By Lisa Trank

The day was cold, but not too cold — typical March weather for the Rocky Mountains. I was heading to Boulder to pick up one of our daughters from the University of Colorado. COVID had canceled their regular spring break, but she needed some time away from campus, so off I went. Her twin sister had opted to stay on campus.

I stopped at the King Soopers in South Longmont, a town 12 miles northeast of Boulder. We’ve shopped at this store for the 21 years we’ve lived in this town. Many of the employees have been there the whole time, from the days when I’d push the bright red car cart with three kids to now, shopping for my husband and myself. This morning, I was picking up a few of our daughter’s favorite items — blueberries, Yerba Mate, fresh basil for the pesto I was planning on making for dinner that night.

I arrived at her dorm and texted her. She scrambled in and we turned back toward home. She had an essay due and lots of studying for calculus and chemistry. She was excited to see our dog and sleep in her own bed. As we pulled off the Diagonal Highway, the thin stretch of road that connects Longmont to Boulder, my daughter said, “I got an alert. There’s an active shooter at the South Boulder King Soopers.”

I drove the two or three miles home with a nervous pit growing in my stomach. I turned on my computer and proceeded to watch in horror. I called our other daughter. She was safe and very anxious. I began to make plans to head back to pick her up when a second area of Boulder was being investigated and shut down. I realized I couldn’t get to her. I told her to stay in her room.

A few hours later, the extent of the tragedy was made public: Ten people, including three store employees and a Boulder police officer, were dead. Ten people killed in less than one hour. While shopping and working at a grocery store.

Friends on Facebook who live in Boulder marked themselves “safe.” I received texts and calls asking if we were OK. I marked myself and my family “safe.”

That was 10 days ago.

My husband and I lived in Boulder for six years before moving to Longmont, and have shopped at that very King Soopers store many, many times. Our family has enjoyed celebratory brunches at a cafe located in the same shopping center, and we have friends who live in that area. One of our daughters worked at a grocery store last summer.

Two days after the shooting, my husband and I brought our daughter back to campus. We arrived in Boulder at sunset, pink and orange clouds converging over the Flatirons. For the first time since the shooting, I cried. Brief, hot tears jutted down my cheeks.

We took both girls to get something to eat, dropped them back at school and drove back to Longmont in silence.

In the days that followed, I went through the motions and prepared for Passover. In the entry of our King Soopers were three simple flower arrangements on a folding table with a handwritten sign: “in their honor.”

I bought daffodils, tulips and yahrzeit candles along with whatever was on my list. I went home, cooked soup and kugel, and set the seder table.

The next morning, I received an email message titled “A Prayer for Dew.” I opened the email and read the prayer. I knew we prayed for rain on Sukkot, but dew on Passover?

“Dew, precious dew, unto Your land forlorn …”

When faced with such a huge sense of loss, especially for a quiet and connected community like Boulder, Sandy Hook, Atlanta, Pittsburgh and every place in our country hit by gun violence, we often turn to prayer for comfort and answers, as well as to honor those lost.

I tried to pray, but the vastness of the grief caused by unmitigated gun violence is overwhelming. I had no idea where to start.

Perhaps I could simply pray for a drop of dew.

This morning, I woke up to snow dusting on grass that is trying hard to turn green and tulips pushing themselves out of the hard, cold earth. It’s not dew, but that will come. Spring is short in the Rocky Mountains.

“Dew, precious dew to make the mountains sweet …”

Lisa Trank is a writer of Jewish children’s literature, personal essays and lifestyle articles. She lives in Longmont, Colorado.

By Ivy Humbarger

The term “Jewish American Princess” has been debated within Jewish communities for as long as it has existed. Many bemoan it for perpetuating sexism and negative stereotypes of Jewish women, while others have argued that despite these origins, there’s a power in embracing the moniker.

But as a Jew of Japanese descent, I’m here to say the much larger problem comes from the acronym used in its place: JAP. There needs to be a conversation about the dangerous and violent history of the racist slur “jap,” and why Jewish people should not want to co-opt this word.

For those unaware, “jap” is a racial slur used against Japanese people. World War II-era America best showcases the dangers of this hateful word.

As we all know, the war  brought much suffering to many groups of people. And while America claims to be the hero that saved the world, the assertion often ignores or justifies its treatment of the Japanese. In Japan, America dropped devastating bombs on civilian cities that resulted in 225,000 deaths, which is likely an underestimated count, according to UCLA. Stateside, the U.S. government deported Japanese Americans — fellow citizens — to Japan, as bargaining chips to trade for American prisoners. In 1942, the U.S. government forcibly relocated and incarcerated some 120,000 Japanese Americans, two-thirds of whom were natural-born citizens.

These people were ripped from their homes by the government and placed in makeshift internment camps in the desert on the West Coast. They had no trials and nobody to save them. In 1942, Gen. John DeWitt, commander of the Western Defense Command, said, “A Jap’s a Jap. It makes no difference whether the Jap is a citizen or not.” That same year, Col. Karl Bendetsen of the Wartime Civil Control Administration said, “I am determined that if they have one drop of Japanese blood in them, they must go to camp.”

The homes and businesses of Japanese Americans were destroyed, looted and vandalized. The word “japs” was everywhere. Spray-painted on homes, on the front page of newspapers, on signs and posters. People protested the presence of Japanese people in America in the streets and from the comfort of their homes. Businesses put up signs banning Japanese from entering the premises, saying “No japs allowed.”

These were innocent citizens, many of whom came here for the “American dream.” Like many Jewish immigrants who came to the U.S. at the turn of the century, the Japanese came for opportunity, for the chance at greatness, yet America did what America always does.

This history is America, and it is the history of my heritage in this country. This is not a history that you can ask Japanese people to forget. Jap is not just a word; it’s a searing symbol of hate.

Growing up with a Japanese relative in metro Detroit, I was very familiar with the use of jap. It’s been hurled at me, and I’ve felt the pain that the term evokes.

My grandfather was born in Okinawa, Japan, sometime in January 1953, with the name Susumi Kise. As a baby he was put up for adoption at the Yonabaru orphanage in Naha, Okinawa. There is no documentation of his parents, whether they were alive or dead when he was brought to the orphanage. He was adopted as a young child by an American family stationed on the island and spent three years waiting to immigrate to the United States under the Refugee Relief Act. Upon his arrival in the U.S., he became the youngest-ever naturalized citizen in Detroit and the first person for whom the Michigan city ever waived the oral oath.

Despite how incredible of a headliner this situation was the novelty of the story quickly wore off. My grandfather was brought overseas to a racist America that hated him and saw him as a traitor while still seeing themselves as his savior. He was brought to an America that less than 10 years before bombed his country and locked up his people in the desert. He faced endless racism throughout his life — was bullied as a child in school, experienced discrimination from employers, endured harsh xenophobia from my white grandmother’s family when they announced their relationship and intention to have children, or as they said, “interbreed.”

When people use the slur jap, they’re using it against my grandpa, against his people and against everything they have ever been through. And that causes me immense pain.

The first time I ever saw the term JAP used to signify Jewish American Princess was from a Jewish person on Twitter. Initially I thought I had stumbled across another Jew of Japanese descent. I mean, who else would use this slur so lightly? Upon reading their profile I realized they weren’t Japanese at all, and I became very concerned and confused. I had to resort to googling “Jewish JAP” to find the meaning. I was  shocked and disappointed to see that Jews online were lightly using a slur as an acronym.

This experience was so isolating and hurtful as I began to feel unsafe in the online Jewish community. I have desperately tried to gain the attention of Jews online to warn them of this slur, and to beg them to stop using it, but it has always been to no avail.

No matter how many times I see it used as Jewish American Princess, I cannot separate it from the hate word used to vandalize Japanese-American homes.

Jewish people understand all too well pain and suffering, being othered and singled out, and we should never subject others to that feeling. It is especially important as a diverse people who span the world that we as Jews work hard to be as inclusive as possible.

Jewish women want to reclaim Jewish American Princess? I support that. But please take the extra five seconds and spell out the phrase. As Jews, it’s the least we can do.

Ivy Humbarger is a Jewish food worker of Ashkenazi and Japanese descent studying forensic pathology in Detroit.