Silence won't mute ignorance; we must speak up Anyone who knows me well knows that I love to argue, and I hate to lose. Although I ask a lot from people, I expect twice as much from myself. Heather Kamins Kandid Kamins I have many of opinions, some of which are probably wrong, but still I usually am quite persistent in expressing them. And although I am shy, it takes a lot to leave me speechless. A distressing conversation at a house party this weekend, though, silenced me and paralyzed me from action. It was very late - about 3 a.m. - and a group of 15 people, tired from alcohol and the hour, lingered on couches at the party. When the hour gets late and the most important choice a partygoer can make is whether to grab one last beer or head to bed, it is a bad time to start philosophizing on any subject. I realize that at such a time, words become slurred, arguments become disjointed and obscenities are flippantly spewed. But conversation of course continues, and in this case crossed the line. A ranting partygoer began spouting offensive terms - jerks, pricks, assholes, etc. - to describe a few students at the University whom he does not like. The list of insults grew, eliciting laughs and nods, until one four-letter word slipped out and silenced the room. "They're such Jews." The members of the group being put down are not Jewish. The speaker obviously is not Jewish. In fact, no one in the room was a Jew, except me. The University is a very diverse place. There are nearly 6,000 Jews enrolled at the University, a significant proportion making it a very popular and comfortable school for Jewish students. So naturally, if a derogatory comment against Jews slips out, people freeze. Everyone stopped, the noise stopped and all eyes turned to me. Several people immediately piped in, "You can't say stuff like that here." I said nothing. I'm pretty fortunate, I guess. That was the first time in my 21 years that I have encountered such a blatant anti-Semitic comment. Of course I've heard the jokes, and yes, I've surely laughed at some of them too. But this use of the single label "Jew" - the specific name of a people, my people - as a synonym for scum, dirt or trash tore me inside. At first I was just worried about the people around me, my close friends, staring at me. They meant no harm. I am sure of that. But I was scared of being singled out, worried about being different, fearful of being pitied. "You can't say things like that," I meekly sputtered. A few witnesses tried to mitigate the situation with supporting words, and I appreciated their efforts, but all further talk just added insult to injury. So then a change of topic came as a relief. And then I forgot about it ... for a while ... until I started thinking about how I responded. What is our responsibility to handle ignorance? We are all forced to interact with people who do not look like us, sound like us, talk like us or pray like us. We are forced to face situations in which choices must be made. Often we won't know which choice is right. I chose to stay silent, and have not yet forgiven myself. But really was there a better choice? I could have spoken up. I could have gotten angry. Maybe I should have just walked away in silent protest to show how disturbed I felt. Would that have made my point or would I have alienated people further? In the end, I found that really the most hurtful part is that I was hamstrung, with no clear answer or solution. Still, though, I blame myself. I do not blame the speaker for being ignorant. As simple as it sounds, he did not know better. I do feel guilty though for my silence. I choked then, but I have a column and I have a voice. We all have a responsibility to stand up to discrimination - against ourselves and others. I was mad at myself that night because I knew my reticence made it impossible for him to learn how wrong his words were. I had a responsibility that day to stand up against something I knew was clearly wrong. That is what I am doing now. I only hope that next time, whether it is you or me, we won't let the opportunity and responsibility pass us by. - Heather Kamins can be reached via e-mail at hbk@umich.edu. Originally on page 4A in the 1-27-2000 issue of the Daily.