Ancestral Trauma

When I was 7, I had a best friend who lived around the block from me. Her name was Karen. Karen’s parents were divorced — in fact she was the first person I’d ever met with divorced parents. It was 1969. And I was 7.

Karen lived with her mother, but her father was very much on the scene, and many weekends, she would go up to Grass Valley to visit her father’s father who had a ranch. Karen invited me to go up there with her one weekend. Karen’s mom drove us there.

On Saturday morning, we piled into their light blue Ford Rambler and headed north. I was a little anxious as I had never had a sleepover in a place I didn’t know. I was unsure. It was hot, probably summertime. When we arrived, I was introduced to Karen’s grandfather — an affectionate man with a sunny disposition. I could tell he loved having Karen and her sister around. He welcomed me by my name, Betty. Karen, her sister, and I spent the rest of the day, playing in the watering hole, until dinner time.

After dinner, Karen and I were sitting on the living room floor watching TV, with her grandfather sitting in a chair nearby.

Then, for some reason I will never understand, Karen’s mother chose to say, “ You know, Grandpa, Betty is Jewish.”

At that time, I thought being Jewish was something to be proud of. I knew it was something that made my family different — we had seders, and lit Hanukkah candles and Santa didn’t come to our house. And my grandmother had a Yiddish accent and lived in Coney Island.

Karen’s grandfather asked me to come and sit on his knee. I did and he started to bounce me there and stopped calling me Betty. I was suddenly “Jew” and “Jew-girl”. At first, I thought he was being funny. And then he said, “you know, they used to make lampshades out of little girls like you.” For the rest of the weekend, I avoided him and he never called me by name again.



It was at that moment that I decided that maybe being a Jew was something to hide from people. I should hide being Jewish as best I can. Only if I knew someone else was Jewish, then it was safe. Otherwise, I could be Jewish at home and that would be enough.

As I grew up, my Jewish community grew — many of my high school friends were Jewish, and our city had an old and thriving Jewish community. Open and free, as the pendulum swings in our favor.

It hasn’t always been that way. It occurs to me that my ancestors knew how to survive. They stayed close together in shtetls or they concealed themselves. They knew how to hide. (like Esther in the story of Purim!)

This is how I learned this lesson.