Forty Letters, Three Whispers, and a Zionist Swim Cap

A ten-minute speech, four people considering changing their names, and a swimming cap I do not yet own.

Forty Jewish Portlanders have written to me about their fears of antisemitism.

Four told me they were considering changing their names.

I am 78 years old. I have lived through what may have been the greatest period of Jewish acceptance in three thousand years, and now four American Jews are thinking about concealing their identities.

I’m a statistician. Forty self-selected correspondents are not a representative sample. But they’re 40 human beings. And four of them are considering changing their names.

I’ve been writing about Portland’s proposed Ethical Investment Policy and the question of who gets to decide which Jews are politically acceptable.

As a result, I’ve been invited to speak to approximately 100 Jewish Portlanders on November 2. I proposed ten minutes: four public documents, deficiencies in the city’s proposed process, and four practical things residents can do. No slides.

I’ve spent my life figuring out how complicated institutions work and what can be done to change them. This is familiar territory. When someone presents me with a problem, I start looking for the people who make the decisions.

Then three different Jewish friends, on three separate occasions, took me aside and whispered that I was going to be “doxxed.”

They actually whispered.

Only another Jew fully understands the significance of that whisper.

The evil eye. God forbid. Kanehara. Ptu, ptu, ptu.

I didn’t know what “doxxed” meant. But I understood the whisper perfectly. The word was new. The warning was ancient.

When they explained that someone might publish where I could be found, I decided to save everyone the investigative expense. I announced where I swim three days a week and invited anyone interested to come by and take pictures.

I even offered to wear my Zionist swim cap.

There is one small complication.

I don’t actually own a Zionist swim cap.

So, I’m appealing to readers for suggestions. Where can I get one? No Star of David. No Israeli flag. No “Go Israel.” Just one word in enormous letters:

ZIONIST.

There appear to be two words treated as profanities in Portland these days: Zionist and genocide.

Unfortunately, my head isn’t big enough for genocide.

So Zionist it is.

Now, my friends weren’t being foolish. Doxxing can be dangerous. Their concern was genuine. But I found myself thinking about the contrast: four Jews contemplating changing their names, three others whispering warnings, and me publicly advertising my whereabouts.

I’m not claiming that my approach is necessarily the sensible one. At 78, I may simply have developed an unusually relaxed attitude toward risk management.

Meanwhile, I still have a ten-minute speech to give to a hundred Jewish Portlanders, including people who are wondering how visibly Jewish they can afford to be.

I can’t answer that question for them. But I can explain how their city government works, what decisions remain to be made, and how they can participate.

Perhaps I can demonstrate that one needn’t whisper to be heard.

Kanehara.

Swim cap suggestions welcome. Please respond at normal speaking volume.