Tracking Down My Jewish Cousins

When I was growing up in Rock Island, almost every kid in my class had grandparents or great-grandparents from the Old Country,  so"where you came from" was a constant classroom assignment.

"Bring some food from your country"

"Tell about how your country celebrates Christmas."

"Teach us a few words in your country's language."



In junior high the assignments became more complex: the political structure, history, and economy of your country.


By high school, we were writing histories of immigration from our country, writing reports on its literary classics, and charting its GDP.

Except for me.  My grandparents and great-grandparents, both biological and adopted, were born here, and no one remembered any farther back (even today, after 50 years and a lot of genealogical research, I can't trace the main branches of my family across any ocean.). 

 I was forced to "just pick a country" to do the assignments: Spain, Finland, the Philippines, Japan, and India spring to mind.

Being American-born-American, with no particular ethnic heritage, I've always been eager to embrace any hints of anything non-WASP-y in my family tree.  Like my Native American relatives, who turned out to be Aunt Nora's husband's family.



And...Jewish?



I have two odd memories that suggest a Jewish connection:

1. It's the summer of 1966 or 1967, when I'm five or six years old.  We're visiting our relatives in northern Indiana, and my parents decide to drive out and see "Otto."  I don't know if he's a friend or relative or what: these things are never explained to kids.


Otto is very old, way older than my grandparents, bald with wrinkles and glasses that make his eyes look big.  His living room is heavy with thick furniture, a dark-oak piano, black-and-white pictures of dour-looking relatives, and a very nervous, trembling poodle.



One of his photos shows some guys in old-timey swim uniforms.  Otto catches me looking at it.

"That's my son, back when he was not much bigger than you," he says.  "Do you like to swim?"

"No.  I like to watch tv."

"I don't have a television, but I can give you some paper to draw on."  He goes to his desk and pulls out a black-bound day calendar for the year 1963. Blank, never used. It starts in September, not January, and has dates for "Yom Kippur,""Rosh Hashanah,""Purim,""Pesach."  I don't know what any of those words mean at the time, but later I figure out that they're Jewish holidays.  So Otto is Jewish.

2. It's two or three years later, maybe 1969 or 1970, when I'm 9 or 10 years old. Grandma Davis has taken us to Fort Wayne, the big city about 30 miles from her farm.  In the midst of doing fun grandma-and-kids things, she drives us to a ritzy neighborhood far from downtown, and says "I have to stop at this house for a minute.  You can come in, but don't make fun because they're Jewish."

I'm offended.  Does she think I'm a hick?  We have lots of Jewish kids in Rock Island.



We climb up a thick, heavy porch with granite pillars, and knock on the door.  A middle-aged man with wavy hair and a little paunch answers.



The only other thing I remember are two teenagers, a girl and a boy, sitting at the kitchen table, watching tv -- the first portable black and white tv set I had ever seen!



The boy didn't have his shirt off, sorry.  But he was still cute, with dark crewcut hair and very pale skin.  And he was very, very grown up.




The full story, with nude photos, is on Tales of West Hollywood.