My Jewishness has long been a defining factor in my life, though I might not have said so in my youth. I grew up in a suburb of Hartford, on the side of town that houses a majority of the Jewish population. I lived near what was called "The Reservation," also predominantly Jewish (though all the streets boasted Native American names, not rabbinical), and my school included a large group of Jewish students. Almost all of my friends were Jewish, many of them attending the same Hebrew school as I did, all of us equally uninterested in our Judaism, but thankful for the shared history and the extra time to hang out with which Hebrew school provided us. We loathed going to services, dressing up, sitting for long hours at a time, reading a language we didn't understand, being crowded into seats next to family members who glared at us or shushed us in equal measure.
I read The Diary of Anne Frank in both Hebrew School and middle school, and understood a bit about the Holocaust, but didn't see how it pertained to my life. Here was a young girl in a terrible situation, but it could not have been more different from my own situation. Here was a girl surrounded by rapidly changing beliefs about herself and her family. Where once people had befriended her and played with her, she was suddenly shunned. She was surrounded by images that did not represent her own understanding of herself, and yet, had become accepted as the definition of who she and her family were (and somehow always had been...the figurative wolf in sheep's clothing). I felt for her, but didn't feel like her, so it was all somehow lacking in meaning for me.
In high school, I don't particularly recall learning much about the Holocaust, but I imagine we must have gone over it during history classes. I feel as though if I had read Night by Elie Wiesel it would have stuck with me. Looking back, I would hope that that novel, as eloquent as it is, would have made me reflect in a way that other books could not have. But perhaps I was too immature, thinking too much about my own social life and dramas to understand what others had been through so that I could be this complacent.
The only time during my youth that I ever felt "outside," or "separate," was during the Jewish High Holidays and during Hanukkah. Most years, when Yom Kippur came around in the fall, I would set my determination to fast for the day. My mother explained it to me as a worthy sacrifice, a time, once a year, when we could make ourselves uncomfortable for the purpose of reflection, and I liked the idea. But hunger usually won out over my lofty goals, and more often than not, by two p.m., I was sneaking snacks from the cupboards. I didn't resent my non-Jewish friends the day off from school, unless it was during the 2 1/2 uncomfortable hours spent in temple, when I knew they were fast asleep. I didn't even realize that most of the world did not get Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur off from public school. Most Jewish kids had to take the day off if they wanted to attend temple. I would not have then understood that there was a level of acceptance here that did not (and does not) exist elsewhere. I got through the day by thinking of the break-fast celebration that my family would have with a huge spread of bagels and lox and egg dishes, cream cheeses spread across the table, and brownies and cakes for afterwards. At the first sign of dimness in the sky, we would converge in the kitchen, mumbling prayers and grabbing food. The laughter and warmth made the day worthwhile. This is what I take with me from those days. I didn't think about the people not celebrating this holiday, nor wonder what they thought of me. That was a luxury for which I am now incredibly grateful.
Christmas time was always a bit strange, however. I understood, of course, that ours was not the religion of the majority (even if it seemed to be in my group of friends), but the barrage of Christmas trees and holiday music that began at Thanksgiving and continued into January always made me a bit uncomfortable. I smiled when I saw the occasional menorah, and appreciated the token Hanukkah songs at the Christmas concert (as it was still titled in the '90s), and was only the tiniest bit discomfited by the Merry Christmases that the teachers sang out in each classroom, as though we all celebrated this holiday, or as though the other holidays that we did celebrate were not important enough to mention. My otherness at this point was subconscious, there, but not yet frustrating. It lay below the surface, but just barely.
There were moments, of course, when my difference was thrust in my face. I buried these times, for the most part, allowing myself time to deal with them when I had matured enough to understand the motivations behind the comments. In first grade, a classmate called me a kike. I did not know what he meant, and I am sure that I just looked at him, confused, and walked away. I certainly did not ask my teacher about it. But I could tell by his sneer that the word was unkind, meant to belittle. I am not completely sure that even he understood the term. I am confident, however, that it was a term much used in his house along with other hateful epithets meant to make his parents feel stronger, better, more secure in their own relative superiority. Children don't come to these terms on their own.
I went home and asked my father about the word. He grew explosively angry, not defining the term, but telling me to punch him in the face if he said it again. I had to ask my mother, later, for the actual meaning. I don't remember her response. I couldn't empathize with my father's anger that arose from one small word. At six years old, I was secure in my world.
As a junior in high school, I got a job working as a counselor in the town camps. This was my first real interaction with high school students from the other side of town. It was the first time that someone was surprised when I told him I was Jewish. He looked at me differently for a moment, with a sort of appraisal, but it didn't feel negative, just odd. I was suddenly strange, exotic. But it became a story to tell my friends, nothing more. He hadn't seemed to be looking for horns, just changing his image of me, adapting to new knowledge.
The next summer, we had all become a bit more comfortable together, and that comfort bred a freedom of language. When I told my co-counselors that I had been accepted to Tulane University, one of them called it "Jewlane" with a smirk. I winced, but said nothing. It was just a comment, a fleeting moment. It didn't mean anything. I didn't think about the age old stereotypes that led to that comment: Jews and money; Jews and greed. Tulane was expensive. Was it greedy to go there? Was I conforming to type?
My parents always instilled in me that education was the most important part of my life. Grades and success were hugely important to them. Getting a C equaled failure in their eyes, and I was well aware of the expectation that I out-do my peers. This was true for all of my Jewish friends. We were expected to excel, to go to good schools, to push ourselves. We had to participate in sports and extra-curriculars and above all else, succeed. I didn't think about it. It was as much a part of my upbringing as the expectation that I eat healthy meals and be respectful to adults. My parents told me that education had always been important to Jewish people. I could see this in my community, but suddenly my success was being mocked. Suddenly my religion was a cause for embarrassment.
When I went to college, I surrounded myself with mostly non-Jews. My college boyfriend proudly wore a cross around his neck. I didn't talk about my religion. It set me apart. It was easy to ignore. When I walked across campus and was approached by a member of a temple just off campus, I shook my head when he asked me if I was Jewish. I can still feel the shame of denying my faith. It is a burning within me.
The summer after my junior year in college, my friend and I went to see the movie
Schindler's List. I remember sitting in the worn down plush seats of the theater. The movie had been out for over a year, but I hadn't gone to see it. I didn't question why. He convinced me to go, and could feel the dread building. It was a nameless dread. Somewhere, deep within me was a young Jewish girl, hiding, and I was not yet ready to claim her. Halfway through the movie, the torture, deprivation, the absolute decimation of humanity broke me. I began to shake. My friend didn't notice. I clenched my entire body into a ball and trembled for the rest of the film. I couldn't speak. He looked at me, and I saw his gaze transform. I became a Jew to him in a way that I was not before. He was Christian. This was just a movie. For me, it was a turning point.
This didn't mean that everything changed, but that I began the process of accepting this part of my life, of questioning it as well. What did my religion mean to me? Did I believe in a God (absolute and terrifying? Generous and preserving?)? After college I moved in with a few friends, two of whom where Jewish, and we went to The Matzoh Ball (a dance held annually so Jewish young adults could meet). It was as awkward as you'd imagine it to be. I met and danced with who I can only imagine was the one non-Jew in the place. He had come with his Jewish friend. My parents scoffed, my friends laughed; I was more and more confused. What did I want out of my future? Could I truly abandon Judaism completely? Was there a part of me that had already made the choice?
But then I went back home, as I always did, for the High Holidays. I was surprised at the comfort and relief I felt. I was surrounded by hundreds of people who shared the traditions of my past. There was a deep, somehow innate connection, a tie that bound us all together irrevocably. There was, in fact, no choice to be made. I was home, not in the language being spoken (which I understood even less than I did as a teen), but in the unspoken language of faith. It became less about God, and more about family, heritage, and history. Here, we sat in a temple after so many had been destroyed by enemies of our religion. The sun shone through the stained glass windows and promised hope. There was not yet a policeman guarding the door, just my community clamoring to enter the sanctuary. Here was a place of absolute safety.
Now, when I bring my children to temple, there is a guard who smiles at me and high fives the kids. I look warily at the gun holstered on his hip. I cannot help but think about the rise of antisemitism around the world: Attacks in New York City, swastikas in schools, hate speech elevated to political rhetoric. Every year I declare my Jewishness to my students. This is who I am. This is who we are. I talk to them about my holidays. For each of the memories of which I am ashamed, I have created another memory of standing up, making noise, demanding change.
- The picture of the Madonna and Child came down from the middle school office wall after a meeting I had with the principal.
- When swastikas were plastered across the walls of that same middle school, I spoke clearly and personally to my students about the physical pain I felt seeing that black sharpied shape on a place I held sacred.
- I taught the book Night to my 9th graders with pride and calls to action, teaching about those who resisted as much as about those who were forced to succumb.
- I teach all of my students to be not only an ally but a soldier for inclusion and understanding, to break down barriers, to talk to each other.
And I reflect, always, on the rhetoric of the powerful and the expected silence of the powerless.
Elie Wiesel said, "We must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented." I chose sides. I chose strength. I chose to raise my voice. My mezuzah hangs as a proud identifier on my door frame and a menorah stands in my bay window for all to see.
