I observed the civil rights movement as a teenager in Great Neck, New York, the goldene medina, far from the agony of Mississippi and Alabama. Great Neck, our Depression-bred parents told us, was paradise, filled with huge houses and lush landscapes, swimming pools and tony stores, in contrast to the mean streets of Brownsville or Far Rockaway where our parents had grown up. Except for a small black population on Steamboat Road dating back to the 19th century, Great Neck was then all white and all Jewish. We didn’t experience anti-Semitism as our parents had. Our schools were rated among the best in the country.