Sarge or from any of his corrections officer colleagues. Terrific!

I thought that it might help to sing a different kind of song to ameliorate the mood at Maggie’s, so I sang “Moondance” by Van Morrison, the famous Irish singer/songwriter. I thought that would be appropriate for St. Patrick’s Day. Besides, who doesn’t love Van Morrison?
I finished the song without incident. Sarge stayed at his table and continued to drink beer with members of his chapter of the Klan. My breathing finally returned to normal. Since the worst seemed to be over, I felt comfortable enough to talk about it with some of the other regulars at the bar. I just couldn’t get over the fact that this guy became so agitated just because I sang a rap song. I said to a friend, “Look at me! I am a fifty year old Jewish guy with four kids. If I was really ghetto, I would have pulled a gun out and shot the guy. Boy, is he lucky.”

I really couldn’t believe what happened next. Sarge got up with a friend to sing a song of his own. Before he started, he said something derogatory about Barack Obama and then told all the people who loved n****r music to get the hell out. And what did he sing? The modern-day anthem of the white South, “Sweet Home Alabama,” by Lynyrd Skynyrd. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sweet_Home_Alabama_(song)

Fortunately, Sarge left soon after he sang his song. I haven’t seen him since. I am not exactly unhappy about that fact. 

I reflected on the events of the evening. I have always enjoyed singing “Gin and Juice” on karaoke night and most times, people love it. Still, never before had I ever inspired such passion with my singing. Pretty "sweet" if you think about it. On my birthday too! Also glad that "Sarge" didn't find out that I am Jewish!