TheBanyanTree: Life Stories 22

[Tobie Shapiro]

October 7, 2000000000006



Dear Huddled Masses Yearning to Breathe Free,

	It is Saturday morning, and usually on Saturdays, I take a 
day off from this, since it's Shabbos, but on this Shabbos, I thought 
it would be a special joy to type up a life story, and joy is 
acceptable on Shabbos.  It's work that we don't do.

 
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The Very Sad Story of a Bigot in Training

	Joy Moy was in my class at Rock Creek Forest Elementary 
School in Silver Spring, Maryland.  Her older sister, Christina Moy, 
was in my sister's class.  I used to gaze lovingly at Joy Moy because 
I thought she was the most beautiful creature I'd ever seen.  I liked 
everything about her, even the way she sat in her chair.  There was 
nothing Joy could do that was wrong.  She had a squarish face and 
blonde curly hair that hung in locks all around it.  Her eyes were 
blue.  She was exotic to me who was used to us dark haired, black 
eyed, oval faced Jews.  We had our look, though I was unaware of it. 
And of course, there were plenty of us who didn't fit that mold in 
the slightest.  But I was unaware of that, too.

	What I didn't understand was why Joy Moy ran away from me 
every time I approached her.  She ran away as if I were some toxic 
substance mounted on a delivery system.  I didn't interpret this as 
her not liking me.  I didn't interpret it at all.  It was a 
phenomenon, and I couldn't grasp the meaning.  I just wanted to play 
with her.  I wanted to play with her so badly that I kept walking up 
to her during recess, even though she kept running away.  Then, when 
the bell rang, and we first graders went back inside to our desks, 
I'd stare at Joy Moy sitting perfectly in her chair, her pencil in 
her perfect graceful hand.  She never had her breakfast on her face, 
like Sherry did, and her dresses didn't drag down on the floor 
because they were uneven like Ellen Salzman.  Joy was well behaved 
and well bred, and I emulated her attitude and movements.

	Back on the playground, I sought her out again and finally 
asked her why she kept running away from me.  She told me her father 
had forbidden her to play with me because I was Jewish, and then she 
chanted a little ditty that she must have learned somewhere, some 
secret place where Jews aren't allowed, because I'd never heard the 
chant before:

	"Nigger lover, nigger lover, nigger lover, Jew,
	 We don't like niggers and we don't like you!"

I memorized it the first time I heard it from Joy Moy's perfect lips.

	At the time, I was crushed.  It was true that I was a Jew, 
and so Joy's father's prohibition was at least accurate.  But what 
could I do about being this Jewish girl that her father didn't want 
to mingle with his daughter?  I think I cried, though I may have just 
wandered around in a dumbfounded daze.

	I used to feel victimized by Joy Moy and her catchy poem. 
But as I grew older, I felt damn sorry for her.  Here she was, in a 
school that was something like 70% Jewish, since all the Jews lived 
only in the neighborhood where realtors would sell houses to us.  70% 
Jewish, and Joy had been indoctrinated by her family to avoid all 
Jews.  Who was there left for Joy to play with, and how could she 
keep track of exactly which little kids were Jewish and which were 
not?  Being a dedicated bigot is a lonesome occupation.  It's too 
much for a child.

 
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Horns

	To the west of our house in Silver Spring was the Marshall 
family.  Susie Marshall was my age, and we played together a lot. 
Susie was not the sharpest needle in the haystack, but that didn't 
matter much on a back yard swing.  Susie used to come to our front 
door and ask if Tobie could come out and play, always while we were 
eating dinner.  My mother would tell her nicely that we were having 
our dinner and could she come back later.  Then Susie would meander 
around to the back door and knock there.  "We're still eating dinner, 
Susie.  Come back later."  So she'd make her way to the front door 
again.

	Susie and I liked to swing and sing together.  We'd pump our 
legs until the swings were going high, and we'd  work hard at it so 
we were swinging in the same arc at the same time.  Then we'd pick a 
song we both knew and we'd sing it.  Susie didn't go to Rock Creek 
Forest Elementary School.  She went to a Catholic school, and she 
wore an uniform.  The first thing she had to do when she got home was 
change out of her school uniform into her play clothes.  Then she'd 
come over to my house.  I seldom went to hers.  One day, we were in 
the back yard and Susie asked me if she could feel my horns.  I was 
non plussed.

	"I don't have any horns."

	"My teacher at school says Jews have horns."

	So we both rummaged through my hair to find these mysterious 
horns, and we didn't find them.  I was relieved and vindicated.  I'm 
not sure how Susie took the disappointment.

 
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-- 




Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net