In 1972, all the white kids stayed home to protest—except my brothers and me. Three years later, our house was vandalized with swastikas. This was Augusta, Georgia, where Jews were not considered “white.”
In this audio excerpt of my memoir, I am 19 years old and learn an important lesson about perception and reality in Muslim-Jewish relations; and I begin my accidental Jewish journalism career.
This is a memory of a memory from my grandfather, who hid in a wine barrel from an anti-Jewish rampage.
I have a complex relationship between struggles with obsessive-compulsive disorder and the comfort of Jewish ritual.