I Believe in Anne

I believed in being unruly ever since I could read. To believe and to participate are two separate spheres, you know. Although the voice of a young Anne Frank spoke to me on a profound level, I didn’t consider myself a rabble-rouser. I would never dance on the furniture or speak smartly to an elder. I wouldn’t have dreamed of documenting negative feelings in writing; I felt guilty and superstitious about every ounce of conviction that was underneath the layers of sweet girl, quiet girl, never-lets-out-a-peep-of-insubordination girl.

Don’t get me wrong, I knew the difference between good and evil. I had standards, but at the top of it all, for me, was politeness. To the extent that a stranger who crushed the bones of my little foot would receive profuse apologies: “I am so sorry for walking underneath your shoes, ma’am.” After devouring Frank’s diary, Number the Stars, The U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum, plays, research papers, photographs, I became convinced that I would not have survived the Holocaust.

Maybe it’s a crisis that every successive generation of Jewish people will go through…what if I had been born 50 years earlier? What if? Would I have resigned myself to the discrimination? Would I have tolerated torture? Worse, would I have allowed myself to be convinced that I was guilty?

The idols of my childhood had common traits. They did not stand back and allow mistaken people to tread on their integrity. Meip Geis did not hang her head and apologize to the Frank family when they requested her aid. Margot Frank did not succumb to illness in the annex. Otto Frank did not let the voice of his daughter go unheard.

And Anne. Anne created. Anne listened. She felt and she knew. Pages. Words. “I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart.” Anne survived so long because those around her believed, and because she believed, in fighting for morality. My older self now knows to act up and take risks. To do nothing is to be part of the problem: this I believe.