The Human Touch

THE OTHER NIGHT I visited some Gentile friends of mine, for talk and coffee. The young man of the house is the chap I wrote this in this space some time ago. Born and bred on Henry and lred on Henry street, opposite the settlement house, he picked up a few odds and ends of Yiddish by asking his Jewish friends to translate for him, please, the signs on the window fronts of butcher, baker and candlestick maker. He is the kind of Gentile friend in whose presence you need feel neither vigilant, nor apologetic, nor chip-on-the-shoulderish. You can be yourself. His young wife is pretty much the same sort, that conversation is no strain.

But there was present another fellow, who is in sore need of the kind of etiquette lesson Emily Post never gave. It is possible to excuse him on the ground of youthfulness and callowness. One may hope that he will learn, without being ready to bet any money on the possibility. I hadn’t been in the room very long when this young fellow launched into a most objectionable mimickry of the ambulasnce-chasing type of lawyer, redering the English with a thick Yiddish accent. I looked at the fellow; he seemed youthful, his face unlined and untroubled, his coloring reddish blond, ghis hair silken. I assumed at first that he was a Gentile who, mistaking me for a Gentile, thought himself perfectly at ease in mimicking an objectionable type of Jew. (One may be a racial chauvinist without hesitating to admit that there are some objectionable Jews, though not many.) If there was any embarassment in my hosts I didn’t notice it, and thinking him Gentile and believing that perhaps he thought, mistakenly, that I was Gentile too, the best thing to do was, I thought, to change subject. This I did.

But as the evening waned into early morning it became evident that the young man who had mimicked the objectionable lawyer with the Jewish accent was himself a Jew and that he knew that I was Jewish, too; no profound secret, I assure you. But no good reason at all this young fellow launched into an attack on some Jews, embroidering it with another mimickry, and this time, I observed, my Gentile hosts were embarrassed, and lapsed into an uneasy silence.

Now what was that young man doing? He was indulging in a little racial self-hate and self-flagellation. If he had presented his mimickry of Jewish lawyers at a gathering of Jewish lawyers at a gathring exclusively of Jews, the self-hate implicit in his mimickry would not have had the complete exercise the it had with Gentile listeners. It will take that young fellow a little time to learn that it is proper for a group of Jews to burlesque, mimic, satirize their fellows. It may even be proper for a group of Gentiles to make mock of Jews. It may even be proper for a stupid Gentile to make fun of Jews in the presence of persons whose names and non-descript appearance put him off the track. But this young Jew boywas expressing his contempt for other Jews in the presence of Gentile friends as a way of indicating to his Gentile friends that he was a cut above the average Jew. The name he bears is intended, I am sure, to convey a smilar impression. I do not mean to load a little passing incident with a heavy burden of meaning, but it seems to me thedecent thing to do is not to construct a whipping post for your own people in the presence of strangers. The Gentitle friends in whose presence our young spoke are not going to be made anti-Semitic; the only effect, if any, which his mimickry will have on them wil be to make them think him a rather poor sort of fellow. This mimckry of his does not constitute a major case of race betrayal, but there is no telling but that at some other time he may expose his Jewish friends to Gentiles, who may take a cackling delight in his “wit.”

I am not a raciar chauvinist and I don’t like htis story as much as perhaps the nest fellow may, but here it is:

There is a famous virtuoso who is partly Jewish. His mother, they say, wore a sheitel, a wig worn by the orthodox. At a banquet, the wife of this performer, herself a Gentile, turned to the wife of another musician, Jewish and proud of it, and said: “You know; Arthur [let’s cal him Arthur] hasn’t a drop of Jewish blood in him.”

To which the other woman replied: “Poor man! I didn’t know he was that aenemic.”

OYSTERS AND STURGEON

At the vegetarian restaurant around the corner, where I sometimes lunch, more in haste than in state, I was making a facetious comment on the fish coursed, to the effect that I whished there were a couple of oysters about. “I know, of course, that oysters are not kosher.” “But,” piped up one of our younger journalists, as yet unknown to fame or fortune, “if they serve sturgeon they can serve oysters.” But sturgeon isn’t a shell-fish,” I responded, scathingly. “It may not be a shell-fish, but it hasn’t any scales.” I decided to find out and called the proprietor over to our table. “You don’t serve oysters, why do you serve sturgeon?” “Well,” he answered, “it hasn’t been decided yet whether it’s kosher or not.” “And suppose it should be proved that sturgeon is not kosher, will you take sturgeon is not kosher, will you take sturgeon off your menu?” “I may not do that, but I won’t put oysters on.” Let’s boycott him, boys!