Firgun Day: My Heroes

I made a promise to myself last spring that I would celebrate Firgun Day (fear-goon; accent on the second syllable) at the appropriate time. That day has come: July 17, and I am working to acknowledge the good people in my world. The key to the celebration is clean hands and a pure heart. Invented by Israelis and rooted in the Yiddish word for joy, the day is supposed to be overflowing with compliments and admiration, and entirely free of envy or ambivalence. For me, it’s a way of listing human blessings: people who have touched my mind and heart and contributed to the goodness of life on earth. Living or dead, it doesn’t matter to me. I love and respect them with all my heart.

Here goes:

FRANK BRUNI is a columnist for the New York Times. I always read him before I read anyone else. He writes with a kind of crystalline intelligence, shot through with just the right amount of mockery. In that way, and others, he’s a better man than I am. He writes lovingly about the Bruni family and has a relationship with his dog that feels almost transcendent. I am also touched by his personal courage. Thanks to an unusual stroke, he lost vision in one eye, but his vigor and confidence seem to be undimmed.

JAMIE RASKIN is a United States Representative from Maryland who was one of the great heroes of Donald Trump 1.0 and seems to be topping the charts in 2.0. He is strategic without being calculating or sleazy, and has a deep, insightful mastery of Constitutional law. At first I didn’t know what to do about his hair, but my love for him and his work conquered all. During chemotherapy, he wore a silk scarf on his head, and he showed us how to mourn and to “recover” from grief. President Raskin? Maybe not, but if this were a perfect world, it would be surely yes.

EMANUEL RINGELBLUM (1900-1944) has been dead for decades, but he remains one of the great heroes of my life. In the filth and stench of the Warsaw Ghetto, he organized a platoon of historians, diarists, and common folk to record the annihilation of an entire community. Its members collected letters, street posters, German diktats—everything—and stuffed their treasures into metal milk cans. Only two were recovered after the war, but they remain a peerless record of civilization under assault. When I saw one of the remaining cans in Washington, I felt a strong urge to fall to my feet in reverence.

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I could go on and on, but I’ll wait until next year, or maybe six months from now on January 17. In the meantime, I’d love to hear from you. Who are the great heroes of your life so far?