Risi stands on top of a hill, a small hill but a hill nevertheless. She reaches up trying to touch the stars, which she can’t do. Disappointed, she slowly climbs back down the hill in the dark. She makes her way slowly towards home, stopping for a moment when she sees a small group of fireflies.
“Where have you been?” Risi’s mother asks. “You were supposed to come home before it got dark.”
“I was on the hill. I tried to touch the stars, but I couldn’t reach them,” Risi answers.
“No of course not,” her mother says softly. “You can reach for them, but you can’t touch them.”
“My teacher says that some stars have names,” Risi says. “Do clouds have names, too? I like looking at clouds.”
“Clouds don’t have names, Risi,” her mother replies. ‘What a strange child I have!’ she thinks.
“Why not?”
“Because clouds don’t last. They are here for a moment and then they flit away. Only things that last get names.”
“Why?” Risi asks.
“I don’t know. Ask your teacher,” her mother says. “And now don’t you think you should get ready for bed?”
Risi doesn’t want to go to bed, but she knows that if she argues, she will not win the argument. “I suppose so,” she says. Reluctantly, she heads upstairs.
During math class, Risi’s thoughts stray. She wonders why clouds can’t have names even if they don’t last. She raises her hand.
“Yes, Risi?” her teacher asks.
“Why can’t clouds have names even if they don’t last?” Risi asks.
There are a few snickers. “I don’t know Risi,” the teacher says, “but right now we’re paying attention to the problem I just wrote on the board. If you want to talk about this later, you can stay after school and we’ll talk about it.” She turns her attention back to the math problem on the board. Then she wonders if this class of fifth graders would be too young for probability theory if she introduced it.
Risi doesn’t stay after class. The next day will be Shabbat and Risi and her parents will go to their Synagogue. Risi sometimes finds it hard to sit through the whole Service. “Why do I have to go?” she petulantly asks her mother.
“You have to go because I want you to know about Judaism,” her mother says. She is ironing the dress that Risi will wear. Unlike some of the other little girls, Risi’s mother wants her to wear a nice dress and patent leather shoes. Risi seems to like the dressing up part of the experience.
“But it’s always about helping someone out or giving something to somebody,” Risi says.
“That’s called ‘social justice,’” her mother says. She has finished ironing the little dress and she takes it off the ironing board and slips it onto a hanger.
“But I do that anyway. Why do we keep hearing about it? Isn’t there anything more?” Risi asks.
“There’s a lot more,” her mother says. “You should talk to the Rabbi.”
“I don’t want to do that. I’m afraid of him.”
“You shouldn’t be. He’s a very nice man.” Risi’s mother says. She hands Risi the hanger. “Here, put this in your room.”
The next morning Risi and her parents walk the few blocks to their Synagogue. After Services, they greet the Rabbi.
“Rabbi, Risi has a concern. She wants to ask you something,” Risi’s mother sys.
“Certainly, ask me anything, Risi,” the Rabbi answers. He bends down so that he is eye level with Risi.
Risi is embarrassed. “It’s just, it’s just that you’re always talking about social justice. Isn’t there anything more?” Risi asks. Gathering her courage, she continues, “I mean like the beauty of the stars and the clouds and why things that don’t last don’t have names.”
The Rabbi thinks for a moment. “In other words, you want to know more about some of the serious parts of Judaism, is that it?” he asks.
“I think so,” Risi says. ‘He’s not so scary after all,’ she thinks.
The Rabbi thinks for another moment. “I’ll tell you what. Next Saturday I’ll bring in a poem from the old Spanish Jewish poets. It will be read at our Shabbat Service. How does that sound as a start for you?” he asks.
“I think that would be good,” Risi says seriously.
The Rabbi stands. He looks at Risi’s parents. With a wink, he says, “To paraphrase, ‘by your pupil you’ll be taught.’”
As they leave the Synagogue, Risi’s mother thinks, ‘Maybe my child isn’t so strange after all!”
Author’s note: When the name Risi came to me for this character, I wondered if there was a girl’s name Risi. I looked on the Internet and I found that Risi is a Hindu boy’s name, rarely given to girls. It means “Ray of light.” I then thought that it was an appropriate name for this character
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