I was born the eldest of five children and raised in the Bible Belt. My mother was Jewish and my father was a gentile. During my adolescent years, I became aware that Jews were not well received in the Deep South. I learned that if you were Jewish, it was best not to draw attention to the fact.
My mother could trace her roots back to a Northern province of Prussia called Bromberg. Her family later immigrated to Germany, where tragically she lost most of them in the death camps of Auschwitz and Bergen Belsen. Those who escaped the Holocaust would later sail to America and make landfall in Galveston, Texas. They chose the Gulf Coast of Texas hoping to draw as little attention as possible as they became full-fledged Americans. They achieved their goal of assimilation to the point that, by the time my mother was born, little of her Jewish tradition remained intact. That lack of connection to her Jewish roots pre-empted any doubts she might have about marrying a gentile. But things took a curious turn when she decided to marry a Catholic.
In order for her to marry my father, my mother had to sign a contract with the Roman Catholic Church stating that any children born of their union would be raised Catholic. Nothing Jewish was to be allowed or spoken of in the family. She signed the agreement.
Our own familial brand of antiSemitism was always prevalent. By the age of four, I began associating my maternal grandfather's visits with breakfasts of bacon, ham and sausage. It was the only time my father would cook all three for breakfast. My grandfather would come in, kiss us all and excuse himself to go for a walk. Sometimes, I was lucky enough to join him. Those walks were full of conversations about Judaism. At the time, I could not fathom what he was sharing with me. I just thought he was getting old and confused.
