Easter is a weird holiday for me–as it is for many others, no doubt. Growing up in Greater Boston with a Jewish father but not mother, the only people who thought I was Jewish were the gentiles. The Jews of our neighborhood literally lived on the other side of the tracks from my house– the right side, if you want to delve deeper into the metaphor, up on West Newton Hill–and with my blond hair and messy small house I no more felt I belonged there than in my Irish-Italian neighborhood, known as the Lake.
During bar mitzvah season and the high holidays I felt left out; on CCD Tuesdays (the Catholic kids’ equivalent of Sunday School) I felt equally left out. But the worst was Easter, when Jews were blatantly maligned by the local priests, some of whom were later outed as pedophiles in the Boston Globe’s Spotlight investigation.