People keep thinking we’re Jewish.
I mean, I’ve had this for a very long time. I’m broad, dark, bald, bearded. I semi-regularly pepper my speech with yiddish.
My nephew asked recently “Who’s that guy in the magazine that looks like a mixture of all three of my uncles?” That would be David Baddiel.
My sister was asked to help out with the lessons about Hannukah in the school that she’s a TA at because, you know…
Thing is… not Jewish.
Not remotely Jewish.
It’s something I could prove in seconds on a NSFW site.
My mother grew up on an estate in Hackney that was predominantly Jewish, just after the war. Many of the families there had fled the continent ahead of the holocaust. I think not one of the Jewish families were untouched by it. These were my mother’s first playmates, some of them children with odd accents being raised by aunts, uncles, more distant relatives whose parents sent them ahead.
So on holocaust memorial day, there’s a lot of people who think I’m more affected by it than I am… but I’m certainly not unaffected. It shaped my mother’s childhood, which shaped mine.
I’m white, but my family is multi-racial. I’m pretty straight, but my family contains manifold sexualities and genders. We’ve got disabilites mental and physical enough to keep a legion of doctors busy. Even if we’re not Jewish, we’re pretty Jewy.
Collectively, we’re a good representation of what the holocaust was meant to get rid of.
We’re here, despite historical and even current efforts to make it otherwise.
Let’s all remember that the threat of the holocaust is not over.
But let us not forget that it has thus far failed.