Sadness is too small a word to express the enormity of Jonathan Brostoff’s (z”l) death by suicide. On a communal level, we’ve lost someone whose entire mission was working tirelessly to make life better for everyone around him.
As someone who knew Jonathan, and as the daughter of a local public figure who died by suicide before I was fully grown, his death hits hard on multiple levels.
This feels close enough to my own lived experience, dating back to 1974, to bring it to the surface.
Like Jonathan, my father saw his communal role as a calling. Like Jonathan, he was in his 40s (46 to Jonathan’s 41) when he died by suicide. And, as has been the case with Jonathan, people are expressing shock that such a beloved man with a public profile – in Dad’s case, the Reform rabbi with life tenure in a community with one Reform congregation – would be lost to us in such a horrific way. Both funerals drew more than 1,200 people, and, in both cases, tributes poured in from a widely disparate collection of people.
When Dad went missing on Erev Purim of 1974, it was two years after Democratic vice-presidential pick Thomas Eagleton had been forced out of the race when it emerged that he’d been hospitalized for depression. Nobody talked about mental health then, except, perhaps, to joke about the local “insane asylum.” So, when Dad’s car was found parked on a bridge the next day and his body found 54 days later, after Pesach, Mom worked all the miracles she could to have the coroner’s report changed from “apparent suicide” to “accidental death.” Then she worked some more miracles to have his death certificate filed three counties away so the newspapers wouldn’t find it in a public records search and start investigating. My sister Debby and I were 13 and 14, old enough to ask questions. Answers were not forthcoming. You could live anywhere in Utica, New York and know that Rabbi Waldman had died by suicide, unless you lived in our house. Debby and I had nowhere else to live. So, in our mid-20s, emotionally stuck at 13 and 14 and unhappy enough to seek therapy, we were able to uncover our family history of mental illness and figure out that our father had died by suicide.
Relentless work by many mental health advocates (among them my sister, me, Jonathan’s mother, Phyllis, and Jonathan himself) has eradicated enough stigma around mental health for family of people who die by suicide to be spared that aspect of what is an already traumatic experience.
In a 2019 editorial for the “Wisconsin State Journal” that was republished in “Urban Milwaukee,” Brostoff wrote, in part:
“Years before I welcomed my firstborn into the world, before I was elected to serve my community in the state Assembly, before I met and married the love of my life, I was just a kid in Milwaukee who was living with mental illness. As a teenager, I had been diagnosed with ADD, ADHD, severe depression and bipolar disorder — and I was struggling. I wish those diagnoses and the attendant medications, hospital stays, and all of the other steps my family and I took at the time had been enough. But as is the case for many facing mental health crises, they weren’t.
All those years ago, staring down the darkness, I attempted to take my own life. More than once. And as someone who has faced that darkness and lived to share my story, I am so thankful I didn’t have access to a gun when I thought that leaving this world was the best way to handle everything that came with it.”
Excavating details from my father’s childhood – a subject he addressed with a single phrase (“I don’t remember”) – was crucial in helping piece together a story that helped make sense of why Dad died by suicide. Born in 1927, he grew up poor during the Great Depression. When he was 11, his family lost their home and had to move in with relatives. At the time of his death, he was convinced that the congregation was folding. The congregation owned our house. The prospect of reliving that part of his life – this time in the role formerly played by his father – pushed him past the breaking point.
Jonathan was a passionate advocate for social justice. His family was everything to him, but the work he did and the way he did it made it essential to have a robust support system outside of that foundational anchor. And, because he was there for the people who were there for him in that way, he did. Until Oct. 7, 2023. His Jewish identity and his views on Israel – that it had a right to exist as a Jewish state with secure borders – was enough for people he’d relied on as friends to drop him like a hot rock for staying true to what he believed.
That no municipal official holds the authority to address an international crisis was irrelevant. Jonathan was ostracized and isolated for being true to himself, his values, and his beliefs, and for being honest about it. We will never know for sure what pushed Jonathan to this great loss. But it’s pretty clear that there were people he trusted, loved, and relied on to be there for him and his family because, until Oct. 7, they had been.
Which leads me to the question of, what now? It’s too late to help Jonathan. But it’s not too late to take away at least one important lesson from his life and death, and it’s not too late to step up and do what little any and all of us can for his family.
Regarding Israel and Palestine: We Americans do love our binaries, and as Jews, we are feeling all kinds of pain and have been since Oct. 7. And the lack of nuance and space for expressing that pain, or for deep reflection that might result in expressing uncomfortable thoughts, is real. No one should be ostracized for stating that the hostages need to be released, or that innocents in Gaza deserve safety. It’s possible to be Jewish and not a Zionist; it’s possible to be a Zionist and not a Jew. There’s a difference between religious faith and national identity, between people and government, and there has to be room – even if we don’t agree, even if what we hear is hard and painful – to respect the humanity of the person in front of us.
Which is my way of offering one final pro tip based on my lived experience. As I write this, the Brostoff family is sitting shiva. The community outpouring of love and support is at its peak. But three months from now, when everyone has moved on? That’s when stepping up will be most important. It doesn’t just apply to Jonathan’s family – it’s a good thing to remember for anyone close to someone who’s lost a loved one. Tikkun Olam happens in the small spaces.
Amy Waldman is an occasional contributor to the Chronicle. Commentary articles, like this one, are not necessarily representative of the views of the Wisconsin Jewish Chronicle.
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Suicide prevention resources
If you need help, please seek it out.
Contact the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline if you are experiencing distress or are worried about a family member or friend who may need support.
- Call or text 988
Source: Wisconsin Department of Health Services
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