I was born almost 50 years ago in the former Soviet Union. As far back as I can remember, I was scared to discuss my Jewish heritage. In fact, my mother’s family changed their last name to conceal their Jewish roots. It was done primarily so my grandpa would face less prejudice from his own brethren fighting in World War II for the Soviet Union (talk about irony). The hate was everywhere. I remember my family having to be secretive about visiting a synagogue on the High Holidays. The synagogue was a covert house with a room for prayer services. 

My earliest recollection of anti-Semitism occurred in grade school, when I was about eight. In Soviet schools, at the beginning of each semester, the teacher conducted a special roll call. Once your name was called, you had to stand up and announce your religious affiliation in front of the class so she could record it in her grade book (this was before Excel). I dreaded those times of year because of the teasing that lasted for weeks. Of course, when the new semester started again, the roll call was held anew by the same teacher. I was one of the few Jewish kids in a school of 2,000. In fact, I did not know any other Jewish kids in my school because it was not something you advertised.

The Soviet school I attended was a one-stop shop. You entered it as a first grader and graduated from the same building. Meaning that seven-year-olds were using the same bathrooms as teens sneaking a smoke. One day, when I was about ten, I asked to leave class to go to the bathroom. The hallways were empty and quiet, but the bathroom was not. It did not take long for a bunch of upperclassmen to corner me. I was in a Soviet-issued uniform, complete with a red Lenin’s Pioneer tie, and my back was against the wall. 

For a few long minutes, they beat the crap out of me, screaming horrible things about Jews. I remember lying face down in Soviet filth before leaving school without returning to class to get my stuff. I also remember walking home smelling of urine and crying like the child that I was. On the back of my uniform, right between the shoulder blades, was a solid imprint of a shoe, surrounded by many other partial prints. My family immigrated to the United States when I was twelve. I grew up in Los Angeles. I loved this country immediately. Though I did not love it for the overflowing stores or endless toys and television; I loved it for its acceptance. I loved it because what happened to me in that Soviet bathroom could never happen in the United States.