I Refuse to Live in Fear
By Charles Tanowitz
My father has traveled extensively for as long as I can remember, jetting to cities around the country, as well as to Europe and Asia. Travel was as much a part of his job as the daily commute to work or the tie he put on each morning.
During a rash of hijackings in the 1980s, I asked him if the terrorists made him nervous about flying.
"No," he said. "If the terrorists stop me from flying, then they win."
Today the newspapers tell me that Jewish Community Centers nationwide are increasing security to stave off anyone who may want to copy the violence they witnessed in Los Angeles. I refuse to live in fear. I will not hide my Jewish identity for any reason. If a Yiddish term fits a situation, I'll use it. If a discussion comes up about holidays, I'll talk about Passover or Yom Kippur, regardless of the audience. I refuse to be intimidated by the hatred of others.
Does it worry me that lunatics are out there? Of course. But I will not let them win.
I am not naive enough to believe that anti-Semitism is gone. It is truly alive and well. I remember kids telling me that Hanukah Harry brought me my Hanukah gifts a mild form, but mockery, nonetheless. It didn't matter when I told them I watched my mother pull the gifts out of her closet, they only believed in Hanukah Harry. This was long before a Saturday Night Live skit showed an elderly Jewish man taking over for Santa, handing out socks and underwear.
I remember the children of the Reverend of the neighborhood church telling Mrs. Skolnick that they couldn't have potato latkes because they couldn't eat "Jew-Food."
Only once in my life did I ever hide my background. When I was 17 the musical ensemble of which I was a member gave a recital at a local church. Looking around the room I suddenly became very aware of my Jewishness. Our musical director asked each of us to introduce ourselves, and as names came down the line, I felt more and more nervous. Standing close to the end, I heard nothing but non-Jewish names; Tanowitz would stick out like a soar thumb. I panicked as the wave of names hit me. "Charles Howard," I heard myself say. Then the wave passed and life went on.
But I wasn't the same. I felt I had betrayed myself, I had betrayed my family, and I had betrayed my past. I decided never again. And never during my career in television or radio, did I ever use any name but "Tanowitz."
As the images of the Los Angeles shooting flickered on my screen, I worried about my infant son. Will my son one day be thrown to the wolves? Will he face the hatred? Probably. Do I want to protect him? Yes. Can I? No.
My more than a decade as a broadcast journalist has taught me one thing about what we see on television newscasts: events are reported because they are unusual. It is not every day that someone shoots up a Jewish Community Center because he wants to kill Jews. It is not every day that a Synagogue is vandalized. It is not every day that Neo-Nazis decide to march through a Jewish neighborhood. That is why these events make news.
The day we should truly begin to worry, is the day these events become so commonplace, that they go unreported.
|
|