Jonathan Hoffman – 50th Reunion Essay

Jonathan Hoffman

2401 Pennsylvania Ave, Apt. 514

Wilmington, DE 19806

jontutoringforsuccess@gmail.com

973-420-5094

Spouse(s): Elizabeth (1969-1988); Donna Carelli Hoffman (1991)

Child(ren): Michael A. (1971); Samuel A. (1976); Frieda A. (1980); Jared C. (1994)

Grandchild(ren): Maisy (2001); Polly (2004); Frances (2012); Beatrice (2014)

Education: Montclair State College, MA Education (1972); Orton-Gillingham training (2009)

Career: Broadcast sales and radio station operation (1976–1988, 2001–2008), tutoring (2009 – )

Avocations: Visiting with children and grandchildren, enjoying the Philadelphia Orchestra and local theater companies; discovering Jewish life all over the world

College: Berkeley

So it’s been 50 years, guys, of sifting through the recollection of the meshugas (Yiddish: craziness) I got into, most of it with my fellow Berkeleyites, some inspired by my clueless, oblivious self. So much was painful but necessary for building a life with heart and soul and character, to the degree that I can claim them. Matt Collins and I were assigned to each other in Welch Hall; I had no idea what was in store. Matt, over the three plus years we were roomies and neighbors, was a friend and brother of the first order. He drew me in, introduced me to James Baldwin, Claude Browne, and his world in New Orleans, called me out on my hypocrisies, drank with me, encouraged me to explore the streets of New Haven with my camera, and taught me to argue fairly during our frequent set-tos. I was tempted to slink away and not face up to shortcomings he called to my attention. (I wonder: Was it some wise Survivor psychologist in the Dean’s Office who put us together? And how did she know I’d survive?) Rabbi Yitz Greenberg once told me: there’s no learning without some discomfort. I learned much from Matt, including about backbone. Case in point: June 1966. Matt, a few of his friends, and I are having a drink in Matt’s neighborhood in NO. Matt has gone outside to catch up with another friend when two white NOPD’s (was there any other kind?) walk in and want to know what a white boy’s doing in the Ninth Ward. When they tell me to leave, I righteously demand the officer’s name and badge number; one of the guys at the table, Barry, runs out to the parking lot and tells Matt, “The cops are taking your boy for a ride!” Matt steps in, is handcuffed with me, and takes a ride to the precinct. I ask him why; he whispers, “Hoffman, We’re not in Happy Town, Connecticut; me in the car makes it a lot harder for the cops to redecorate your face, or worse.” Item 2: November 1968. After my sister’s husband, Peter Livingston, Yale Med 1963, was killed by friendly fire in Vietnam, Matt gave up his Harvard game tickets to stay and grieve with my family. There are many more Matt Collins items to share which space will not permit.

I delved deep at Yale: a sizzling go with a Seven Sister that flamed out after the aborted pregnancy. That episode, our junior year, knocked me off my emotional and psychic perch. I self-medicated with the usual available substances; too ashamed and afraid to seek help from campus health. I sank into loneliness and depression. Out of that agony grew my desire for a marriage with children, and a quest to learn more about my Jewish roots. Four children, Donna, my incredibly forbearing wife, and a term as president of the Yale Jewish Long-Haul Truckers of North Carolina later, I declare: Life is Amazing.