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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