When I was 11, a swastika was painted on our driveway. I have a muddled memory of the event now, but I immediately understood that it was bad, it was for me, and it was frivolous.

I saw it before my parents did. I may have brought it to their attention. I know they were profoundly upset, but I sensed that was more on my behalf than on theirs.

I was not a good history student then, but I knew a bit about World War II and I’d never deny that what would come to be called the holocaust happened. My father had served in the Air Force during that war, and both parents had experienced door-blocking prejudice about neighborhoods when they were kids, colleges when teens, and jobs as young adults. Compared to their experiences my way was an easy one, and yet there was that symbol.

Like I said, I knew it was for me, I suspected it was painted by Keith-and-Steve (Detention, August 5, 2010) and there was no recurrence. I don’t think my parents complained to anyone about it; they removed it and talked to me about anti-Semitism (it was kind of like the fact-of-life discussion: a little embarrassing and mostly unnecessary by the time it occurred).

In some way I never articulated to my folks, I took the event as my responsibility. I knew I brought it on myself. I think I was talking too much about my Jewishness at school, arguing too loudly against others’ parents’ beliefs, touting.

I had a hint of confirmation about that last year. I received an email from my first beau, a guy named David from my fourth grade class. I remember chasing him in fun on the playground then, catching him by his yellow cubscout neckerchief. I recall that sixth grade double-date, David and Doug and me and ??, to a Saturday matinee at the Vogue Theater. He told me in his email that in fifth grade he traded a treasure for a junk ring on the playground, and then tried to present the ring to me with a marriage proposal. He remembers how quickly I turned him down, asserting that I’d never be able to marry him because he wasn’t Jewish.

His friend Doug called me a blowhard not long after the swastika event. I didn’t understand the term then or even after Dad tried explaining it to me, but I sure do now. Even so, and though I know I was wrong for proclaiming so many words, the painters were wronger for their act.