O pinion
Jewish immigrants who came
to the U.S. at the turn of the
century, the Japanese came for
opportunity, for the chance at
greatness, yet America did what
America always does.

This history is America, and
it is the history of my heritage in
this country. This is not a history
that you can ask Japanese people
to forget. Jap is not just a word;
it’s a searing symbol of hate.

Growing up with a Japanese
relative in metro Detroit, I was
very familiar with the use of jap.

It’s been hurled at me, and I’ve
felt the pain that the term evokes.

My grandfather was born in
Okinawa, Japan, sometime in
January 1953, with the name
Susumi Kise. As a baby he
was put up for adoption at the
Yonabaru orphanage in Naha,
Okinawa. There is no documen-
tation of his parents, whether
they were alive or dead when he
was brought to the orphanage.

He was adopted as a young child
by an American family stationed
on the island and spent three
years waiting to immigrate to
the United States under the
Refugee Relief Act. Upon his
arrival in the U.S., he became
the youngest-ever naturalized
citizen in Detroit and the first
person for whom the Michigan
city ever waived the oral oath.

Despite how incredible of
a headliner this situation was
the novelty of the story quickly
wore off. My grandfather was
brought overseas to a racist
America that hated him and saw
him as a traitor while still seeing
themselves as his savior. He was
brought to an America that less
than 10 years before bombed
his country and locked up his
people in the desert. He faced
endless racism throughout his
life — was bullied as a child in
school, experienced discrimina-
tion from employers, endured
harsh xenophobia from my white
grandmother’s family when they
announced their relationship
and intention to have children,
or as they said, “interbreed.”
When people use the slur
jap, they’re using it against my
grandpa, against his people and
against everything they have
ever been through. And that
causes me immense pain.

The first time I ever saw
the term JAP used to signify
Jewish American Princess was
from a Jewish person on Twitter.

Initially I thought I had stumbled
across another Jew of Japanese
descent. I mean, who else would
use this slur so lightly? Upon
reading their profile I realized
they weren’t Japanese at all,
and I became very concerned
and confused. I had to resort to
googling “Jewish JAP” to find
the meaning. I was shocked and
disappointed to see that Jews
online were lightly using a slur
as an acronym.

This experience was so
isolating and hurtful as I began
to feel unsafe in the online Jewish
community. I have desperately
tried to gain the attention of Jews
online to warn them of this slur,
and to beg them to stop using it,
but it has always been to no avail.

No matter how many times
I see it used as Jewish American
Princess, I cannot separate
it from the hate word used to
vandalize Japanese-American
homes. Jewish people understand
all too well pain and suffering,
being othered and singled out,
and we should never subject
others to that feeling. It is
especially important as a diverse
people who span the world that
we as Jews work hard to be as
inclusive as possible.

Jewish women want to
reclaim Jewish American
Princess? I support that. But
please take the extra five seconds
and spell out the phrase. As Jews,
it’s the least we can do. l
Ivy Humbarger is a Jewish food
worker of Ashkenazi and Japanese
descent studying forensic
A Shooter Terrorized My Favorite Grocery Store.

This Simple Jewish Prayer for Dew is Helping Me Mourn
BY LISA TRANK
THE DAY WAS COLD, but not
too cold — typical March weather
for the Rocky Mountains. I was
heading to Boulder to pick up
one of our daughters from the
University of Colorado. COVID
had canceled their regular spring
break, but she needed some time
away from campus, so off I went.

Her twin sister had opted to stay
on campus.

I stopped at the King Soopers
in South Longmont, a town
12 miles northeast of Boulder.

We’ve shopped at this store for
the 21 years we’ve lived in this
town. Many of the employees
have been there the whole time,
from the days when I’d push
the bright red car cart with
JEWISHEXPONENT.COM three kids to now, shopping for
my husband and myself. This
morning, I was picking up a few
of our daughter’s favorite items
— blueberries, Yerba Mate, fresh
basil for the pesto I was planning
on making for dinner that night.

I arrived at her dorm and texted
her. She scrambled in and we
turned back toward home. She had
an essay due and lots of studying
for calculus and chemistry. She
was excited to see our dog and
sleep in her own bed. As we
pulled off the Diagonal Highway,
the thin stretch of road that
connects Longmont to Boulder,
my daughter said, “I got an alert.

There’s an active shooter at the
South Boulder King Soopers.”
I drove the two or three
miles home with a nervous pit
growing in my stomach. I turned
on my computer and proceeded
to watch in horror. I called our
other daughter. She was safe and
very anxious. I began to make
plans to head back to pick her up
when a second area of Boulder
was being investigated and shut
down. I realized I couldn’t get to
her. I told her to stay in her room.

A few hours later, the extent
of the tragedy was made public:
Ten people, including three store
employees and a Boulder police
officer, were dead. Ten people
killed in less than one hour.

While shopping and working at
a grocery store.

Friends on Facebook who live
in Boulder marked themselves
“safe.” I received texts and calls
asking if we were OK. I marked
myself and my family “safe.”
That was 10 days ago.

My husband and I lived in
Boulder for six years before
moving to Longmont, and have
shopped at that very King Soopers
store many, many times. Our
family has enjoyed celebratory
brunches at a cafe located in the
same shopping center, and we
have friends who live in that area.

One of our daughters worked at a
grocery store last summer.

Two days after the shooting,
my husband and I brought our
daughter back to campus. We
arrived in Boulder at sunset, pink
and orange clouds converging over
the Flatirons. For the first time
since the shooting, I cried. Brief,
hot tears jutted down my cheeks.

We took both girls to get
JEWISH EXPONENT
something to eat, dropped them
back at school and drove back to
Longmont in silence.

In the days that followed, I
went through the motions and
prepared for Passover. In the entry
of our King Soopers were three
simple flower arrangements on a
folding table with a handwritten
sign: “in their honor.”
I bought daffodils, tulips
and yahrzeit candles along with
whatever was on my list. I went
home, cooked soup and kugel,
and set the seder table.

The next morning, I received
an email message titled “A Prayer
for Dew.” I opened the email
and read the prayer. I knew we
prayed for rain on Sukkot, but
dew on Passover?
“Dew, precious dew, unto
Your land forlorn ...”
When faced with such a huge
sense of loss, especially for a
quiet and connected community
like Boulder, Sandy Hook,
Atlanta, Pittsburgh and every
place in our country hit by gun
violence, we often turn to prayer
for comfort and answers, as well
as to honor those lost.

I tried to pray, but the vastness
of the grief caused by unmitigated
gun violence is overwhelming. I
had no idea where to start.

Perhaps I could simply pray
for a drop of dew.

This morning, I woke up to
snow dusting on grass that is
trying hard to turn green and
tulips pushing themselves out
of the hard, cold earth. It’s not
dew, but that will come. Spring
is short in the Rocky Mountains.

“Dew, precious dew to make
the mountains sweet ...” l
Lisa Trank is a writer of Jewish
children’s literature, personal
essays and lifestyle articles. She
lives in Longmont, Colorado.

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APRIL 15, 2021
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