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Joel David Burstein (December 11, 1929 - November 2, 1990)

Twenty-two years ago this Friday, my father died.

I'm noting it today instead of Friday because his yahrzeit, or the Hebrew anniversary of his passing, is actually today, which on the Hebrew calendar is the 15th of Cheshvan.

Time has worn away at the emotional pain and shock I experienced the night my father died. It's an odd day to think about Dad's passing because life is busy. What with Hurricane Sandy, an upcoming election, and my usual attempts at a life-work balance, there's a lot going on. But I want to remember him, so here's a short piece about my Dad and his life, to share once again with the world.

I tend to think Dad was a fascinating person. He was born in December 1929, in the wake of the stock market collapse, and so grew up during the Depression, which affected his outlook for the rest of his life. When he was almost ten years old, he attended the 1939 New York City World's Fair, and fell in love with the visions of the future it presented. He graduated as valedictorian of DeWitt Clinton High School (which was in Manhattan at the time, I think) and started college at Columbia, where he was editor of the college newspaper, The Spectator.

But while he was in his teenage years and World War II was raging, news of the Holocaust came to the United States. My grandfather was a rabbi, and my Dad grew up in a religious household; but the Holocaust caused him to lose his faith in God and to break away from religion.

On the other hand, he felt a strong connection to the Jewish people. In the 1940s he ran guns to the nascent Jewish state of Israel, and then he dropped out of college, never finishing, in order to smuggle himself into Israel and fight in the 1948 War for Independence.

Dad was dedicated to journalism and newspapers. He used to like to quote Thomas Jefferson, who once said that he would rather have newspapers without government than government without newspapers. Dad spent his life working at a whole variety of newspapers in New York City. In the midst of all this, he married his first wife, Evelyn, and had two sons, my half-brothers David and Daniel. Eventually, Dad and Evelyn divorced. He met my mother Eleanor, married her, and had three more sons: Jonathan, Michael, and Joshua.

By the time I knew him, Dad had been working at the New York Daily News for many years. In 1990, the Daily News unions were locked out and so once again went on strike against the owner of the paper, the Chicago Tribune Company. Dad was in the Newspaper Guild union office twenty years ago when he collapsed of a heart attack and was pronounced dead at St. Claire's Hospital. My brothers and I were in the Boston area at the time -- Jon in medical school, Josh and me in college. Jon and Josh were on a train home already because my father's mother had just died the day before, and they were going to NYC to be with my Dad for her funeral. We had no way of knowing that on Sunday, November 4, we would attend one funeral after another, with print and TV reporters gathered with our friends and family, the media there to report on my father's death as another tragic story.

My father was a strong believer in justice, in supporting the powerless against the powerful. Two months before he died, I marched with him in the NYC Labor Day Parade. The Greyhound bus drivers were on strike, and Dad – who always kept an eye on family finances – donated money to their fund without blinking. After he died, I found among his personal papers articles he had clipped about a Mohawk tribe in upstate New York struggling to get a piece of land back from the federal government. Dad always shared stories like that with us, to remind us that the fight for justice was a neverending battle.

Dad had been a reader of science fiction and comic books when he was growing up; by the time I knew him, he mostly read mysteries. But he inculcated in me a love of science fiction, and my one regret about my own writing is that he never got to read it. His spirit infuses every word I write.

Finally, he would have loved his granddaughters Muffin and Squeaker. I can only hope I am able to convey to them as they grow up how much he would have loved them.

Copyright © Michael A. Burstein

Comments

That's something of a long story. If I have time I'll post about it.

One quick thing I can note is that he never had a chance to react to it. He died before it happened. I think he would have been pleased, though.
Unfortunately, he didn't write all that much, and what he did write were newspaper articles, most of which I don't have anymore.
May his memory be for a blessing.
Thank you.
What a lovely tribute. :)
Sympathies on your continuing loss.
That is a beautiful tribute.
What a beautiful tribute to your father, and what a loss for the world with his passing. He sounds like a fascinating man, and I'm so sorry he never got to meet his granddaughters - a true loss for them, though I'm sure your father lives on in your memory and in the stories and lessons that you will teach your daughters over time.
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