JANUARY 18 • 2024 | 11
J
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… I’m not considered
Jewish because it only comes
from my father’s side. I also
wasn’t raised Jewish, don’t
know the cultural customs
nor the religious ones
(except intellectually). And
in this age when everyone’s
trying to claim membership
to one group or another, I
think, despite my ancestry,
it’d be dishonest … Still,
after watching those Nazis
chant, “Jews will not replace
us,” I couldn’t help but think
of my great-grandmother,
Betty Jacobs, who spoke
Yiddish and fled persecution
in Romania to come to the
United States during the late
19th century. I couldn’t help
but think of her daughter,
my grandma Nette. And
most of all, I couldn’t help
but think of my father …
I couldn’t help but feel the
urge to lay claim for all of
them — with every strand
of my DNA. #solidarity
#charlottesville
In his essay, “The Anti-
Semite and the Jew,”
Jean-Paul Sartre argues
that oppression can make
a person desire to assert
his identity. I was two
generations removed from
any kind of oppression. I
was not a victim. I’d never
felt fear. Not even remotely.
If anything, what made me
want to assert my identity at
that moment was rage.
Now, in the wake of the
Oct. 7 attacks, I am feeling
lost again. I am feeling
rage again at the reactions
I am seeing by co-workers,
friends, members of the
literary community. Mostly,
I am feeling sadness as I
watch students march at my
college chanting, “From the
River to the Sea,” and my

colleagues defending not
their right to speech, but the
speech itself; or when I see
clips of protesters fighting
Jews outside the Museum of
Tolerance over a screening of
the Hamas massacres (which
they claim is “propaganda”)
or find myself in heated
arguments with strangers on
social media.
I’ve always rejected the
notion of “the personal
is political” as any kind
of argument. I still do. I
have always agreed with
Christopher Hitchens, who
said upon first hearing the
phrase, “I knew in my bones
that a truly Bad Idea had
entered the discourse.” I’d
like to believe I’d never use
my identity as a legitimate
argument about war or
foreign policy, or in support
of or as an excuse for the
actions taken (or not) by any
government.
I also recognize that some
of the responses by others,
no matter how much I might
disagree or think badly
expressed, or hopelessly
misguided, are political and
not bigoted in nature. But I’d
be lying if I said that none of
it feels personal.
Am I a Jew? And if I say
that I am, does it make me
an imposter? It’s a question
I still don’t know how to
answer. A question I don’t
even know how to ask. A
question I don’t know if it’s
up to me to decide. What
percentage of DNA makes
somebody something? What
percentage of family history?
What percentage of anger or
sadness or pride?
“Doesn’t it only count if it
comes from your mother’s
side?” I’d asked a Jewish
friend after I’d gotten my

23andMe test results, which
confirmed I was 22.5 percent
Ashkenazi on my paternal
side. She said it can still
hold weight, but she didn’t
seem to think it was that
important. I don’t know if
it is or isn’t. Though it did
leave me to wonder if the
next Hitler would care about
such distinctions.
A few days after the
attack, I saw a report that
the 23andMe database had
been hacked and somebody
had stolen the information
exclusively of anyone with
Ashkenazi ancestry. The
investigation is ongoing,
but whether real or not, it
doesn’t seem impossible that
if any genocidal maniacs
wanted to, they could easily
breach a database like
23andMe to target a specific
ethnic group.
A couple of days later, I
received an email warning
me that my account may
have been compromised,
recommending I change my
password. I haven’t bothered
yet. You don’t need to hack
my genetic code to figure
out whether or not you want
to kill me. I may only be a
small percent Jewish, but
it’s there, and it’s not going
anywhere. I won’t try to hide
it.

Clint Margrave is the author of

several books of fiction and poetry,

including the novel Lying Bastard

(Run-Amok Books), and three poetry

collections Salute the Wreckage,

The Early Death of Men, and most

recently, Visitor, all from NYQ

Books. His work has appeared in

The Threepenny Review, Rattle,

The Moth, Ambit and Los Angeles

Review of Books, among others. He

teaches English and creative writing

at California State University, Long

Beach.

telling us we are all part of
their tomorrow — and we
will rebuild trust.
Picking fruit and getting
scratched by thorns while
rockets were intercepted
overhead was part of that
process.
On my flight home, I
sat beside Ericka, a young
mother from Jerusalem. She
spoke about her life and one
story in particular that went
viral in Israel.
When the army finally
arrived, a 12-year-old boy
from a secular community
asked that they go back to
his house and find the tefillin
he had from his grandfather
because his bar mitzvah was
coming up. The soldier went
to the home, found it and
delivered it to the child. The
soldier had hardened himself
to the atrocities of the day.
Yet his tears flowed freely
when he returned the tefillin
to the boy, recognizing that
this is the soul of Judaism
and that we are a people who
will continue to survive.
So, as I return to my days
of going down the rabbit hole
of social media — sharing,
commenting, and liking — I
long to return to Israel like
our ancestors did, to help
the farmers and ultimately
to rebuild those beautiful
communities in the south.
Thank you, Jewish National
Fund-USA, for letting me
take part. Thank you to
the incredible 69 other
volunteers. And thank you to
Israel and everyone who gave
us their time and their trust
on this mission.
Am Yisrael chai! — “the
people of Israel live!”

Lauren Mescon lives in Georgia in

the United States.

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