How to Be a Mensch

Lessons from my ninety-year-old dad.

My father and I celebrate his ninetieth birthday on March 15.

My father was born on March 15, 1935, in Budapest, Hungary. In 1939, he escaped the Holocaust with my grandparents, leaving behind many family members who perished in Auschwitz and elsewhere. From 1967 to 1968, he served as a battalion surgeon with the 101^st Airborne in Vietnam.

My dad is many things—a doctor, an ultramarathon runner, a collector of friends wherever he goes, and the patriarch of a family that includes my six brothers and me and so many grandchildren, I’ve lost track of the number.

He is ninety years old and still my hero.

The family recently got together on my father's birthday, and as the writer of the family, I gave a speech. I thought I’d share it with you because it describes a very basic Jewish concept that can all be boiled down to one word. Here’s what I said on the ninetieth birthday of my father, Dr. Andrew Lovy.

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When I was thinking about what to say about Dad here today, and there is so much to say about how I know him, about his experiences, about the kind of person he is, but the more I thought about it, the more I saw that the most important lesson he ever taught me boiled down to a single word. And that word is “mensch.”

Mensch is defined in the dictionary as “a person of integrity and honor,” but it’s one of those Yiddish words that has no English equivalent. In fact, I could stand here all day and try to define it, but it’s difficult to capture the right words to pin down this concept. Words like "gentleman," "good person," or "upstanding citizen" capture parts of the meaning, but they lack the full weight of what mensch conveys. It’s about integrity, responsibility, and doing the right thing, even when it’s hard. It’s a moral ideal rooted in Jewish values but universally recognized as a mark of true character. And, growing up, it was a yardstick by which my own behavior was measured.

“Be a mensch,” Dad would say. And I would never truly understand what he was talking about. I am almost sixty years old and only now do I think I finally understand. But it takes a lifetime of experience to really “get it.” And I only “get it” in hindsight through lessons that Dad has taught me over the years. They were not lessons learned through books. They were lessons I learned through his example.

One of the first times I heard Dad use the word was when I was in Hebrew school at the age of twelve, getting ready for my Bar Mitzvah the next year. I don’t know what Hebrew School is like these days, but in my day, they were run primarily by parent volunteers who had only minimal control over the behavior of students. The particulars of what happened, or who started it, are lost to time, but I ended up getting into a physical altercation with one of my classmates. And during the struggle, my classmate’s coat was ripped. It might have been a tug-of-war situation, so who knows who was responsible for the ripped coat? Me or him? There could have been hours of Talmudic debate to solve the problem. In my mind, though, he started the fight, so the rip was his fault.

Needless to say, Dad got a call from my classmate’s father. I don’t know what was said between the two adults, but Dad called me over and said, “I want you to call your classmate and apologize for the ripped coat.”

“But Dad,” I said. “I didn’t rip it. He started the fight, and we both ended up ripping the coat.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dad said. “Get on the phone and apologize.”

“But Dad…”

“Right now.”

So, I did it. I called the kid and apologized. It … was … hard. I hated every word that came out of my mouth. I resented having to do it. I felt humiliated. But I did it.

When I hung up the phone, Dad said to me, “Now, you’re a mensch.”

I’d like to say that lightning struck, and I suddenly understood what he was talking about, but that’s not what happened. I resented having to do this thing, to apologize for something that wasn’t completely my fault. And it stuck with me for years and years. Whatever this word meant, this being a “mensch,” I wanted nothing to do with it. I hated the word.

I should have known better. Dad has always led by example. Earlier in my life, when we lived in Augusta, Georgia, he taught my older brothers and me what it meant to actually step up and be a mensch in the real world. This was 1972, and I was in first grade. My older brothers must have been in fourth and fifth grade, maybe? Our local school district was under a school desegregation order, and Black students were to be bused into our school.

So, white parents decided to protest and keep their children home that day. But, here’s what Dad did. Well, first, let me tell you what he did NOT do. He did not tell us what to do. Instead, he trusted that we could figure out the right thing to do based on all he has taught us about not only Judaism but also our family members who perished in the Holocaust. We've been the "different" ones ourselves, so is it appropriate for Jews to follow the other white kids into the boycott?

We figured it out on our own. We were the only white kids to show up to school that day. By leaving the decision up to us, Dad taught us what it means to step up and do the right thing. To be a mensch.

I did not understand all that word entailed until I grew up and took a look, in hindsight, at my dad’s life, and also see those traits in me. Some would call it stubbornness, some would call it not being a “team player.” But I call it standing up for your principles and being a mensch. Dad learned it from his father, and I learned it from Dad.

We moved around a lot when I was growing up, and I think much of that had to do with Dad’s refusal to compromise. Some might see that as a flaw, but it served him well throughout his life and set an example for me and my brothers.

Many things drive my dad, but the most important is his ethics, his unwavering sense of right and wrong. What does it mean to have an ethical code? What does it mean to be a mensch?

There are many ways in which my father set, and continues to set, an example.

It means that when I wrecked the car as a teenager, the first question he asked was not, “How is the car?” But “Are you okay?”

Being a mensch means that when I went through challenges in life—deep, big challenges as both a child and an adult, Dad was never there to judge me. Instead, he expressed his support, his love, and always offered to help.

Being mensch means calling up your Hebrew school nemesis and apologizing—not because the incident of the ripped coat was my fault, but in the interests of making peace.

Being a mensch means being the only white kids attending an elementary school in the Deep South during an integration boycott not because Dad told us to do it, but because he asked us to look within ourselves and decide what was right and what was wrong.

Being a mensch means you’re not always the most popular person in the room. It means some people might even see you as difficult. But at the end of the day, I would hope that after 90 years, Dad, you can look back and say, “I was right. I did this right.”

Dad, you taught me what it means to be a mensch. I don’t always live up to your example—but every day, I try.

Happy Birthday, Dad. I love you.