My father grew up as the youngest of six within the only Jewish family in Eureka, South Dakota, population 1,500. He was a first-generation immigrant; his father had escaped Russia in 1906, traveling to the United States by ship, steerage class, after his two brothers were murdered because of their Jewish faith.

Like many immigrant families, starting anew in a new country with a new language and new customs, the focus was on survival. Physical stability was prioritized. The family invested all their energy into securing the family business (the Bender General Store), investing in a home, having enough food, and protecting one another.

While they clearly cared about one another, there was no time or energy to consider emotional needs. My grandparents didn’t ask my father about his classes at school, his basketball games, or his feelings. If my father cried as a child, my grandfather called him a “knish” (a classic Jewish savory pastry with a soft filling); it wasn’t a compliment. My great-grandmother’s advice when faced with a dilemma: “If you have a problem, tell it to a stone.”

Each generation has an opportunity to build upon the gifts of the one prior. My grandparents provided the priceless gift of safety. But during young adulthood, my father felt a longing inside, a small but growing want for a greater understanding of the human condition. Given his family of origin and lived experience, this wish was courageous and revolutionary — that feelings could matter and deserved time, attention, and compassion.

Following his interest in physiology, my father became........

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