Dirty Jews and Ragheads:
If Modern America Resembles Weimar, the Tea Party Resembles...
By Betsy Rossinsky
I learned I was Jewish the hard way. Soon after my mother died, her ex-husband (my father) took me away to live with him. I was seven at the time.
“You killed Christ,” a pretty little girl named Peggy told me matter of factily on my first day at the new school. Apparently, Peggy’s mother didn’t like the sound of my name when she heard I was joining the second grade class. (She had called our housekeeper to verify her suspicion.)
“I didn’t kill Christ. The Jews killed Christ,” I replied, sure in my knowledge of innocence. My mother was an Episcopalian, who had sent me to Sunday School at the small church right across our street.
“Well, you’re Jewish,” Peggy retorted and marched away to join her friends.
That night I asked my father, “Am I Jewish?”
“Daddy is Jewish,” he said in a gentle voice. “When you’re grown-up you can decide who you want to be.”
He was wrong.