Sunday, June 13, 1971.

Why am I trying to become what I don’t want to be . . . when all I want

is out there, waiting for me the minute I say I know who I am.

—Arthur Miller, Death of a Salesman.

I was seventeen years old. This evening, Aunt Minnie (my father’s
youngest sister) and her husband held a pidyon haben for their
newborn grandson at their house. A pidyon haben, or “redemption
of the firstborn son,” is a Jewish ceremony wherein the father of a
firstborn male—here, the father being my cousin, Mark—
redeems his son by giving a kohen (a priestly descendant of Aaron)
five silver coins, thirty days after the baby’s birth in accordance
with the biblical commandment: "Every Male Firstborn Shall You
Redeem." Aunt Minnie had recruited Izzy Cohen, known to the
family as Izzy the barber, to perform the ritual; his family heritage
qualified him to serve as the kohen. My cousin Mark handed Izzy
several silver coins and received his infant son in exchange. The
redemption was complete with the kohen blessing the child. The
observance of Jewish religious custom was a rationale for a large
family gathering, I suppose.

Izzy had a long history with my father’s family going back to their
old neighborhood in North Philadelphia, where he owned a
barber shop. Apparently, his shop is where Freedman males got
their hair cut. In family conversations, Izzy the Barber was
frequently confused with my Uncle Izzy, my father’s older brother.
In family gossip, when someone referred to “Izzy” a Freedman
would query, “Our Izzy?” and the response would be: “No, Izzy
the Barber.” I don’t know how many times I heard that
conversational sequence growing up: “Our Izzy?”—“No, Izzy the
Barber.” It was like dialogue out of Seinfeld!

My high school commencement later in the week passed without

observance. The graduation ceremony was held in the morning at
the Academy of Music in Philadelphia. I chatted with my social
studies teacher, Mr. Finkelstein, in the Academy ballroom. “I
expected so much from you at the beginning of the school term,”
he said. “I remember you got the highest grade in the class in the
economics test I gave last September. Then your performance
fizzled out. What happened?” Then: “Do you have college
squared away?” “Yes,” I said, “I’ll be going to Penn State.”
Immediately after the graduation ceremony, I left the Academy
for work. It was a day like any other.

My parents had attended the commencement and later, in the

evening, my father said: “I listened to those speeches the top
honors boys gave. You’re as smart as they are. You should have
been up there on stage giving a speech.” My father had attended
Central High School, but quit in the tenth grade, in 1920. On
occasion, he mentioned how he and his mother had to meet with
Dr. John Louis Haney, one of Central’s celebrated past principals,
traditionally referred to as “President” of the school. My father
never reached his potential.

In Arthur Miller’s play, Death of a Salesman the unstable, insecure,

and self-deluded Willy Loman wants his son Biff to become a
business success, although Biff has an internal struggle between
pleasing his father and leading an authentic life, true to who he
really is. Biff dreams of being outside on a cattle ranch while
Willy wants him behind a corporate desk. Willy's lamentable
insistence on seeking fulfillment for himself through Biff puts
enormous pressure on his son, and Biff resents being forced to
play the role of family hero whose task it is to win fame and
fortune for the family. Did I, like Biff Loman, feel guilty because I
recognized a responsibility that I could not fulfill, the
responsibility to redeem my father’s empty life?