Several years ago, I was sitting at a table one morning at Rosie’s, a classic diner in the old industrial town of Escanaba in the Upper Peninsula. The place was mostly deserted except for some guys on bar stools at the counter. “Hey, do you know why Jews don’t wear penny loafers?” one said. “Because they’d trip, because they’d always be looking at their feet.” I was astounded, not by the ethnic slur, or its sheer dated stupidity, but by the feeling that I had stumbled into 1957.