The other day I suffered the ordeal of reading Senator Chuck Schumer’s awful little book, ANTI-SEMITISM IN AMERICA: A WARNING. Such an original subject! Until Mr. Schumer came along, no Jew had published a book on alleged rising anti-Semitism in the US since the last … 48 hours. At one point, Mr Schumer recalls meditating on his remote relatives who were exterminated during the Nazi holocaust: “Sometimes as a kid, I tried to picture them, those-long-distant Schumers, living half a world away and half a lifetime ago. Did they look like me? What kind of food did they eat? Did they ride their bikes on the weekend like I did? Who were their friends, neighbors, school crushes? Did they like to dance? If so, to what music?” Above my piano hang photos of my late Mother’s family: her mother, father, and two siblings. (No photos of my late Father’s family survived the war.) I know nothing about them. It was a taboo subject in my home. But, somehow, I don’t recall ever wondering, Did my Mother’s mother ride her bike on the weekend? Schumer credits his co-author for bringing “poetry to my thoughts.” Is this Shakespeare or schmaltz?
This post has been syndicated from Norman Finkelstein, where it was published under this address.