To Mr Gottlieb.. with love

So why did it take  the end of his ninety-four years on the planet for me to realize  how deep my crush on Sidney Poitier actually  was?

I knew I loved that voice..that charisma..that handsome face..THAT ACCENT...but it took his passing, and revisiting his old movie,s to help me remember the details of that love.

We're saving "Lilies of the Field" and "In the Heat of the Night" but we watched "A Patch of Blue" over the weekend, and "To Sir, With Love" tonight, and boy, did the memories flood me..me and my tear ducts.

I remember wearing pigtails like that, crocheted dresses like that..white lipstick like that.

I remember seeing a matinee of the movie in the late sixties, with all the girls from Brith Israel Hebrew School, when Corinne, who had already seen the movie, told us exactly what those vile young women were burning in that classroom, when Poitier's Mr. Thackery made the boys  leave the room.

I wanted to ask Corinne:  "Who volunteered her used sanitary napkin?  Who has access to a functional stove in a classroom? Why are they allowed to smoke?" but I was too shocked and grossed out  about the Kotex to ask any questions.

I remember seeing the movie with my six besties. 

 I remember questioning our faith at times with these girls.

  I remember my unfixed mutt trying to hump one of them(Corinne, I believe) when I finally  had a pajama party.

And I remember thinking it was okay to act up in Hebrew School--pulling pranks I could never get away with as a goody-two shoes, A student in the Philadelphia Public School system.

We were bad.

We were tough.

We were punks!

I smoked three cigarettes in my entire life, all in that bathroom in my synagogue, and when the rabbi ratted me out to my mother, her only response, was, "that's okay..just don't have sex before you're married."

I justified being bad in Hebrew School because it was only two days a week(plus Sunday) and it wouldn't affect my ability to get into a good college.  I changed two "D's" into "B's" on my report card  right in front of my Hebrew School teacher and laughed it off.

If he contacted my parents, it just meant my BFF and fellow troublemaker Marla would double our crank calls to him.

Seeing "To Sir, With Love" in its  original theatrical release justified this behavior..they were obnoxious, so I, we,  could be too!

I gained the respect of the rabbi and staff, just a little, when I penned a Chanukah play during the height of "Rowan and Martin's Laugh In's" popularity:  I remember writing  the line, "Here comes the oil..here comes the oil!", with Marla doing her near-perfect impersonation of Sammy Davis Jr.

I gained respect of the cantor by memorizing my whole Torah portion in a matter of days, only to be told the cantor gave me the wrong one just two weeks before my bat mitzvah! 

 And the rabbi had to tell a white lie to the old geezers, saying "Karen is such a gifted student that we let her choose her OWN Torah portion!"

Hey Rabbi Rothenberg, if you're so comfortable with lies and cover-ups, why'd you blab to my parents about the smoking in the bathroom? 

 My Mom was stressed enough that I'd have my first cycle in that lacy  white bat mitzvah dress with the hideous green ribbon down the front, and I was stressed that no boy would ask me to dance at my own party..with a real live band..and here was the rabbi, worrying that someone would figure out I jumped ahead of where we were supposed to be in those ancient scrolls.

"To Sir, With Love"..you really have me trekking down Memory Lane tonight. You have me crushing on Sidney Poitier, you had me laughing with my husband who said he was a bad seed in his Hebrew School  as well, while growing up in Ohio--it was expected of us  nerds to be horrid in a different environment.

But then I thought about the teasing that backfired. when kindly Mr. Gottlieb was our very patient teacher, as patient as Sidney Poitier's "Sir" was.  

He wouldn't be the victim of our pranks and cigarette breath and phony phone calls, not Mr. Gottlieb.

And one day, the hateful twelve year old me starting giggling, asking Mr. Gottlieb why he had my initials, "KL", tattooed on his arm.

He explained to me and my bestie Marla that it was not by choice..that he slept on straw and ate nothing but bread crusts and barely escaped with his life while living in a concentration camp...where he got the "tattoo."

This time, we didn't laugh.

We didn't want to be a sexy Londoner in shiny white gogo boots and hoop earrings.

This time, we cried.

We cried, and we apologized for our awfulness.

And now I'm crying as I type this memory, because I just realized:  I really, really, really am going to miss Sidney Poitier.