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I’m part Jewish.

Due to my personal religious beliefs (read: I like Christmas), that’s not something that I’m necessarily proud of… but it’s not necessarily something I can hide from (read: big nose). As a Jew, I guess I should feel anger towards things like the Holocaust, but instead I feel apathy.

Maybe that’s because I’m part German.

But whatever the case, as a human being I realize that the crimes committed during that period in World History were sickeningly wrong… and it infuriates me to think of those heinous crimes committed by people against people.

Hell, we should be saving all this bloodlust for the inevitable war against the machines. (Transformers, anyone?)

But when I was in 2nd Grade, I didn’t think about any of that shit. I had absolutely no idea what a Nazi was, and if you asked me, I’d probably tell you it was a character from Ghostbusters, right alongside Vigo and Gozer. I knew nothing of the Holocaust, and had not even an inkling that anyone could dislike anyone based on religious or ethnic background.

It was with this childish state of ignorant bliss that I saw The Rocketeer in the summer of 1991. In retrospect, not knowing what a Nazi was, I probably didn’t understand the movie very much. As a matter of fact, I was probably entertained by the simple notion of a silver jetpack that can help humans fly and turn them into superheroes. But there is one other thing that I took from that cinematic experience — the swastika.

Let’s face it, the swastika is a pretty cool logo. Well, at least it’s easy to draw… and that’s what was important to my budding artist mind in Second Grade. When my class made a sculpture using Elmer’s glue and wooden pieces, guess what I decided to draw all over it?

It was just last weekend that I was reminded of that event, as my brother recounted a tale of doing the exact same thing. I also remembered when I brought that sculpture home and proudly showed it off to my father (after all, it was a pretty sweet wooden sculpture… even if it was a bit abstract). The slightly confused “what-the-hell-do-I-do-now?” look that came across his face as his eyes stared directly at my swastika-covered masterpiece is forever etched into my memory. As is his response: “You *might* want to paint over that before mommy comes home.”

I was an ignorant kid. Plain and simple. No harm done, right? This event has NEVER bothered me before.

Until last week, when I was reminded of the incident… and I wondered…

Why the hell did an art teacher supervising young children not even QUESTION a child completely covering a project in a symbol that has become almost universally associated with an infamous act of genocide?

I’m not saying I should have been scheduled weekly visits with the school psychiatrist… but shouldn’t one of my EDUCATORS have sat me down and TAUGHT me what a swastika meant?

I feel like I’m taking crazy pills.