“Y our son is wonderful and we want him here.” The principal tapped his pencil on the table while my husband and I waited for the inevitable caveat. “We’re just worried that he’s not reaching his potential. We’ve decided that Tuli can come back next year as long as he’s working with a therapist.”
T he November sun is strong, but there’s a chill in the air I hadn’t expected. Autumn has crept up from behind in its mixed-up glory, blustery clawing tendrils and floaty leaves sashaying down to earth. I berate myself for not bringing sweaters as I lock the car, strap the baby in the stroller,
I s a child being raised in Flatbush, I was surrounded by girls whose fathers learned in places like the Mir, Chaim Berlin, Torah Vodaath. Me? I was the daughter of a baal teshuvah from some hick town called Saratoga Springs — a place no one knew about. Blank stares were de riguer, and I
Rav Chaim Malinowitz packed in so much that his story defies easy description Fearless and original? Mainstream and down-to-earth? Broad-minded and maamin? These just brush the surface of a wide-ranging life suddenly cut short last month
