I grew up with antisemitism. The ugly kind. There were certain nights during the year that my parents didn’t allow us out of the house because “bad things” tended to happen on those nights. I was attacked on my bicycle while delivering chickens for a local kosher butcher, beaten on the public bus going to school, punched out on the street coming home. We heatedly debated amongst ourselves whether “it” (the Holocaust) could happen in America. Some of the adults told us not to wear a kippa in public. Others encouraged us to be strong and learn to defend ourselves.

When was I not concerned about antisemitism! My father spoke to me about his experiences as a Holocaust survivor when I was really young, three, four years old. That was part of his educational philosophy, that a Jew has to be prepared. And sooner or later, something is coming down the road again. My father’s great concern was that he was raising American children who wouldn’t have the survival skills, that because of growing up with luxuries, taking comfort for granted, we would be unprepared. My father was a very angry survivor. He was angry at the whole