Darby Kline (2022)
“You don’t look Jewish.”
Yeah, I get that a lot. The hair sure doesn’t give it away, especially in the summer when each blonde lock gets just that much lighter from a mix of salt, sea, and lemon juice. The eyes don’t show it either, with their blueness contrasting the typical Ashkenazi brown. However, if you were to look closely, really closely, and if I were to turn my head to either my right or to left, you’d see it—the small bump on the bridge of my nose. You may miss it at a first glance. You may even be convinced that the upturn of my nose, rather than the downturn or “hook” ones that my parents model, would qualify your claims that I, in fact, am not Jewish. But no, I certainly am Jewish. And not Jew-ish, not half Jewish, no—just Jewish, with two Jewish parents, and a small Jewish bump on my nose to remind me where I came from.
Names
In Germany during the 1930s, Jewish families were forced to change their names. They feared being an easy target, as a name such as “Goldberg” would be a flashing sign to the Nazi’s that a Jew was among them. Then, in 1938, the party of Nazi’s announced that Jewish children must use specific names supplied to them. So right then and there, their names were stripped away. Years of ancestry and heritage would end with a stroke of a pen at that very moment, andif the rules weren’t abided by, death would likely be the consequence.
Names. My last name was shortened as my great great grandparents arrived at the port of Ellis Island. “It takes up too much space on the page” or “its not American enough,” they were told. So right then and there, after such a journey, their last name was stripped from them. Years of ancestry and heritage would end with a a stroke of a pen of that very spot. Years of pain, of suffering, of fleeing. Klindorfsky, or something along those lines, became Kline—but I’ll never really know.
Names. In 2017, the US Government (alongside the Department of Homeland Security) requested that Motel 6 turnover the names of their guests, specifically between 2015 and 2017. Thousands of customers had resided at thesehotels, but little did they know that the names they had written down on the reservations would be scanned by ICE agents. Each Immigration and Customs Enforcement agent scrolled through the list, identifying names that sounded Latino.
Taking these selected names, they would then run them through a database, seeing which of these motel guests has entered illegally into the United States. What happened to those unlucky guests that entered the country on termsdeemed illegal by ICE and the government? Detainment, interrogation, and deportation. So right then and there, after such a journey, their last name was used against them. Years of ancestry and heritage wouldn’t have the chance to growand continue on a legacy in someplace new
Names. Names tell us where we came from. Names hold meaning, ancestry, weight, love, sadness, death, and life. Asimple string of letters passed on from father to son, mother to daughter, from lifetime to lifetime. However, the names that we hold so dearly to our hearts could be the very thing that others use against us. The Nazi’s did this toward theJews during the Holocaust in the early 1900s and the Americans did this too, but it was against the Latinos, just mere years ago. Understanding the parallels between these separate times, and comprehending the roots of the problem of discrimination is a way to halt its repetition. We must learn.
Learn that a name should not be a reason for degradation or hatred, learn that the pain and suffering that stems from that degradation might never be fully abolished. Anti-semitism, anti- latino, anti-anything will continue to hold power unless historical examples are completely and fully examined and taught, beginning at an age young enough thatprejudices have not yet taken root. We all must learn, learn with an understanding that bigotry isn’t deserved by anyone. And, one of the best examples to start with, is the Holocaust.
The Holocaust
During the early years of my childhood, my mother helped survivors of the Holocaust. As a social worker in the FairfaxDistrict of Los Angeles, she spent time visiting their homes, learning their stories, and supporting them in continuing on with their lives - even with the weight of the Holocaust on their shoulders and on their hearts. Some lived in poverty,some not, but all lived in pain. Some needed help getting access to basic necessities, like medications, food, new clothing, or with filling out their reparation applications. The latter was the most taxing part for many survivors, as to relive those memories, to revisit the destruction and loss was more than they could bare. No matter how much money Germany gave, it would never repay for what those people went through.
My mother remembers stories of these survivors, stories that deserve to be heard. One woman was a teenager at the time of the Holocaust—just around the same age as I am now. Her life was anything but peculiar. She relished in biking the uneven roads to school with her friends, and the way the wind whipped against her skin, taking her breath away. Sheyearned for those days again as she hid out in a sewer in Belgium, avoiding the wrath of the Nazi’s circling around her. She did not foresee this grim future, could not foresee it.
One elderly man looked back on his time at the Lodz ghetto, recounting it to my mother. The ghetto was where theJews were brought before being taken to the camps. It was the last time he saw his family. His mother, his brother. He had been privileged—wealthy, even, and had everything that meant anything to him taken away in an instant. He did not foresee this grim future, could not foresee it.
Hate is blinding
Because of my mother’s work, I had been exposed to the realities of the Holocaust at a very young age. I had seen images of the numbers still tattooed onto the arms of survivors, a constant reminder of their pasts. The movies, museums, novels, and stories that I’ve seen, experienced, read and listened to make clear one thing: anything, and I mean anything, can happen to anyone. Hate can see the wealthy and the impoverished just the same. Hate is blinding.
Nevertheless, this blindness can and must bring us together. The Jews, the Latinos—any oppressed peoples may findthey have something in common. They’re a bit more connected, or a bit more alike. Learning about the Holocaust can highlight this interconnection as well as bigotry in all its forms.