Film Comment: Kike Like Me

The title of this film is a play on the  name of John Griffin’s 1964 book, Black Like Me.  Griffin darkened his skin so he could convincingly live for a time as a black man and then wrote of his experiences.

“Kike” is an ethnic slur word used to insult Jews. There are several possible explanations for the origin of the word, but one of the most likely is offered by Leo Rosten in his 1968 book, The Joys of Yiddish. 

Rosten says that many of the Jews entering the United States at the immigration center at Ellis Island in New York were illiterate. A common practice at the time was for the recording clerk to write the persons name and then for the illiterate person to place “his mark,” an X, between the personal name and the surname. 

Many Jews thought the X looked like a cross and refused to use it. Instead they wrote an O, a circle, which in Yiddish is “kikel” or “keikl.”

Kike Like Me (2007) is narrated by Jamie Kastner who presents the film as an examination of what it means to be Jewish in the modern world. Kastner travels to Jerusalem, Berlin, Poland, Paris, and the Auschwitz death camp. He becomes increasingly shocked and sarcastic as he sees more. He is disgusted to find that Auschwitz has a tourist souvenir shop.

Christians often forget that all of the first Christians were Jewish and that it is impossible to understand Christianity without understanding its Jewish origins. What does it mean to be perceived as Jewish? Watch this film if you dare.

The Elevator

Below is one of my short stories, in this case a 266 word micro-story entitled The Elevator.


We often fail to recognize opportunities when they are presented to us.  How many times have you said to yourself, "I should have said ..."?  This is frustrating, but when the opportunity missed is one in which the Gospel could have been presented the situation is not only frustrating, but tragic.


                                         THE ELEVATOR

            Hospital elevators are lonely, anonymous places. People don’t really see each other there.

            When I got on the elevator on the eleventh floor, I immediately saw the massively obese white man with a stubbly three-day old beard.  His knit shirt fit very snugly and his vulgarly exposed navel was an enormous gaping cavern in which a small dog could have hidden. He was a nascent heart attack.

            I tried not to stare, but his labored breathing wouldn’t let me ignore him.  He had the pained wheeze that extremely fat people get, as if just standing up was a struggle.  He sounded as if it would kill him on the spot if he ever were forced to run.

            “What floor?”

            I said, “One.”

            The fat man’s stubby finger pressed the button.

            “Six.”

            I turned around; the voice had come from behind me.

            The well-groomed black man was tall and handsome. I hadn’t noticed him as I entered the cabin ... perhaps because of the fat man.

            “Six.”

            The fat man didn’t move.

            “Six.”

            Nothing.

            “Six.”

            I realized what was going on and, in a flash of anger, my hand flitted over to the button panel and pressed number six.  I thought about confronting the fat man, but I hesitated.  I knew he wouldn’t care what I said and I wondered if the black man would be embarrassed.

            When we got off the elevator, the fat man waddled off to work on his heart attack.  The black man never said anything.  He quietly got off the elevator and vanished into anonymity.  I went to my car, unhappy with myself.