Butchblog

            My paternal grandfather, Jacob Fridman, a tailor, arrived at Ellis Island in 1908 unable to speak a word of English, and so when asked for his name probably mumbled his words a time or two to a harried immigration officer who then wrote his and my grandmother’s name down as Jacob and Sara Freedman. They didn’t complain. As immigrants, glad to be free of the oppression and anti-Semitism of their Eastern European homes, Freedman was a fitting name.

            I never thought much about my last name as a child. I had no reason to, though I did notice that there weren’t any other kids in my elementary school with that name. They were mainly Smiths and Jones and Johnsons. But other kids had weird names also: Charley Kapeghian, Joe Cohen, and Chico Hernandez come to mind. Our Philadelphia neighborhood was multi-ethnic (not a condition I then paid attention to).

            It wasn’t until high school that I was made aware that Freedman could signal something else. The way it would happen is that a fellow student would confront me with the question: What’s your nationality? I didn’t know how to respond to that as I mainly only thought of myself as American. But when I answered with that, the follow-up question or comment would be: “Yeah, but like where do you come from?”

            “Well, my grandfather came from Poland,”  I would say. “My mother’s family came from Ukraine.” But that didn’t seem to satisfy the questioner either.

            When I told my parents about these interactions, they nodded their heads and looked sad. Then explained that these kids were actually asking me if I was Jewish.

            “But why would they think that?” I asked. “I’ve never said anything about our religion.”   

“It’s your name” Dad told me. “Freedman is a Jewish name. Those kids don’t like that.”     

“But why?” I asked.

            “Well, sorry to tell you, son, but there are people out there who don’t like Jews. Some of them even hate us.”

            “Really?” I felt stricken.

            “Really” Dad answered. You’ll get used to it”

            Mom chimed in. “Don’t tell the boy such things.”

            “He needs to know,” Dad said.

            “I’m going to my room,” I told them. “I’ve got homework.” I didn’t want to hear any more.

            Unfortunately, Dad was right and similar confrontations happened over the years. People in one way or another trying to ascertain my Jewishness, anti-Semitism now underground, but thriving. It’s even more evident in recent years. I never have gotten used to it, but have learned to live with it. But now if the question of “nationality” arises, I answer proudly that I am a Jewish-American, and look the questioner in the eye. There’s never a follow-up.