I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT HURT more: The antisemitism directed at our seventh-grade son or our public school administration’s attempts to silence us about what happened to him.
Both seared like a brand.
As a documentary filmmaker and journalist, much of my work has been reporting on the worst of humanity. My late mother named me after the civil rights worker Andrew Goodman, who was killed by racists in Mississippi. It was her way of telling me to at least try to be part of the solution.
One thing I’ve covered for years is antisemitism. I’d considered myself lucky because, until recently, it never came in any large dose for me or my family.
I live in Westport, Connecticut, with my wife and three children. We moved here because it has a reasonably large Jewish population and well-regarded public schools. All was well until things changed dramatically for my son last year.
It started with a run of taunts against him in sixth grade. Then in seventh grade came a repeated, daily effort to kick him off the lunch table. “Vote him off!” was chanted.
