I sing to my grandsons, one via the wonders of video "Skype-ing," and
the other up close and very personal. I perform the usual stuff mostly: "The Wheels on the Bus," "Old MacDonald,""Itsey-bitsey Spider", and "The Alphabet Song," with everyone's favorite line: "L-M-N-O-P."
One day, however, I found myself, singing a made-up ditty in Spanish to my Jewish-Mexican-American, two and a half year-old, West Coast grandson with a tune that seemed vaguely familiar but that I could not, at first, place: "Yo tengo hambre ahora, Yo tengo hambre ahora, Yo tengo ha-ambre ahora, Yo tengo hambre, hambre, hambre ahoraaa." That, by the way, translates to: "I'm hungry now" which he usually is.
I searched my brain for the origins of the tune and discovered its source in the long buried confines of my youthful synagogue attending memories. It was the music to: "Heiveinu Sholom Aleichem." "Peace be with you" is how that translates, more or less. This is a nice sentiment that may explain its continued presence in my neuronal liturgical coffers despite my having long ago strayed from the fold.
I sing to my grandsons, one via the wonders of video "Skype-ing," and the other up close and very personal. I perform the usual stuff mostly: "The Wheels on the Bus," "Old MacDonald,""Itsey-bitsey Spider", and "The Alphabet Song," with everyone's favorite line: "L-M-N-O-P."
One day, however, I found myself, singing a made-up ditty in Spanish to my Jewish-Mexican-American, two and a half year-old, West Coast grandson with a tune that seemed vaguely familiar but that I could not, at first, place: "Yo tengo hambre ahora, Yo tengo hambre ahora, Yo tengo ha-ambre ahora, Yo tengo hambre, hambre, hambre ahoraaa." That, by the way, translates to: "I'm hungry now" which he usually is.
I searched my brain for the origins of the tune and discovered its source in the long buried confines of my youthful synagogue attending memories. It was the music to: "Heiveinu Sholom Aleichem." "Peace be with you" is how that translates, more or less. This is a nice sentiment that may explain its continued presence in my neuronal liturgical coffers despite my having long ago strayed from the fold.
In any event, a few weeks later, I'm telling this little anecdote to a group of Hispanic therapists with whom I work, and one tells me: "We sing that in church all the time." Hearing this, I was sure she wasn't referring to either the newly minted or the older Hebraic versions of the song. When I asked what she meant, she sang: "La paz de Dios es contigo" (The peace of God is with you) to the same tune and phrasing I had used while singing long ago in the Synagogue and the one I had offered, fifty odd years later, to the delight of my grandson.
Later that same week, I shared this now embellished story with a group of psychology interns that I supervise. One had been born in Israel, another was Armenian-American, a third was of Italian descent, and a fourth was here in the U.S. on an exchange program from Norway. "I learned that song when I was in grade school," offered the Scandinavian doctoral candidate. Whereupon, she began to sing the words in Hebrew with a decidedly Norwegian accent. "Get out of here!" said her Israeli colleague. "Yes," she said, we learned it in Hebrew, French, and Norwegian.
How this music migrated from Tel Aviv through Tiajuana with a stop in Oslo remains a mystery. Its travels, perhaps, are yet another sign of that difficult to admit prospect that we are all alike under our skin and we all want the same things. For example, despite their ethnic divide, my son and his wife found each other, and discovered they have much, almost everything that counts, in common. I'm even told my daughter-in-law's family in Mexico plays a gambling game with a top at Christmas time. Stay tuned for more about that in this year's Hanukah issue.
In the meantime, sing a little something, ancient or modern, to someone you love. Who knows what you will discover?