Growing up in the former Soviet Union, I had to conceal my Jewish heritage. Think of it as a perverted form of Darwinism. In fact, my grandfather changed his last name from Fine to Fainov to conceal his Jewish roots. He did it so he would face less harassment from his own comrades during World War II while fighting the Nazis—talk about irony. When I was a kid, I remember having to be secretive about visiting a synagogue that was a room in a private home.

My first collision with antisemitism occurred when I was eight. In Soviet schools, at the beginning of each session, the teacher had a special question day. When names were called, students had to stand and state their religious affiliation in front of the class for the teacher to record in her gradebook. I dreaded those days because the bullying was relentless. The special question was asked twice a year by the same homeroom teacher who knew I was Jewish and what that meant. I was one of the few Jewish kids on a campus with over one thousand students. In fact, I didn’t know any other Jewish kids because it wasn’t something kids were taught to advertise.

My Soviet school was a one-stop shop. You entered as a first grader and graduated from the same building. Thus, seven-year-olds were using the same facilities as eighteen year-olds sneaking a smoke. One day, I was given permission to leave class and headed to the bathroom. It didn’t take long for the upperclassmen to corner me. I was in a Soviet-issued uniform, with Lenin’s pioneer tie around my neck. They beat the crap out of me, screaming horrible things about Jews. I remember lying face down in filth before running out of that bathroom and that building. 

My family immigrated to the United States when I was twelve and settled in Los Angeles. I loved this country immediately, but not for its overflowing stores. I loved the United States for its warmth and acceptance. I loved America because what happened in that Soviet bathroom couldn’t happen here.