Unity in Community

The year was 2016, and I was serving as a Residence Life Coordinator at Penn State University. Move-in day is always a whirlwind—families unloading cars, students nervously stepping into a new chapter, and staff doing everything possible to create a welcoming environment, we would even blast the most popular dance songs as we laboriously helped students move their belongings. In the middle of that chaos, I witnessed something that stopped me in my tracks: a student casually giving a Nazi salute to another student.

In that moment, time seemed to slow. As a Jewish staff member, the gesture was not just inappropriate—it was deeply personal and painful. My initial reaction was a mix of shock, anger, and disbelief. I was clenching my teeth together. But as a professional in student affairs, I knew I had a responsibility to not just react, but to respond thoughtfully. I followed the student into their residence hall lounge, steadying myself for what I knew would be a difficult conversation.

As a young Jewish college student studying in the middle of Pennsylvania, I was accustomed to being the first Jewish person most people had met. I thought to myself, “With such a difficult situation, how could a friendly relationship start?”.

When I approached them, I chose to lead with curiosity rather than accusation. I asked them if they understood the meaning and impact of their actions. As we spoke, it became clear that while the gesture may have been intended as a joke or a thoughtless act, the student had not fully grasped its historical weight or the harm it could cause. I shared, honestly and vulnerably, what that gesture represents—not just in history, but in the lived experiences of people like me and countless others.

To the student’s credit, they listened. They apologized, sincerely, and acknowledged that what they had done was wrong. That moment could have ended there—with a correction and a consequence—but instead, it became the beginning of something more meaningful. I made it clear that my role was not only to hold students accountable, but also to educate and support their growth.

I told them my door was always open if they wanted to continue the conversation.

And they did.

Over the weeks and months that followed, that student would stop by regularly. Sometimes we talked about history, identity, and social responsibility. Other times, we talked about classes, stress, life, and his love of fishing, which is something we both shared.  A few weekends out of the semester, we would walk across the road to Gring’s Mill, part of a state park, and enjoy fishing together, even though we would not catch much. What started as a difficult confrontation evolved into a relationship built on trust, learning, and mutual respect. It reminded me that growth often comes from uncomfortable moments—if we are willing to engage with them.

That experience reinforced something I carry with me to this day: community is not built by avoiding conflict, but by leaning into it with empathy, accountability, and a commitment to education. Unity does not mean uniformity; it means creating space for learning, for mistakes to be addressed, and for people to grow beyond them.

As educators, mentors, and community members, we have a choice in how we respond to moments of harm. We can shut doors, or we can open them. In 2016, I chose to keep mine open—and in doing so, I witnessed the transformative power of conversation, connection, and compassion.