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The Good Boy, the Ashram, or the Cheeseburger: What Will Become of the Rabbi’s Son

The fourth in a series of reflections about growing up in a rabbinic home

by
David Sable
August 22, 2017
Shutterstock
Shutterstock
Shutterstock
Shutterstock

In my experience with my rabbinic-son peers, one of three things generally happened to us. Either we became rabbis like our fathers, and dynasties were begun. Or we went completely off the reservation and ended up in ashrams or eating cheeseburgers on Yom Kippur, and spending lifetimes in therapy. Or we became Very Bad Boys, at least for a while: wild, longer hair than most, ready to try and do just about anything, and it was only because of our Rabbinic heritage that Mothers let us take out their daughters.

I grew up as the eldest child of a rabbi in a large semi-suburban community in New York City. I was everyone’s’ child. As the clergy family we belonged to the community, a double-edged sword in that it delivered both a warm embrace—some of the older members who are alive today still call me Dovid or Dovideleh—but on the flip side it could deliver a good frosk (slap), from many, if you were seen as misbehaving or being inappropriate.

Like the children of vaudevillians who were said to be “born to the trunk,” or of actors who are said to be born to the stage, I was born to the public pulpit, something not lost on me as I lecture and speak around the world. I was expected to perform in synagogue, long before anyone else of my age group. I sang in the choir while still of single-digit age, and soloed, too. And could deliver a dvar Torah, a thought about the weekly reading from the Torah or some general Jewish topic, beginning at the age of 5. This regimen turns some rabbis’ children into introverts, shying away from anything public. As for me, I still love a microphone and an audience.

Right before the holidays, I made some extra cash delivering orders for Siggie the Butcher, when he was swamped. I would get on my bike and, with packed saddle baskets, make the rounds. You see, the rabbi’s son got tipped really well! At least a quarter and sometimes a whole dollar. More money than I got in allowance week. So maybe it was Siggie and the big tippers, maybe the occasional frosk and more usual hug, or the Moms who overlooked their better instincts with their daughters because I was a rabbi’s son—but in the end I turned out okay. Not a rabbi, not a total wild man. But I was spared a lifetime of therapy and, despite its siren call, the cheeseburger as well.

See previous installments in this series here, here, and here.

David Sable is Global CEO of Y&R. He is a leader in the marketing industry and philanthropic endeavors, a digital pioneer, a prolific writer, and a deep believer in the power of people working together to bring change.