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Stories change and yet remain the same, sometimes over time, sometimes in translation, sometimes just because, just because they\u2019re haunting. Here\u2019s an example, perhaps. In the 1950s, Baltimore, where my family lived, was deeply, though by that point largely \u201cinformally\u201d, segregated. It was called \u201cneighborhood charm\u201d: 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.<\/p>\n
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 \u2026 as we often did. At one point, I said something, I don\u2019t remember what, that infuriated her, infuriated her so much that she trembled, looked at me, speechless, and then said, \u201cWhy don\u2019t you back to where you came from?\u201d<\/p>\n
We had come from Europe, Holocaust survivors. My mother was Belgian, my father was Polish, I was born in Belgium. My parents \u201cspoke with an accent\u201d (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, \u201cWhere do you think I came from?\u201d<\/p>\n
Silence.<\/p>\n
Silence.<\/p>\n
Then her face lit up and she said, gleefully and loudly, \u201cAfrica!\u201d<\/p>\n
That\u2019s the story.<\/p>\n
Where did she learn \u201cAfrica!\u201d? When did she learn \u201cAfrica!\u201d? How did she learn \u201cAfrica!\u201d? Those are the questions I\u2019ve 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, \u201cAfrica!\u201d<\/p>\n
Some stories stay with you.<\/p>\n
(by Dan Moshenberg)<\/p>\n