In 2000, after a decade as a professor, dean and vice president at USC, I began my tenure as president of Williams College. My first week of work, I sent handwritten notes (remember them?) to a number of our illustrious alumni, including Edgar Bronfman, president of the World Jewish Congress and former CEO of Seagram. It was a fan letter, given how I had long been in awe of the man.
A couple of days later Edgar called me, inviting me to have lunch the next time I was in New York. I told him that by coincidence I was going to be in Manhattan the very next day and was free for lunch. He saw right through that and laughed, but offered to take me to the Four Seasons restaurant near his office.
At lunch I ordered a shrimp salad. When it arrived, Edgar shook his head, and asked why I ate trayf. I remember being a bit defensive and muttering something about how the ancient Jewish dietary laws might have made sense in the days before refrigeration, but not today. Edgar interrupted me and said that restricting his diet wasn’t about adhering to any commandment; instead it was an opportunity to show how much pride he took in being Jewish. He predicted that with my new life as a college president, I would be attending events with influential people all over the world, and letting them know that I couldn’t simply eat what they served, would indicate something important about my Jewish identity.
On the ride back up the Taconic Parkway, I thought about what Edgar had said, and by the time I got home, my diet — and my life — were altered forever.
Edgar was right. From the White House in D.C. to the Blue House in Seoul, and countless other venues in between, I have been meticulous in sending a list of food restrictions in advance. Did I on occasion feel funny eating different food from most of the others? Sure. But reminding not just my dining companions but myself that I am a proud Jew, more than compensated for any awkwardness.
That doesn’t mean that all of my hosts understood what I was doing and why. Once my wife and I were having dinner in Beijing with a Chinese delegation led by a senior Politburo member. It was a magnificent ten-course extravaganza, featuring seemingly every non-Kosher food imaginable — pork, shrimp, scallops, sea slugs, etc. It was vegetable after vegetable for me. Finally, the Chinese dignitary turned to the translator and asked why I was served a different meal from everyone else. I told the translator that I was Jewish and observed certain dietary laws. That generated a long back and forth between our host and the translator until the translator turned to me and said that our host had “great admiration for the Mormon people.” Not exactly the response I was expecting.
I replied that while I too respected Mormons, I was Jewish, which is a very different faith. Once again, a spirited conversation ensued until the translator stated “Mitt Romney is a Mormon.”
Not giving up, I replied, “He certainly is, but I am not Mormon, I am Jewish.” For the next five minutes they went back and forth, with several other members of the delegation joining in. Finally, the translator proclaimed “While there are very few Mormons in the world, they control the banks, the media and much else.” Rather than reply “No! That’s the Jews!” I just smiled and said “I share your admiration for the Mormon people.”
At least I tried.
But 23 years later, when I sit down to eat, I am reminded not just of my friend and mentor Edgar Bronfman, but of the many times I have been fortunate to demonstrate to Jews and non-Jews alike — including thousands of students, faculty, staff, alumni and civic leaders — the incredible pride I have in being a Jew. And even more importantly, each meal reminds me of the obligation I have to live a life worthy of our extraordinary faith.
Morton Schapiro moved back to Los Angeles in October following nine years as president of Williams College and then thirteen years as president of Northwestern University. His most recent book (with Gary Saul Morson) is “Minds Wide Shut: How the New Fundamentalisms Divide Us.”
