Stories change and yet remain the same, sometimes over time, sometimes in translation, sometimes just because, just because they’re haunting. Here’s an example, perhaps. In the 1950s, Baltimore, where my family lived, was deeply, though by that point largely “informally”, segregated. It was called “neighborhood charm”: White neighborhoods, Black neighborhoods. White neighborhoods were either Jewish or Christian. Then White Christian neighborhoods divided into White ethnic zones. I was six at the time of this story.
I lived in a working- to lower middle class Jewish neighborhood. I was playing with the girl next door, as we often did. We got into an argument … as we often did. At one point, I said something, I don’t remember what, that infuriated her, infuriated her so much that she trembled, looked at me, speechless, and then said, “Why don’t you back to where you came from?”
We had come from Europe, Holocaust survivors. My mother was Belgian, my father was Polish, I was born in Belgium. My parents “spoke with an accent” (welcome to America). I knew my neighbor had no idea where I came from and doubted she knew that Belgium existed. So, with that knowledge, I replied, “Where do you think I came from?”
Silence.
Silence.
Then her face lit up and she said, gleefully and loudly, “Africa!”
That’s the story.
Where did she learn “Africa!”? When did she learn “Africa!”? How did she learn “Africa!”? Those are the questions I’ve had for decades. But today, as I watch xenophobic movements, including on the African continent, rally and march, I wonder as well at the joy she felt, the deep, satisfying pleasure she felt, when she could say, “Africa!”
Some stories stay with you.
(by Dan Moshenberg)
(Image Credit: Ad Reinhardt, “Abstratct Painting” / MoMA)