"Debra is a JAP."

As I walk into my classroom, I see the words written neatly in bright orange on the whiteboard, and my colleague (someone I had counted as a friend) who has written them stands by the board, giggling, egging on my students to ask me what it means.

Dumbfounded, speechless, shaken, I ask him to erase the offensive statement. But erasing it from the board hasn't erased the ache in my heart and pain in my gut, both of which permanently reside, gnawing at me daily.

On a separate occasion, I exclaimed gleefully, "I got chocolate from Santa." Santa was handing out chocolate bars to passers-by as a CSU bookstore PR promotion for the end-of-semester book buy-back.

"You can't eat that, can you?" asked E., an INTO CSU coordinator and one of my supervisors.

"Why not? It's a Hershey bar!" I squeal delightedly.

"Because it’s from Santa," she says, "and you’re Jewish."

Another time, I was involved in the following exchange.

"Do you know how you can tell that Mary (Jesus’ mother) was a Jew?" J. asks me at the same time his buddy, S., asks me, "Do you know how you can tell that Jesus is ..." Instantly, my hands go up in a sign of protest as I say, "I've heard them all before. I do not want to hear them. I do not want to hear them."

But they continue as my INTO CSU supervisor, N., witnesses it all and says nothing. The "comedians" were my colleagues, both of whom have documented histories of inappropriateness; one was recently promoted to program coordinator while the other was promoted to lead instructor.

When I later expressed my concerns to N., she stoically remarked nothing more than, "Hmm, something to ponder." Over the next few days, S. continued his ugly comments, adding one about the "Ay-rabs."

I again expressed my concerns to N., who, while allowing that "we" had allowed S to behave inappropriately for quite some time, dismissed me, telling me it was not her responsibility to address the issue; it was mine. I don't know who "we" refers to, but it certainly never included me.

After N. told me it was my responsibility to deal with my colleagues' harassment, I shared with her and S. a copy of the university policy on discrimination and harassment, a policy with which N. said she was unfamiliar.

As George Santayana observed, "Those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it." Indeed, the past was repeating itself.

In August 2013, two years before these profoundly disturbing interactions (and several others I have left out), I had emailed N., my INTO CSU supervisor, to request days off for the Jewish High Holy days of Rosh Hashanah (Yom Kippur was not during the work week).

What followed were a series of Kafkaesque, Beckettian events that I still cannot fathom, particularly because those involved were and are administrators at Colorado State University and at INTO CSU, an intensive English program for international students, a program in which administrators advise faculty to be culturally sensitive and to allow our Muslim students to arrive late for class because they are responding to the call for prayer.

N. emailed her response, indicating that her supervisor, F., (now the INTO CSU center director) needed to consider my request. Immediately, I knew something was wrong. In more than 50 years of taking time away from school or work or both to celebrate the Jewish New Year — one of the two Jewish High Holidays — I never, ever had anyone tell me that she had to "consider it."

After all, a half-century ago, the 1964 Civil Rights Act required that "employers with 15 or more employees must make reasonable accommodations for employees' religious observances." Despite the law, N., F., and then-INTO CSU center director, J.D., tried mightily to prohibit me from taking time off.

For days, I heard nothing from any of the administrators. With each day that passed, plane ticket availability diminished and costs increased. I emailed N. that in good faith, because I believed they'd follow 50-year-old settled federal law, and because the program has a substitute teacher policy, I had purchased my plane ticket. She did not respond.

Days later, N. emailed me, putting me on notice that I'd receive a letter with the administrators' decision by noon that day. Noon came and went, and I received no letter. I did receive another email from N., asking that the next morning I meet with her, F., and J.D. I agreed. I couldn't help but wonder — and I still wonder — if they chose not to send me a letter with their decision for fear of a paper trail.

I didn't sleep that night, as I hadn't slept much since the entire astonishing scenario began to unfold. My stomach was knotted, and I wasn't eating. I cajoled myself that at least I was losing weight.

At 10 a.m. the next day, I sat at a small, round table in J.D.'s office with the administrators facing me. One by one, each told me all the reasons they had for denying me my right to take off from work to celebrate Rosh Hashanah.

J.D. — a professor of philosophy and history — told me they had never had such a request before. I was aghast: Could it be that the program, which in some form existed for nearly 30 years, never had even one Jewish person request time off to celebrate the holy days? What does that say about the diversity in the program? Certainly, when I worked there, I was one of only two observant Jewish instructors, and there were only two nonwhite instructors in a faculty of several dozen.

J.D. told me he wanted the process to be formative, one from which we could all learn. He told me that, because I had already purchased my plane ticket, they were allowing me to go, but they were refusing to allow me to earn my salary while gone; I would have to take unpaid leave.

Apparently, the fact that the Christian federal holiday of Christmas is a paid holiday was not a consideration in the administrators' decision. Apparently, they are unaware that some public schools, colleges and universities close for the Jewish High Holy Days. Apparently, they are unaware that even Catholic universities advise their faculty not to give exams on the High Holy Days out of respect for their Jewish students.

Clearly, the three of them had finely combed the law to find the stipulation they could use to deny me the time off: My two-day absence would constitute an "undue hardship" on the center. N. claimed it would be a financial burden should I go. I asked her to tell me the amount of money it would cost the center to pay for substitutes, a cost she did not have at hand despite her financial hardship claim.

$270, she later told me. What a remarkably disingenuous argument: How could $270 be an "undue hardship" on the center? She also told me our substitute teacher policy was for emergencies only, and an instructor taking time to celebrate a religious holiday was not an emergency.

As though I couldn’t be more appalled by their nefariousness and ignorance, F. asked, "This holiday: Is it a recurring one?" How could the second in command of an English program for international students, herself an immigrant to the U.S., not know about Rosh Hashanah? How could anyone in an administrative role not know the law?

"Yes," I said. "It is recurring. It has been recurring for almost 6,000 years."

I sat in disbelief, taking copious notes. I told them that in 50 years of taking off from work and school to celebrate such a significant religious holiday, I had never been denied, even in the tiny town where I was born and grew up and my family was one of only two Jewish families. I asked J.D. to send me a written explanation for their decisions. (He never did.) He suggested I contact the university's Office of Equal Opportunity (OEO).

Not only did I contact the head of the university OEO, but I also reported everything to the campus AAUP representative, the university grievance officer, the university Office of Human Resources, my rabbi, the Unitarian Universalist minister with whom I am friends, and later, the Anti-Defamation League. Unfortunately, the university does not have collective bargaining, but at least I was able to make others aware of the administrators' pernicious shenanigans.

When I spoke with the head of OEO, she initially thought I was calling for clarification about how to treat a student's request to take off for a religious holiday. "No," I said. "I know the law. I'm asking about me."

"What?" She was incredulous. "Why didn't they (administrators) call me?"

"I don't know. I don't know about any of this," I said. She told me she'd handle it.

On the morning I was packing to take my unpaid religious holiday leave, the head of OEO called me. "Have you heard from [J.D.]?" she asked.

"No."

"Well, you will. But in the meantime, I spoke with him," she said. "You may go, and you will be paid for your time off."

I cried. Tears bubbled from my eyes and journeyed down my face. "Thank you," I gasped. "Thank you, thank you. Thank you for the important work you do."

When I returned a few days later, I found an email from J.D., telling me that I was, in fact, permitted to take time off to celebrate my religious holiday. I responded that, since he wanted the process to be formative, a learning one, I wanted to meet with him to offer some perspective and suggestions. I received an out-of-office reply that he’d be away for two weeks.

I heard nothing after that. Nothing. Further, neither he nor N. nor F. ever offered me an apology. J.D. moved to the position as chair of another CSU department, and F. became center director.

Hate and hatefulness are some of my earliest memories: Not long after other children and I learned to speak and walk, many of them told me I had killed Christ; they asked where my horns were; they asked why Santa Claus didn't come to my house. In college, a classmate told me I'd go to Hell because I didn't accept Christ as my savior. And tragically, the hate, hatefulness and ignorance continue.

I could go on and on chronicling my many accounts of ignorance, callousness, insensitivity and hate, but I won't. I won't because with each story, I become sad and sick. From being an embarrassed and nervous child who didn't know how to respond to such hate, hostility and anti-Semitism to being an adult dismayed and outraged by such hate and hostility and ignorance — especially in academe, where diversity is ostensibly lauded and welcomed — I've learned to speak truth to power and privilege.

I participated in a CSU diversity focus group, where I detailed the incidents to others who shared their own equally-repugnant ones. In addition to reporting every incident at this workplace to the Office of Equal Opportunity, to the Office of Human Resources, to the Anti-Defamation League, to my rabbi and my UU minister friend, I have told both friends and acquaintances, anyone who shows interest — and there is plenty of interest.

And my concerns precipitated an OEO-sponsored sensitivity training workshop for faculty and staff in the program. Unfortunately and curiously, administrators scheduled the workshop when N., S, F. and I were at the annual TESOL convention, so many who were responsible for the harassment and who are so ignorant were able to skirt the workshop, and I was unable to attend to offer my insights.

Hate has no place anywhere, especially in an educational environment, where everyone should know they are welcome and safe to be proud of who they are, to explore and grow and develop, to pursue their dreams. But just saying it is not enough. It is not enough, I told N., to talk the talk. We — all of us — must walk the walk.

And I walk the walk. I quit working in that hateful, hostile environment, but not before sharing these troubling events. I take my lead from the Torah (the Five Books of Moses, which some refer to as the Old Testament), which guides Jews, "Justice, justice, you shall pursue justice." And I take my lead from revered rabbi and theologian, Abraham Joshua Heschel, who observed, "The opposite of good is not evil, the opposite of good is indifference. In a free society where terrible wrongs exist, some are guilty, but all are responsible."

I will continue to speak truth to power and work for justice. What will you do?