of her children watching certain programs with messages and POV she wanted us to know.
She would sit with us, answer our questions, and later we would all talk about what we watched.
She sat with me on the curb outside one of the local grocers after I saw the owner's tattoo and it frightened me. There was something evil and wrong about it. I cried. It wasn't the owner. He was always nice and friendly and I liked him. It was the tattoo - if that makes any sense. It didn't belong.
We sat on the curb and my mom talked to me about the Holocaust. I was five. She wasn't one to pull punches. The sun was hot, her words were low, and my heart broke. I already knew what it was to be different and that knowing was expanded.
The gentleman and his wife were both survivors of Auschwitz.
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