A few weeks after I began dating Hendrik, I went through a serious Dolly Parton phase, perhaps in rebellion to all the pretentious snot clogging up my college campus. I wrote country songs and performed them before my full-length mirror and my roommate, who promised not to judge. I wore cowboy boots and peroxided my hair so blonde it washed out all the Jewish character on my face.
I e-mailed Hendrik a digital picture of the new me labeled "Just as Hitler ordered" and I expected at least some kind of half-pleasure to come out from under him; maybe he would call me his "sexy little Barbara Streisand" or he would tell me gently that I looked very hot but that he wanted his Jew back. I just assumed that all guys, even the most Jew-chasing among them, were turned on by blonde. I thought it an evolutionary thing.
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For a good few hours, I stared, autistic-like, at my computer until an instant message from bodyofgod937 popped up on the screen: "Call me when you have better judgment" is all it said. My better judgment told me that I should delete Hendrik's from my cell phone and that I should have listened to my mother and only dated nice Jewish boys. Jewish boys, after all, would never pass up a good shiksa.
At the Metro Club in New Orleans, I was dancing with a law school student named Hendrik, who kept palming his way down the backside of my thighs. Suddenly, without hesitation, he told me he had been waiting all night to dance with a Jewish girl, especially one as "full-bred" as myself. Was it really that obvious? I wondered. I reminded myself that if I would just stand 45 degrees to the left of guys my nose would not seem nearly as obtrusive.
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"You know, it's so funny," Hendrik said, "My grandfather was a Nazi officer but my dad and I, we absolutely love the Jewish people. Especially the women. Huge fans."