OPINION: A Franciscan priest from Brooklyn reflects on Yom Kippur
Wednesday is Yom Kippur and would also be my late mother’s 88th birthday. While growing up in Brooklyn during the late 1950s and 1960s, my siblings and I were taught at a young age to never ever be anti-Semitic.
It was tough to do while growing up in Cypress Hills next to East New York because it appeared that Jews were the common source of derision, among all ethnic groups including the Irish, Italians, Poles, African-Americans and even the new influx of Latinos in the neighborhood. You heard anti-Semitic comments walking back and forth from school — both parochial and public. You heard anti-Semitic slurs in the subways, on buses, in ice cream parlors and even outside banks. Oy vey! You would think Jews were literally sticking everybody up for their life savings with these vicious and unfair diatribes!
However, religious and cultural discrimination against the Jewish people was strictly forbidden in my family household. Why? My maternal grandparents lived with us in a two-story home on Nichols Avenue and shared their experiences with us. They were married in 1915 and lived in an apartment on South Fourth Street in Williamsburg in what was then and still is a mostly Orthodox Jewish neighborhood.