I had two roommates in college during my freshman year.
The first – we’ll call him Han – was also a freshman. Han was Asian, a New York City native and a terrific pool player. He also enjoyed rap and hip hop music; I still credit him with giving me my first real exposure to those genres. He didn’t talk much, although he was happy to respond if I struck up a conversation with him.
The second – we’ll call him Gary – was a junior who transferred to Binghamton from another SUNY school. Gary was tall, white and lived somewhere in upstate New York. He was more outgoing than Han and the two of us spent quite a bit of time together when we first arrived at school.
Han, Gary and I weren’t friends by any standard definition of the term. We came from different backgrounds, had different interests and associated with different groups of friends. But we coexisted peacefully and there were never any real conflicts between us.
Until Gary’s friend, Greg, came to visit.
Greg grew up with Gary and was a junior at a different college. Greg was stocky, with the start of what would surely become a substantial beer belly, and hair that had already started thinning. He loved to talk about anything and everything. He spoke with a warm, jocular chuckle, as though he was everyone’s best friend.
Greg was also an anti-Semite.
Greg visited a handful of times during that first fall semester. He usually brought beer – Keystone or Natural Ice or some other similarly terrible college swill – and he and Gary would toss back a few in our room before going out to a party.
During one such visit, I went to bed early – which, for the record, was on the top half of a bunk bed – and Han stayed at his girlfriend’s place. Gary and Greg sat on the other side of the room while they drank and laughed and drank some more. They kept their voices relatively low but I could still make out comments about school, girls and sports.
Their voices became quieter at one point. Gary was practically silent but I heard Greg trying unsuccessfully to stifle laughter. I thought I heard the phrases, “What’s his deal?” and “I don’t get this guy.”
Then I felt something drop into my bed.
It was small, whatever it was, to the point where I wasn’t even sure there was actually anything there. Then another object tapped my shoulder and I felt another hit the sheet near my hand. I moved my fingers enough to find the item and felt something small, round and metal.
They were throwing coins at me.
I assumed that Greg was the main culprit. I suppose it could have been either of them, but Gary had never made comments before about me being Jewish. Gary had never responded when I said I was going to Shabbat services and dinner at Chabad just off campus.1 Gary hadn’t mocked my last name or requested that I say something in Hebrew or asked if I wore “one of those funny hats.”
Greg had done all of those things.
I stayed in my bed, still feigning sleep, until they left for the night. When they did leave, I lay awake and stared up at the ceiling, my mind racing.
Should I have said something? Should I have told them I was awake and had heard – and felt – everything? Should I have thrown the coins back at them and challenged them to a fight? I would have lost, since I was outnumbered, but at least I would have stood up for myself. But then what? Should I tell the RA? Should I tell campus security? Should I wait for the morning and then offer Greg the coins to help pay for his bus ticket home? Should I wait for Greg to leave and then confront Gary?
And what am I looking for from them if I do?
The thoughts slowed eventually and I managed to drift off to sleep. I woke up the following morning, got dressed and left the room while Greg and Gary remained passed out. I wasn’t sure where I was going; I just didn’t want to be there when they got up.
Gary and I never spoke about that night. He never apologized for his and Greg’s actions; he never even acknowledged what happened.
I didn’t confront him, either. We still lived together and I didn’t want to make things more awkward than they already were. We just continued coexisting and I focused on trying to relax the tightness in my shoulder blades anytime he was around.
I also made sure to find somewhere else to stay whenever Greg came back to visit.
I think sometimes about how I handled that night. For a timid and confused 18-year-old who had never really experienced anti-Semitism directly, my options seemed limited. Hindsight is 20/20, of course, and it’s easier to think of other actions twenty years after the fact. I believe that I would take a more active stance if I were the target of anti-Semitic comments or behaviors today; I’ve certainly done so multiple times in my work.
Either way, the most important thing is to make sure that these stories get told. There are those who would have us believe that anti-Semitism is a thing of the past. They would tell me that this wasn’t “real” anti-Semitism because Greg didn’t spray paint a swastika on my desk or tell me that Hitler had the right idea. Greg, himself, would probably tell me say that I’m “too sensitive” and that it was “just a joke.”
But, if history has taught us anything, it is that hate appears in many forms. It can be more or less severe, more or less violent and more or less dangerous, depending on the situation. The keys are to identify it and speak out against it, no matter its source.
Because we know what may happen if we don’t.
1. Chabad was the only real Jewish presence at Binghamton when I started college. Hillel didn’t have a real presence until my sophomore year.↩
Image by Markus Lindner from Pixabay
A great, though surely troubling, story. As you know, Grandpa was a career serviceman in the Air Force. I remember Grandma telling the story of when we were stationed in Virginia and I was 5 or so. Suffice it to say she had an extraordinary sense of smell and noticed there was a gas leak. We called the gas company and the guy apparently asked if we had any enemies. Apparently there was a pin prick in a very out of the way place that just could not have been an accident, but could easily have led to a major explosion. Unfortunately, I don’t remember the conclusion of the story. As far as I know, no one was caught and nothing happened. We don’t even know it was about antisemitism and not some other grievance. (Grandpa was “old school,” as they say, and had a reputation for being a quite demanding, drill sergeant type.) Maybe that’s part of the problem, though. Given the context of the time, grandma assumed it was antisemitism and no one could blame her. I don’t even know what the moral of the story is. I just know I was brought up thinking that one never knew whether antisemitism and worse could be lurking.