Member-only story
Growing Up Jewish in America
From generation to generation, does being Jewish mean being Othered?
I’m 8 years old, in Central Florida. Two neighborhood kids have wrestled me to the ground, and their hands are clawing wildly through my thick, curly hair.
“I know you’ve got horns. My parents told me.”
“Yeah, my pastor told me all about you Jews and your demon horns.”
I’m crying of course, because it hurts, and I’m scared, and I’m half-convinced they’re going to find some horns under there.
They scratch and they rip, but they only find my scalp.
Finally, they let me go, to catch my breath and notice the grass stains on my neon pink leggings.
As they walk away together, I hear one conclude,
“She must’ve got them removed.”
This year, after talking about it in therapy, I finally told my mom this story.
Why didn’t I talk to her then? Why did I suffer alone?
That same year, I won the 3rd grade spelling bee and math bee on the same day. In so many ways, I was flourishing.
So why did I keep this pain to myself?
