Famous Last Words
When I was a kid, I loved reading about U.S. presidents. I was able to list all the presidents in order (of course there were only 34 then, rather than the 47 now) and gobbled up a young readers’ set of their biographies. I even remember once finding, and being fascinated by, an article that listed many of their last words. They ranged from the mundane (“will you please turn out the light,” by Teddy Roosevelt, who died in his sleep) to the medically symptomatic (“I have a terrific headache” by FDR, who died of a cerebral hemorrhage and “water” by U.S. Grant, who died of throat cancer) to the poignantly incorrect (“Thomas Jefferson still lives,” by John Adams about his good friend who died earlier that day, July 4, 1826, the 50th anniversary of the signing of Jefferson’s Declaration of Independence) to the religious (“Oh Lord God Almighty, as thou wilt,” by James Buchanan, considered by many to be one of our worst presidents, though he’s been recently joined in that category).
While some people are still taken by the thought that there is some special meaning in a dying person’s last words, the last words that many of us today seem more concerned about are those at the end of a discussion. Or, to put a finer point on it, we’re interested in the answer to the question “Who should get the last word?”
When I was an active litigator, there were hard and fast rules governing last words. In motion practice, for example, after the parties making the motion had the first word when submitting their motion and opponents had their say in their opposition papers, the moving parties’ reply was the last word. Similar rules were in effect in oral argument, appeals, and closing trial statements. And when some lawyers tried to squeeze in a not-provided-for last word in the clumsily named sur-reply papers, judges who begrudgingly allowed them often raised a suspicious eyebrow, striking fear in the heart of the submitting party. Other judges, just as frequently, made a point of saying they didn’t read or consider sur-replies. Last words are important in court.
But life is not litigation; it doesn’t have shelves of dense books of rules (yes, I’m showing my age; transpose to computerese if you like) governing exactly how to do things and the order in which they are to be done. And that’s true not only when discussions of serious issues get intense, when lines are drawn deeply in the sand, and when tempers become hair-triggered. Rather, even in the most decorous of disagreements between friends, where words are carefully chosen, smiles soften faces, and good will is exuded by all, it’s often not clear who gets to end the discussion before it moves on to the rabbi’s most recent sermon.
I must admit that as one who often bristled when an opponent tried to sneak in nefarious last-second sur-reply papers when I was the party entitled to the last word, now that I’ve hung up my litigation boots in my retirement shed, I’ve taken a much more laid-back approach. Thus, I often find myself, toward the end of lengthy Facebook threads in which I’m an active and disputative participant, being the one to say something like “we’ve beaten this horse enough; you can have the last word.”
This can be true in this space as well. As I trust my faithful readers noticed, my friend Elie Berman and I have been discussing over the past few weeks, and strongly disagreeing about in a most civil manner, Teaneck’s proposed protest ordinance, with Eli’s second column appearing last week. Without angsting over who’s entitled to the last word — and to my knowledge, there’s no Columnist Practice Law and Rules (CPLR for you New York litigators) governing this space — it was clear to me that if the horse wasn’t yet dead, his breathing was labored and the veterinarians had given up hope. I realized that only lawyers would be attentive in my nit-picking Eli’s second response, though, on second thought, I don’t think even lawyers would have been particularly interested.
One additional reason I feel this way is because I have faith in my readers. I received many thoughtful comments on this series, agreeing both with me and with Elie, including one of the warmest and most generous letters to the editor ever written in disagreement, from my friend and college classmate Alan Schwartz (“Securing First Amendment rights”). The comments on all sides convinced me that I made my points the way I wanted to, whether people agreed or not. My readers are smart and don’t need me to bang the drum yet one more time.
And that, at least to me, is a critical point. Indeed, it’s a lesson I don’t yet have completely down pat, though I’m working hard on it. Repetition doesn’t convince; raised voices (as opposed to my naturally loud one) don’t convince; finicky argumentation doesn’t convince; insisting on the last word doesn’t convince; nasty language, insults, and ad hominem arguments certainly don’t convince. (The last one I think I have learned and studiously try not indulge in, even if I may slip from time to hopefully rare time.) As taught by my mentor Judith Kaye (though I never reached the heights in advocacy that she did), make your argument as rigorously and concisely as possible, and when you’ve done that, thank the judge and sit down.
In just a day or two most of us will join in a Pesach seder. In addition to drinking four cups of wine (or grape juice), eating matzah and maror, listening (at my house) to Aiden’s adorable recitation of the mah nishtana, having the afikomen stolen, singing Had Gadya, and enjoying a sumptuous yom tov feast, we will fulfill the biblical commandment of sippur yetzi’at Mitzrayim — telling the story of the Jewish people’s exodus from Egypt. And the Haggadah instructs us that in observing this mitzvah, kol hamarbeh harey zeh mishubach — the more of the story we tell, the additional details we supply, and the later into the night we extend our storytelling, the more praiseworthy it is.
That’s the rule we follow in the Kaplan house, where seders often last long beyond the later holiday hour I’ve set on our dining room’s Shabbat clock. Such excess is wonderful on a special yom tov evening, when immersed in the womb of loving family and friends and engaged in a warm home-oriented religious ritual around delicious food. In a motion for summary judgment, though, or yet another “I’ve Been Thinking” column about a municipal ordinance and its constitutional impact, concision is what is praiseworthy. And so I’ll leave the last word about the latter to others.
A praiseworthy Pesach to all.
Joseph C. Kaplan, a retired lawyer, longtime Teaneck resident, and regular columnist for the Jewish Standard and the New Jersey Jewish News, is the author of “A Passionate Writing Life: From ‘In my Opinion’ to ‘I’ve Been Thinking’” (available at Teaneck’s Judaica House). He and his wife, Sharon, have been blessed with four wonderful daughters and five delicious grandchildren.
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