The yarmulke my son picked out at a local Judaica store on his third birthday was big like a salad bowl and the deep, chocolate velvet of a dress I once wore to a winter formal. Etched into the yarmulke in Hebrew letters was the name Yosef Yitzchak. There were a number of things wrong with this, not the least of which is the fact that my son’s name is Ezra. But that was the last thing that bothered me.
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