What’s the Right Response?

As a regular Shabbat attendee, I was familiar with the M.O. of a congregant, Mr. J., who liked to joke around with friends at the Kiddush after services. He entertained the folks near him with anecdotes that I considered to be often misogynistic, ethnically-intolerant, and sometimes crude and off-color. His weekly Kiddush cohort consisted of folks who were thoughtful, kind, respectable, and seemingly respectful of others, so their support of the raconteur surprised me. In fact, some of them had told me they were embarrassed by this guy’s standard fare, but they weren’t willing to risk insulting him. For a while, I hung out with friends in Mr. J.’s circle, but eventually, rather than speaking up and suggesting that Mr. J. alter his repertory, I simply stopped being part of the group. I held my tongue, not very brave.

Mr. J. and his family eventually moved to Florida, but during the time he entertained his Kiddush pals, I never expressed my feelings to him or confronted him or any of my friends who inadvertently encouraged his patter. What reaction might I have received from my friends? Was I a joke-content policeman? A self-appointed, holier-than-thou critic? Would I have made a difference?

A couple of weeks ago, when I was shopping for groceries, I saw a customer grab a couple of candy bars from a display kiosk and pop them into his coat pocket. I wasn’t the only person who noticed the theft. As the miscreant disappeared into the aisles, I turned to a woman next to me, “Did you see what I just saw?” I asked her. She nodded, “It’s just candy bars. The store can afford it.” I was surprised by her nonchalant answer. “The guy’s brazen, an out-and-out thief; you know these little thefts add up and make the prices higher for the rest of us,” I countered. “If you’re so worried, you can go and find the guy and tell him to return the candy bars,” she snapped, as she turned and moved on. I didn’t know what to do, but I did mention the theft to the cashier when I checked out. She shrugged her shoulders and continued to punch the cash register. “You could tell the cop in front, but he probably wouldn’t bother frisking him to look for candy bars,” she laughed. “Anyway, the guy’s probably long gone by now.”

The story doesn’t end there. I spotted the fellow with the purloined candy bars sitting on a bench near the store. I was sure it was the same fellow, and I wondered if he recognized me and knew I’d witnessed his snatch. He didn’t move a muscle; I kept my mouth closed and kept walking.

Recently, I was driving down a busy street in Decatur and slammed on my brakes when I saw a little girl running from her yard toward the road. As I caught my breath for a few minutes, grateful that I had seen her in time, I looked around to check if an adult or older sibling was on site. Yes, an adult was descending from the porch, from which she was supposedly watching the toddler. While I sat in my car thinking how to respond to the averted tragedy, the woman in charge hurried toward the little girl, grabbed the child’s arm and scolded her for heading toward the street. What good, I thought, would it do to defend the child and question the woman? I was sure the woman was in no mood to discuss effective child supervision. “Good I didn’t hit her,” I said. We looked each other in the eye, then I drove off, without saying another word. From my rearview mirror, I saw the woman directing her charge up the porch steps.

These accounts are of three people who crossed different personal red lines, but I didn’t confront them. How and when to intervene is problematic, and we can’t predict the consequences. I told the near-miss story to my pragmatic friend, Joyce, whose response was, “Why get upset? Let it go. Nobody died.” Thank G-d.