February 13, 2005

Sometimes old times aren't good times

   By Hanna Ingber
   
   I am not supposed to admit this, but when I am sitting in front of the 
computer and no one is watching, I Google myself. I get a high from typing 
in "Hanna Ingber," finding my byline and reading my words. Last week, 
though, the clandestine Google search revealed something about my 
childhood - and my Goshen community - that I never wanted to find.
   I saw my name mentioned on the blog of another kid, now 23, from Goshen 
schools. Let's call him Joe. In a posting from last October, Joe advised a 
friend coming to Goshen to visit the Hall of Fame of the Trotter, where 
Hanna Ingber had her Bat Mitzvah. Another blogger - a Goshen alum two 
years older than us - responded: "Yes, I believe that the Hall o' Fame o' 
the Trotter was the designated Bar/Bat Mitzvah venue for all five of the 
Jewish kids in Goshen. I think it helped that their parents collectively 
owned/ran the town .. I would like to see a showdown between either of the 
Ingber gals and - (nickname for another Jewish alum)."
   And then, like nothing abnormal had been uttered, the bloggers shifted 
the conversation. My mind, though, did not distract as easily. I read the 
young woman's line over and over: "I think it helped that their parents 
collectively owned/ran the town."
   I always thought I was one of the "Goshen kids." To many, though, was I 
one of the "Jewish kids?"
   I called the other "Ingber gal" - my sister - and my mother. We asked 
each other, "Is this stupidity, or something much worse?" I reminded them 
that I did not just go to school with Joe. I grew up with him. Joe and I 
shared the majority of classes from kindergarten through senior year. In 
my memory, I was the contentious liberal and he was the contentious 
conservative. We argued and debated and gave each other dirty looks every 
chance we got. But by senior year, we had developed a mutual respect for 
each other. Or so I thought.
   I wrote back to the blog a simple two-liner. I wanted to be witty and 
pointed, but not emotionally invested.
   Joe and the girl - let's call her Mary - responded with some sarcastic 
remarks. They in no way acknowledged that Mary's comment was anti-Semitic 
or expressed any sense of discomfort. Joe wrote to me: "Oh, how I've 
missed your luxuriantly thin skin."
   I remembered my sister's advice: "Don't let them get to you." I dropped 
the issue. My mother, a Google master, began searching the bloggers' names 
with the word "Jew." Over the next 24 hours, she found reference after 
reference, comment after comment, fictionalized story after political 
commentary. These kids - Joe, who I grew up with; Mary, who msister grew 
up with; and their Web friends - had left a trail on the Web of references 
to Jews.
   In one, Joe jokes about a "Jew Fest" he is planning. In another he 
tells a story that ends: "There's nothing better than putting a Santa on a 
Jewish guy's lawn." In Mary's article, she describes having "Post 
Traumatic Jew Disorder" after encountering a man she does not know but 
labels Jewish because he wears "shiny black loafers" and has other "Jewier 
characteristics than the refusal to accept Jesus as the son of God."
   We learned that Joe was part of the leadership committee of his 
college's Federation of Christian Athletes. The organization's Web page 
contains an array of translations of Biblical passages that reprimand the 
Jews, such as: "What outward symbols or acts can we hide behind, in the 
same fashion that the Jews hid behind their circumcision?"
   As my mother e-mailed me and my sister the Web pages as she found them, 
my hurt intensified. I felt sick to my stomach. My sister had been very 
fond of Mary. I did not know Mary well, but her father was one of my 
favorite teachers. I felt disappointed. Growing up, I had respected Joe's 
intelligence, and in the past few years I had wondered if we could now be 
friends.
   Now I wonder if he had always looked at me and thought "Jew."
   "What about all that stuff going on that we don't have access to?" my 
sister replied. "If this much has made it to the Web, in public postings, 
what is being said behind closed doors?"
   We discussed where they learned such hate. I imagined Joe and Mary as 
children in Goshen, hearing their parents make anti-Semitic comments at 
the dinner table.
   I also thought about all the other kids I grew up with. How prevalent 
is anti-Semitism in Goshen? How many of the kids who I sat next to in 
class went home and listened to their parents talking about the Jews of 
Goshen owning/running the town? Did other students, who I thought of as 
friends, pigeonhole me because of my religion? When a friend's mother 
showed disdain for me, ostensibly about my animal-rights activism, was it 
really because I am Jewish?
   Now that I have this information about Joe and Mary, what should I do 
about it? Keep silent? I almost did. I worried about them laughing at me 
for being hypersensitive. As Joe's "thin skin" comment demonstrated, they 
probably think I just can't take a joke. I doubt anything I say will 
change that. Furthermore, expressing my feelings of hurt and 
disappointment at Joe and Mary's slurs will not change how they view Jews 
in general.
   What has changed, though, is how I view my childhood community. I had 
always felt a sense of trust and security living in Goshen. I liked 
returning home on holiday and seeing the same faces at the Goshen Diner. 
Now I will look at those faces and wonder who they see. Do they view me as 
the girl who played soccer at the Craigville Park and loved to teach her 
friends the story of Chanukah, the teenager who advocated for animal 
rights and helped organize Homecoming parades? Or do they just see a Jew?