Remembering Gregory Jackson

Gregory and I joined BZBI around the same time when our “babies” first entered the toddler playgroup 20-some years ago. My middle child, Lily, was enrolled as an 18-month-old in the playschool; she is now a grown woman of 26 and about to enter graduate school. My first-born, Alex, was enrolled in the Neziner Hebrew school; she is now 29, teaching youngsters herself and planning her wedding in July. My youngest, Drew, followed in their footsteps, and entered the playschool 2 years after Lily. Drew is 24 and halfway through the first year of med school.

Why, you may ask, do I stand here at a memorial service dedicated to Gregory Jackson, and tell you about my children?

Because, like so many parents here today, the bond I shared most strongly and deeply with Gregory was through my children. And like Gregory, I love to kvell about my wonderful children and tell you all about their accomplishments. And like Gregory, I worry that they get enough to eat. Like me, Gregory was the quintessential Jewish mother. Love through feeding.

When all three of my children were diagnosed with Crohn’s disease over an 18-month period at the ages of 13, 11, and 9, respectively, it was Gregory who took it upon himself to ensure that they consumed a nutritious snack each Monday and Wednesday upon their arrival for Hebrew school. He became their self-appointed Mother Hen, a role that I suspect he relished and embraced with open arms.

It is almost axiomatic that people we have known for years may be, in fact, virtually unknown to us until we learn about the details of their lives from their loved ones at their funerals. Sadly, this was the case for me as I sat listening to tribute after tribute to our beloved Gregory at his funeral two weeks ago. I knew of his soft spot for the kids, his talent for cooking, his endearingly snarky sense of humor, his sartorial flair, his sonorous singing voice. And while I had perhaps hundreds of warm encounters with Gregory over the years, it was not until after his untimely death that I learned he had a son, that he sang with a Grammy-winning choir, that he and I graduated the same year from different high schools in Germantown, or that among his loving siblings was a brother who not only spoke eloquently of Gregory’s many talents, but also bore an uncanny resemblance to the man we mourn today.

Many of the anecdotes, if not personally known to me, rang a familiar note—especially those related by Rabbi Stone and Cindy Citron. A great many in attendance—and it was a standing-room- only crowd—were faces I knew or recognized from past or present days at BZBI. And a good portion of them were the young people—contemporaries of my children—whose lives he so deeply touched. After my children had graduated from Neziner, there was never a time I saw Gregory that he did not ask how they were doing, and like a true Jewish mother, he always nudged me about when they were going to come over to see him.

I suspect I’m not the only mother who got the same third degree from Greg. I know that my first time back in the building after his death was unexpectedly emotional for me, and I imagine it will be so for my kids. He made them feel like they were the most important people in the world. His love was non-judgmental and unconditional—he modeled how to be in the world. In return, Gregory received the love of a generation of BZBI children, their grateful parents, and the congregation at large. That is his legacy.

For 25 years, Gregory Jackson was as much a fixture of Temple Beth Zion-Beth Israel as the stained-glass windows in the sanctuary and the schnapps served at Kiddush. We are all diminished by his loss, but lifted up by having known him. May his memory be for a blessing.