“He that covereth his sins shall not prosper: but whoso confesseth and forsaketh them shall have mercy.”
Proverbs 28:13
Adding to that stifling picture, there was the probable reality of toxic secrecy and shame. It’s secret keeping over more than just the abuse that was occurring.
Something, perhaps, more volatile was driving the painful, intense atmosphere my dad grew up in.
It wouldn’t excuse the abuse; there’s no excuse.
But it might explain what existed in that house.
“Like a flitting sparrow, like a flying swallow, So a curse without cause shall not alight.”
Proverbs 26:2
Within the last few years, I have had strong reason to believe my dad and his family may have been Ashkenazi Jewish.
Indeed, I did a DNA test in late 2018, which showed results of an Ashkenazi Jewish presence in my bloodline.
Prior to that, I underwent genetic testing a year earlier, with my breast cancer diagnosis.
The findings? The test results seemed to confirm suspicions I’d held for years.
Besides the expected readings noting my Polish, Russian, and Scandinavian (Mom’s side) heritage, the Ashkenazi result seemed rather a-typical for the setting of my small Midwestern, rural town.
But there it was: science.
The blood does not lie?
“And he said, ‘What hast thou done? The voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground.’”
Genesis 4:10
My father’s blood?
Was it speaking?
I wondered if the trauma never spoken of was, indeed, tied to how my relatives may have had to flee the old country because of religious persecution.
Did they flee a pogrom in Russia or in Germany? My paternal grandfather emigrated here, at the age of sixteen, by himself. Where was his family? What became of them?
My young grandfather, seemingly, had no choice but to start life over. In a strange country. I am sure he didn’t speak the language. Who knows how long that took him to learn it.
It is the traditional, well-worn immigrant story of trauma.
And was it further exacerbated as my grandfather, and eventually my paternal grandmother, tried to become Americans, forsake the past, and assimilate?
Was that why “Lutheran” was listed as my dad’s religion on his dog tags?
Did this side of my bloodline become members of the small rural town’s Lutheran church, all to be considered “safe and acceptable?”
This was the best way to assimilate…and NOT be Jewish?
“…there is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed or hidden that will not be made known.”
Matthew 10:26; Luke 12:2
They certainly weren’t a church going family.
“Lutheran” was in denominational name only.
“Name.”
Again, the power of a name.
“Lutheran?”
“Jewish?”
“Acceptable?”
“White?”
“American?”
Concerning the Lutheran denomination, did they, therefore, attend this town’s church to get “confirmed” and, subsequently, stamped as “legitimate?”
Did they feel they were “safe,” hidden from view?
Or were they constantly terrified and traumatized?
I place my bet on that second concept.
When I was growing up, my dad was extremely hostile when it came to “God” and faith.
“…Whosoever therefore shall confess me before men, him will I confess also before my Father which is in heaven… ‘For I am come to set a man at variance against his father, and the daughter against her mother, and the daughter in law against her mother-in-law.”
Matthew 10:32; 34; 35
Constantly belittling Mom and I about the subject, he forbade us from going to church, up until the years I needed to go for confirmation classes as a teenager.
And that, again, had more to do with public image.
“Assimilation” continues now, with me?
It was about avoiding the small- town gossip over why I wasn’t going through the status quo motions, just like all the other kids my age.
