Then there is the moment after the moment when you start second-guessing yourself. I should have said… I could have said… if only I would have said… 

The truth is, it’s never how we wished it would be, because if we could, we would wish it to be gone. 

But not only isn’t it gone, in many places it has resurfaced with increased vigor to populations waiting with open arms ready to embrace the propaganda of the past and the anger of the present. 

All right, already, all right. I can say it, but I just hate to — anti- Semitism. 

In the first conversation I had with my father-in-law on September 11, he said "This is bad for us. "While my naiveté and optimism only allowed me to entertain his thought mildly, I still wonder as I watch anti-Jewish, anti- Israel, and anti-Semitic acts, protests, and comments permeate our world, our media, and our lives. 

Through his teachings, writings, and speeches, Elie Wiesel has said many important things about the Holocaust, the Jewish experience, and the human experience. But I would argue that no one position, no one tenet, is more important than his assertion that we cannot remain bystanders — we cannot remain indifferent to the suffering of others. 

Protest can come in many shapes and sizes. It has more than one form and more than one forum, which brings us back to "the moment." How do you protect yourself and your family, and what, if anything, should you do if you are confronted with an anti-Semitic act or comment? 

So many factors play into those decisions that it isn’t fair to suggest a blanket response. Here are a few stories from readers who have experienced "the moment." You might use these to initiate discussion with friends or family — would your responses be sugar or vinegar? 

Deserving an "F" 

A few years back I was sitting next to my son, across the table from his humanities teacher near the end of his senior year at our local public high school. The meeting was being held at my request so I could better understand why David, who had been a straight-A student, continued to get barely passing grades in this particular class. 

I was presented with his most recent assignment, an essay for which he had received an "F". As I read, the teacher smiled and nodded, apparently convinced that he had presented proof of poor performance. I explained that I saw a fairly bland, but not poorly written paper. I pointed out the well-constructed topic sentence, several supporting statements, and a reasonable conclusion. "I don’t see an A paper here," I said, "but I really don’t think it is an F." 

The instructor smirked as he reminded me that the assignment was to write about something David had learned while watching a film about the life of Jesus. When I started to say that he had written about Jesus being crucified next to common thieves, the teacher interrupted to say that he expected David to write about something beyond, "What every Sunday School kid knows." 

I was remarkably calm, for me, anyway. I asked him if that expectation included students who attended Sunday School at Temple Israel. "But… he doesn’t look Jewish…" the teacher stuttered. 

This time it was my turn to interrupt. I asked him if he saw "some irony in a bigot teaching humanities. "Then I went on to say that I was not going to submit a complaint to the school board but that I did expect him to find some objective standards by which to measure David’s performance. 

While David’s grades began to more accurately reflect his work, the instructor openly showed his dislike for him. Their final discussion took place the last week of school. David was late to his class and when he presented his pass, which explained that his picture had been taken for a newspaper article featuring outstanding student-athletes, the teacher boiled over. "You think I’m some jerk that you have to tolerate until graduation, don’t you?" 

"Yes", David said. "I do." 

Jack — Edina,MN 

You’re Looking at One 

During my first year of teaching, I taught in a school where there were very few Jews. I was teaching sixth grade, an age where the kids think they know it all. 

For some reason, several of the boys would call each other "dirty Jew." After a day or two of hearing this, I pulled one of these students aside, one with whom I had a pretty good relationship. I asked him why they called each other "dirty Jew." He replied that he didn’t know. I then asked him if he knew anyone who was Jewish; he replied no. I then said, "You’re looking at one." His face turned as white as a ghost. 

I don’t even remember if he apologized. It was never brought up again, but it’s my hope that "Bryan" learned a huge lesson that day. 

Randi — Scottsdale,AZ 

The "Jewish Friend"

When I was younger, around the age of 20, I worked in a factory with many born-again Christians. I became pretty good friends with a guy named Cory. He was very interested and asked me lots of questions about my religion. I would answer them the best I could. 

One day, we were going out after hours and I was to pick him up at his apartment. His mother was in town and he wanted me to come in and meet her. When he introduced me he said, "Mom, this is my Jewish friend, David." I shook her hand and she was very nice to me. 

It really bothered me that he introduced me that way. So later I said,  "Cory, why did you have to say that I was your ‘Jewish’ friend? Why did you have to introduce me that way?" It made me feel uncomfortable to know that I was being judged for my religion first and not just who I was. 

Don’t get me wrong — I am very proud to be Jewish, I just feel I would rather have someone I meet for the first time look at me for me and not whether I am the right (or wrong) religion. 

David — San Francisco, CA 

Anti-Anti Semitism

  I grew up in a very diverse neighborhood. My best friends were Catholic, Baptist, and Methodist. They were white, black, and Asian. I was one of very few Jews. 

I was always the Jewish kid, and proud of it. I always talked about how my family celebrated differently than others. I always shared Chanukah and Pesach with my friends. They often had questions and I did my best to get the answers. I felt and behaved like a "little ambassador" of my heritage. 

One day I got into some sort of fight with my friends (I was in elementary school at the time). They took chalk and wrote all kinds of awful things about me on the sidewalk. Of all the things they wrote, the one that hit the pit of my stomach said "Big Jews… Ellen is…" I was so horrified — the pain and confusion hit so deeply. 

I decided to confront my friends about that particular slur. Head on, honest and open. As I spoke to them tears filled my eyes. They all looked at me like deer in headlights and denied writing such a thing. So I took them to the place where one of them had crossed the line. 

As it turned out, what I had read as "big Jews" was in fact "big News." To this day, I can still see the writing in my mind and they were right — it really was "News," not "Jews". 

It was that conversation standing over the chalk writing that ended the fight and opened our first real discussion about how different we all were and how "cool" it was. 

Several years ago, Christy, my best friend from growing up and I reconnected after many, many years. After reminiscing, as well as a good, long catch-up conversation, she said, almost sadly, "El, was it really like that? Did we all really hang together even with all our differences?" 

Indeed it was. 

Ellen — Rockville,MD 

Dirty Jew

I was in the fourth grade in 1947 when I was first confronted with anti-Semitism. Another fourth grader, a girl on my kickball team, called me a dirty Jew on the school playground. I cried all the way home, and when I arrived there, threw myself into my mother’s arms.

 I told her what had happened. She sat me on her lap and told me that the little girl didn’t know what she was saying, that she had learned it from adults, probably in her home. Then she told me what she thought I should do. "Be as nice as you can to her — then she’ll learn that Jews aren’t dirty, and that you aren’t a dirty Jew". I did, and she and I were best friends for the rest of elementary school. 

Rose — Albuquerque,NM 

To broaden your dinner-table discussion to include stories from Eastern Europe following World War II, check out the book A Hole in the Heart

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