He was a quietly wonderful man with a quick sense of humor, and when he laughed, he would cover his mouth — a gentle, self-conscious habit to hide his teeth. He loved the opera. Born in Philadelphia in 1892, he was the son of a German-Jewish immigrant. Growing up, I had never really considered his heritage; to me, he was simply my grandfather. If his goal was to assimilate truly into a changing American century, he succeeded, and his Jewish identity seemingly became secondary.

In 1918, my grandfather changed his surname from Sinsheimer to Spencer. In late 1918, even as World War I was drawing to a close, the domestic hysteria remained at a fever pitch. Driven by the Espionage and Sedition Acts, being of German descent was dangerous enough; being a German-Jew compounded the vulnerability. Yet, Philadelphia had a large, established Jewish population, and none of his brothers or sisters felt the need to alter their names. For my grandfather alone, the pressure was felt differently. It was perhaps a choice born of angst — or at least, a calculated bid for smoother sailing in a fracturing world. He married a Protestant, they raised my mother in her faith, and she later married a Catholic. By the time I was born, my parents had decided to bypass religious education entirely. Today, I have no religious or cultural affiliation.