How I Went From Being A Neo-Nazi To a Faithful Jew

I grew up in South Philadelphia, but not Jewish — I was raised Catholic. My family had integrated into the wider culture and just went with it. Life was rough: single mom, dad in another neighborhood, welfare, food stamps, and the constant shame of being poor. I didn’t have any real sense of identity. I just knew I was angry, scared and embarrassed by the life we were living.

In South Philly, especially in my neighborhood, you didn’t have to go to church every week, but you *did* have to make all your sacraments. That was almost like part of the local gang rules — everyone made their sacraments. My grandmother was deeply involved in the church, and I was the “good Catholic boy” who showed up on Christmas and Easter. The big family events and “high holidays” in our world all revolved around the Catholic church. That was about as far as my faith went at the time.

When I was about 13, things got even rougher. I was shipped from my mom’s Irish Catholic neighborhood to my dad’s place and ended up in an almost all‑Black school. There were about twenty white kids — not twenty percent, literally about twenty of us. Fistfights were constant; I was getting jumped regularly. I had grown up hearing that “the others” were bad — Italians, Cambodians, Blacks — and I later realized they were hearing the same things about us. For the first time, I really started to notice that my race seemed directly connected to why I was fighting all the time.

That summer, I got a break from my dad’s house. My uncle had moved up to the Lancaster, Pennsylvania area, and I went to stay with my cousin. The summer before, my cousin had been a punk rocker, and I was dabbling in punk myself, so I expected more of that scene. But when I arrived, he and his friends looked different — all bald, 16–17 years old, with this hard, intimidating look. I was 13 going on 14, and to me these guys were incredibly cool.

They had cars, tattoos and a kind of confidence I’d never felt. But what really hit me was the way they talked. They’d say things like, “Multi‑racial society doesn’t work,” and I had no idea what that even meant at 14. When I talked about Blacks and whites not getting along, I thought they didn’t know what they were talking about — they lived around other white people and Amish folks. Then my cousin would jump in and say, “My little cousin here lives in one of the roughest neighborhoods in Philly,” and suddenly they wanted to hear from me.

These guys asking, “What’s it really like being around Black people?” was, in a twisted way, the first time anyone had asked, “What’s your life like?” My parents never did that — not when I came home with a black eye, not when I brought home a trophy. They didn’t have the time or bandwidth to ask. These skinheads listening to me tell stories made me feel seen and important. I became the little guy with the “crazy stories” they all wanted to hear, and I loved it.

When we went out to clubs or shows, other neo‑Nazis would meet us there. I still had hair — a little skater haircut, not shaved yet — but everywhere we went, people *feared* them. I knew I didn’t look like them, but I felt like I belonged with them, and I fed off that fear people had. Inside, I might have been 14 physically, but emotionally I was seven or eight — abused, neglected, scared of my parents, stepparents, school, and even whether we’d have enough food. Suddenly, I was with people others were afraid of. For the first time, I felt powerful, and I loved it.

Growing up, I’d always heard little racist or ethnic jokes in the neighborhood. That was just how people talked. I remember my uncle coming home saying, “Johnny at the store didn’t give me the right change — he’s always trying to Jew us,” and everyone would laugh. Or, “How do you start a Jewish parade? Roll a penny down the street.” Everyone thought it was hilarious. As a kid, I didn’t get the jokes; I just knew “Jew” meant some other group we were supposed to hate.

We didn’t really grow up around Jews, so “Jew” to me was just another name in the list of “others.” One time, after another one of his jokes, I asked my uncle why it was funny. He started to explain, “Well, the Jews are notorious for money…” then stopped himself and said, “You’ll get the joke when you’re older.” Years later, at my first neo‑Nazi “Bible study” in Reading, Pennsylvania, it clicked. They taught us how to hate *through* the Bible.

At that little compound, a guy got up and started talking about the “Zionist Occupational Government” — this supposed secret Jewish government that runs the world. He said Jews were siphoning money from the Federal Reserve and sending it to Israel to start the next world war. I was 14; I had no idea what the Federal Reserve even did. But in that moment, what lodged in my brain was: *I get the joke now.* My uncle’s jokes suddenly made sense in a sick, twisted way. It felt like I was unlocking “inside information” that my parents had never given me. That sense of “secret knowledge” drew me in even deeper.

Within months, the culture of neo‑Nazism had wrapped itself around me. I felt like an adult sitting with men who “knew how the world really works.” I felt respected, powerful and part of something bigger. Before long, that became my entire identity. For better or worse, I’ve always had a gift for getting people into things — as a kid, I could recruit friends to play hockey or join whatever I was doing. Now I was using that same gift for something very dark.

After that summer, I had to go back to my mom’s and dad’s neighborhoods — back to South Philly, back to the city. The neo‑Nazis I met were all out in the farms and small towns. So I decided I needed to build that world around me in my own neighborhood. It was frighteningly easy. I just tapped into the casual racism already floating around: “We’re about the white race. We’re about being proud of who we are.” That was the bait.

The bait‑and‑switch works like this: someone says, “I just want to be proud of my heritage, my white race.” I’d say, “Me too. That’s exactly what we’re about. Come to our meetings.” But once they came, we never really talked about *being proud* of being white. We only talked about *them* — about who was ruining everything, who was taking our jobs, our neighborhoods, “our women.” You can only talk about Leif Erikson and Viking pride so many times; eventually, it always shifts to hate. That’s how you take a person’s frustration and false pride and turn it into pure hostility.

At the core of this skinhead culture, people think it’s all about strength, power and superiority. On the surface, I believed that too — that, because of the color of my skin, I was better and God loved me more. But underneath, it was all fear. Low self‑esteem. Low self‑worth. I was trying to build my identity on something I had nothing to do with: my skin color. I wasn’t achieving anything, doing nothing for humanity — just claiming that my parents’ genes made me superior. That kind of arrogance is actually deep insecurity.

Most extreme movements are the same: they’re built on fear. Fear that “they” will take your neighborhood, your jobs, your women, your status. Fear wrapped up in false pride and bravado. That’s why violence is so central — if you disagree with me, I have to force you to believe what I believe. Looking back, it was absolutely a way of channeling my anger and pain, though I didn’t recognize it at the time. I thought I was “standing up for the white race.”

My family mostly thought it was a phase. I had a couple cousins involved, but the older generation assumed we’d grow out of it. That changed when I came home at 15 with a swastika tattooed on my neck. That was the moment they realized, “Maybe this is more than a phase.” They had no idea what else I was doing — selling illegal guns at 15, staying in compounds, traveling around the country. By 14–15, I wasn’t really living at home anymore.

School and church just fell away entirely. I never went to high school. The hypocrisy I saw in the church turned me off, and instead I went to “Bible studies” geared entirely toward hate. They gave me a version of God who was conveniently on *our* side because of our skin color. Because of that, I actually believed that God loved me more than others, which is insane when I look back on it. But it made me feel chosen and justified.

I stayed fully in the movement for several years. By 19, I had already been to prison. I had swastikas all over my body and a reputation that gave me a lot of clout on the inside. I went to prison for a pretty serious crime — I kidnapped an anti‑fascist. In the outside world, that’s monstrous. In the neo‑Nazi world, it was heroic. When I got out, the movement saw me as a warrior, and that fed my ego, which was broken and starving for validation.

Prison, however, began to chip away at my beliefs. I didn’t have some big epiphany inside and announce, “I’m changing!” I just lived my life. Over time, I built genuine connections with some Black and Latino guys in there. We shared real life — childhood stories, fears, hopes. By the time I was released, I’d seen enough to know that “all Black people are this” and “all Latinos are that” simply weren’t true. I had friends who shattered those stereotypes.

When I got out of prison, I went back to the movement out of habit, not conviction. I still had pull, but something inside had shifted. When others would say, “All Black people are X,” I found myself thinking, “That’s not true. I know dudes who aren’t like that at all.” I decided, quietly, that I would stop preaching about Black and Latino people altogether. I thought I could stay in the group by focusing my hate only on Jews.

I still hadn’t really met Jews. In the prisons I’d been in, there weren’t many, if any. So I held on to antisemitism as my “acceptable” prejudice. That’s where, looking back, I can clearly see God — Hashem — stepping in. I was back in Philly, broke, with a big swastika on my neck and tattoos on my hands. My record now included an aggravated kidnapping felony. These are not good job qualifications. No one wants a swastika‑necked felon in management.

A friend came to me with an offer: a weekend job at an antique show, carrying furniture in and out for $100 a day — great money in 1994. I said yes immediately. Then he added, “I gotta tell you, the dude that owns the company… he’s a Jew. You still want the job?” I was desperate for money, so I took it. I asked if he’d told the guy about me; he said yes. I walked in expecting conflict.

Instead, I worked hard and made about $600 in tips. At the end, the owner still owed me $300 in wages. I was ready for a fight, convinced he’d say, “Well, you made a lot in tips, so that covers your pay.” I ran the whole argument in my head. He walked up and said, “I owe you money, right?” I said, “Yeah, you owe me $300.” He pulled out a wad of cash, counted out $300, then said, “You’re a really good worker — here’s an extra hundred.” He handed me $400. All I could think was, *You son of a gun — I wanted to fight you.*

He offered me a ride back to South Philly from New Jersey, and I got in the truck with my giant neck swastika staring him in the face. On the way, he asked, “So what do you do for a living?” I said, “I don’t do anything.” He said, “Why don’t you come work for me?” Just like that, this Jewish man — who knew exactly who I was — was offering me work, respect and trust.

I started working for him regularly. I was still in the movement, still going to neo‑Nazi gatherings on weekends. One day, I broke a piece of furniture and immediately went into my old script: “I’m so stupid, I’m so stupid, I’m sorry.” I secretly believed I was dumb. He rushed over, grabbed me by the shoulders and said, “Stop saying you’re stupid, you idiot. Clean it up, let’s go.” Later, in the truck, he told me, “I hate when you say you’re stupid. You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. So if you’re stupid, then I must be stupid, because I think you’re smart.”

Then he said something that has stayed with me ever since:
“Frank, smart people can fake being dumb, but dumb people can’t fake being smart. You just are.”

Once again, he paid me in full, without docking my wages for the broken piece. I got out of the truck and walked home with this overwhelming realization: *You are so wrong.* I was tired of making exceptions for my hate — “This Jew is okay,” “those Black guys are okay,” while still holding onto the ideology. That day, something snapped. I knew I couldn’t keep banging my head against the wall, trying to believe things I knew were lies.

That night, I decided I was done. People often ask if I had to go through some violent “jumping out” ritual. I didn’t. I just stopped going around those people. I found new friends and slowly stopped identifying as a neo‑Nazi. I was 19, going on 20. About six months later, the Oklahoma City bombing happened — carried out by people tied to the same movement I’d been part of.

The image that haunted me was a photo of a dead little girl in a firefighter’s arms, being carried away from the rubble. I couldn’t shake it. I knew I hadn’t known Timothy McVeigh, but I knew people in that world. Eventually, I went to the FBI and said, “Here’s who I am, here’s what I know.” They already knew me. They connected me first with the Anti‑Defamation League, who asked me to speak, and then with groups that wanted me to talk to kids.

When I started doing that, I felt like I was changing my karma score. It’s like having a bad credit score — mine was wrecked. I felt I needed to make deposits into the “good” column. I didn’t want to just say, “Hey, look, I used to do bad things and now I don’t.” I wanted to actively do good. So I created a program called **Harmony Through Hockey**, bringing Black kids from Philadelphia into the sport I love — the greatest game on earth, hockey.

For years, I ran that program, then moved deeper into activism. I started doing interventions with neo‑Nazis, helping them get out — one of the first people in the U.S. doing that. At the time, I didn’t depend on God the way I do now. Looking back, I can see that He was teaching me, guiding me, step by step.

The most surprising twist came later: discovering I’m actually Jewish. I was doing a lot of anti‑hate work when my autobiography came out, and a group invited me to be part of a documentary about religious diversity in Iowa. It doesn’t look diverse, but they wanted the real story. By then, I was friends with a local Chabad rabbi through my activism and eating at his restaurant. I asked him to participate in the documentary.

We arrived with cameras and lights, and he said to me, half‑joking, “So are you finally going to tell the world you’re Jewish?” I laughed and said, “I’m not Jewish.” He told me, “You should look up your last name — it’s Ashkenazi.” He reminded me he’d always said I *look* Jewish. I posted about it on social media, and an uncle replied, “I told you this years ago.” I remembered that, when I had first become a neo‑Nazi, this same uncle had said, “You know we have a little Jewish in us, right?” I thought he was just messing with me.

Now, multiple aunts and uncles on my mom’s side chimed in, confirming our Jewish ancestry — my mom’s mom’s mom’s line. The last name “Mink,” from my grandfather, turned out to be an Ashkenazi name. I began talking with rabbi friends, studying, reading Torah, and wrapping tefillin. Slowly, my Jewish identity started to make sense to me. It wasn’t just ancestral; it felt spiritual and practical at the same time.

I’m also in recovery and active in 12‑step programs. I had struggled with that for a long time. When I began to integrate Judaism into my life, it was like watching a zipper close: Hashem as the zipper, and the teeth were my recovery and Judaism coming together, along with my activism. All the strands of my life finally seemed to connect.

During my formal conversion process, I was living on a boat, somewhat in hiding, and my main source of learning was online. I spent hours watching rabbis like Rabbi Friedman and Rabbi YY. It was COVID, and I’d just moved to a new area, so walking into a synagogue with full tattoos was emotionally hard. I did everything digitally at first. Eventually, a Chabad rabbi brought me to a school to speak, and I confessed, “I wasn’t raised Jewish.” He smiled and said, “If anyone judges you for that, tell them to judge Moses too — he wasn’t raised Jewish either.” That simple line gave me permission to step fully into this identity.

When I listened to Torah classes and Jewish teachers, one message resonated deeply. In the neo‑Nazi world, we were obsessed with the myth of “ten old Jewish men running the world.” Now I know: get ten old Jewish men together and you’ll hear thirty opinions, and they can’t even agree on lunch, much less world domination. People point out that Jews are prominent in finance, medicine, media, science — and conspiracy theorists twist that into something sinister.

What I learned, especially from Proverbs and Jewish wisdom, is that our heritage prizes education, learning, and wisdom. For three thousand years, Jews have been studying and valuing knowledge. If you apply that to finance, you get Jewish bankers; if you apply it to addiction treatment, you get Jewish innovators there; apply it to marketing, you find Jews at the top. It’s not a conspiracy — it’s culture and commitment. If I use that heritage of learning for good, then Hashem will show me how to serve.

Today, my life revolves around three pillars: Judaism, recovery, and activism. I keep Shabbat. I do mitzvot not to “get something” but because it’s the right way to live. Sometimes I feel like Hashem just gives me a little wink when I do the right thing: “I’ve got you. Just keep being of service.” That’s become my guiding principle.

In the age of the internet, young people can learn anything online — good or bad. Teenagers searching for identity easily fall down rabbit holes, just like I did, only now it happens on screens instead of in basements. My advice to them is simple: if every path you follow ends with someone blaming “them” for your problems, you’re in the wrong place. If the content you consume constantly lifts you up by putting others down, that’s a red flag.

If you’re looking for who you are, seek out voices that talk about how *you* can grow, improve, heal, and serve. Find mentors who challenge you to become better, not bitter. Your feelings of emptiness or confusion are not other people’s fault. No ideology that asks you to hate strangers is going to fix what’s broken inside.

For those who feel spiritually sick, my first suggestion is prayer and meditation. Every day, after I wrap tefillin and say my blessings — in English, because my Hebrew is rough — I take about an hour and a half for a “God walk.” I do this not because I’m extra spiritual, but because I know I’m broken and need daily alignment. On that walk, I repeat one word to myself: **stay** — stay out of self‑obsession, stay willing, stay open.

I ask, “What would You have me do today? How can I be of maximum service to You and to other people?” I work with some very sick people in the addiction world, so I need that spiritual grounding. I also never hide my past. One of the greatest gifts we can give each other is the honesty of saying, “I made that mistake too.”

You know that moment when you confess something you’re ashamed of and your friend says, “Oh my God, I did that too”? Instantly, the shame lessens. You realize you’re not alone or uniquely damaged. That’s what we’re here to do for one another — to break isolation with honesty and compassion. Everyone makes mistakes. What matters is what we do next.