Growing up as a millennial in Montreal, I couldn't escape the numbers. The cashier at the bakery had one. Our synagogue's "candy-man" had one. Even my second grade Hebrew teacher had one. Today, they are harder to find.
The numbers loomed over our parents like a dark cloud — a relentless reminder of the devastation they were one generation removed from.
For us, they were background noise; if we paused, we could hear the cries. Otherwise, despite their ubiquity — or perhaps because of it — the Nazi nightmare mostly died while our own music didn't. We were raised on a Nietzschean, life-affirming sensibility. We were taught to be forward thinking, rather than lodged in the past. Our parents infused us with pride rather than stoking a victimhood mentality.
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