• I’m 10 years old and I overhear my grandmother making dinner reservations. “Smith,” she says, even though her last name is Cohen. When I question her, she tells me that sometimes people will give them a bad table if they know they are Jews.

• I’m 13 years old and going for a babysitting job interview. Remembering that conversation, I tuck my small gold Jewish star pendant into my shirt before I walk in.

• I’m 16, 20, 29, 34, 40 and I enjoy a nice, long stretch of invincibility. I feel safe and confident being my whole, true self.

• I’m 44 and my kid writes “chag sameach” in the moisture collecting on the car window. Before we leave, I wipe it off. When he questions me, I tell him that we don’t need to be advertising that we are Jewish — that some people hate Jews.

• He’s days away from 10 years old and his mother tells him that he should be afraid because of who he is.

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