Christmas always reminds me of my childhood.  

This year I remembered something about antisemitism.

My sixth-grade teacher, Miss Faye, was the perfect image of a storybook witch.  She had dyed red curls, a long thin nose, and a wart on the side of her chin.  But perhaps I am distorting my memory of her because she was the first antisemite I’d ever met.

In the class of about 25, there were four Jews. We were seated together on the side of the classroom near the back, and never called on even though we always raised our hands with enthusiasm.  Since everyone was supposed to have a part in the class play, she had us learn a country dance with the music teacher and placed us at the rear of the stage so that we would barely be observed.  No speaking parts, simple unflattering costumes, and hundreds of rehearsals that would take us out of the classroom during math.  To this day I remember the music and every step, but I never learned long division properly.

Miss Faye stays in my mind – not because of her attempts to humiliate us, but because of her failure.  We understood and accepted what she was doing and rode through it.  The next year our teacher was a young man who opened everything up for us, as if he knew what we had been through. First, I learned that I had a voice.  Mr. Cruikshank called on us, asked our opinions, and, when the class play came up, allowed us to submit proposals. 

I wrote the play, with speaking parts for everyone.