Jew(ish) - Shared Reflection in the Aftermath of Pittsburgh
I openly identify as a Jew despite my lack of engagement with Judaism
and even Jewish cultural life. I have not attended synagogue in at least six
years (possibly closer to a decade – I am 28 years old), I am agnostic,[1]
skeptical of religiosity in general, and well socialized into modern secular
American society, complete with Christmas and a long weekend for Easter. I do
not understand Hebrew, and I am not well versed in Israel’s history nor in the
Israeli-Arab conflicts nor the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. When my girlfriend
asked about what she should expect when she attends my family’s Passover Seder
this Saturday, her first ever Seder, I relied on Google results to support my
atrophied knowledge. All these markers for my lack of engagement with Judaism
raise the question, a very personal one, about what it means to be a Jew, to
openly self-identify as a Jew, while also living an otherwise secular and
non-affiliated life.
An initial answer, and one that is probably already clear to many
readers, is that my examples of non-affiliation also reveal myriad personal
connections to religious Judaism. To start, my parents host a Seder for
Passover, a major Jewish holiday. From early childhood, I spent Friday nights
and Saturday mornings in synagogue (it was actually a rented church) with my
parents and friends. The parents of one of my closest childhood friends founded
the congregation that my parents still attend today, even though my friend and
his parents disassociated for a secular life many years ago. My mom celebrated
her conversion to Judaism on the same day that I became Bar Mitzvah, and she
has strengthened our familial ties to Judaism by embedding herself in its
customs, stories, and communities (both local and global), even as I drifted
away. Also, my lack of Hebrew knowledge hints at years of Hebrew school, where
I should have learned the language, and which provides a base of latent
knowledge that I can rely on to restart the educational journey should I so
choose. Hebrew prayers, although a jumble of untranslatable gibberish to my
ears, are still familiar to me both linguistically and sonically. Finally, my
local Jewish synagogues are historically important to me. I spent time in their
hallways, study rooms, and chapels. The physical spaces contain memories and
represent some of my past even though they are not part of my present. Although
I am skeptical of religion, it is difficult for me to dismiss it outright –
many of my friends are conservative practicing Jews.
I have more extensive connections to cultural Jewish life, which is a
more powerful explanation for my self-identification. As mentioned, many of my
friends, from early childhood through today, are Jewish. I attended part-time
Hebrew school with kids from my synagogue, I have cousins living in Tel Aviv
(which I have visited three times), I participated in a yearlong Jewish
leadership course in high school, worked at a small local Judaica store and in
a summer internship with the American-Israel Public Affairs Committee (please
do not infer political views from this; they do not represent me), and was a
dues-paying member of a Jewish fraternity. Therefore, I enjoy a common cultural
and linguistic background with religious and culturally embedded Jews that helps
me understand the challenges of being a minority in a Christian society. I pick
up on the markings of a Jewish home, like mezuzahs on doorframes. And I have
internalized a sympathetic origin story for Israel in discord with much of the
more vile rhetoric lobbed in its direction.
My cultural embeddedness is important to understanding my
self-identification, but it is still incomplete. I could disaffiliate by
declining to self-identify or, when pressed, identifying as unaffiliated,
non-religious and agnostic. Outside of skimming over my skewed proportion of
Jewish friends and semi-religious, reform, parents (my brother is, I believe,
completely unaffiliated, although I do not wish to speak for him) such a
self-identification is more faithful to my daily life. Since graduating college
six years ago, I have not partaken in any, even just culturally, Jewish
activities outside of my friends’ weddings, some family dinners, and a free
week-long trip to Israel with other secular Jews.[2]
Disaffiliating should only become easier as time invades the space between who
I was and who I am; as the customs of my girlfriend’s Christian family become
more comfortable and as my colleagues and friends change. So, what else drives
me to inject Jewishness into my projected identity? And why will I continue to
self-identify as a Jew in the future?
My commitment to self-identification arises from an ever-pertinent
Holocaust history lesson: even the most assimilated minorities can never be
sure that they have escaped subordinated status. By the 1930’s, many Jewish
German families had identified primarily as Germans and only secondarily as
Jews for several generations. They were not spared. My personal history and
continued connections with Jewish life require, at minimum, that I accept the
possibility of persecution. But, rather than mere acceptance of a possibility,
I think it is more powerful, purposeful, and meaningful to identify as Jewish
without any perceived or actual threats to the Jewish community.
Identifying as part of a religious and cultural minority helps me be
more empathetic. My Jewishness is often irrelevant in any given situation, and
yet the label comes loaded with preconceived notions and expectations from the
person to whom I self-identify. The utter lack of importance of being Jewish to
most of life reminds me to be skeptical about in-group and out-group
discrimination. There are some people who cannot voluntarily shed their
group-identifying markers, like skin color, sex, or disability, and yet, just
as often, those markers are also irrelevant. Why should I open myself up to
bigots or unconscious bias when I can instead shroud my experience and assume
an identity that protects me from the unforgiving reality of minority life?
Because experiencing hatred first-hand and dealing with cultural bias as a
minority is, for all its drawbacks, also fortifying. It strengthens my support
for equality across a range of social movements and improves my understanding
of the activism of other disadvantaged people because I have been, am, and will
be one of them. I refuse to hide, especially when bigotry grows.
Self-identification is also an important signal to my friends and
family that I will not completely forsake my Jewish heritage, no matter how
otherwise secular my life becomes. As yet, I have not staked any hard moors on
which to dock, but a couple possibilities quickly spring to mind. For example,
I may host Passover Seder. Seder is, for the uninitiated, like Jewish
Thanksgiving. Also, I intend to celebrate Hanukah. Again, for the uninitiated,
Hanukah is like Jewish Christmas. Both of these examples are instructive. They
are fun, need not carry overt religious connotations, and yet still keep Jewish
traditions alive. Passover Seder involves drinking wine, eating rich food, and
spending a few (or more) hours with family and friends. For those who are
interested, it can also include a history lesson about the Jewish people and
Egyptians. Likewise, Hanukah, much like Christmas, co-opts religious symbolism
for secular enjoyment. Hanukah gathers the family together for eight
consecutive nights to light candles, exchange presents, eat chocolate and play
games. Again, it can also include a Jewish history lesson and an introduction
to Hebrew letters (if the traditional Dreidel is played), but it need not
include either. Regardless, both rituals maintain a connection to Jewish
culture without overbearing religiosity or even, for that matter, culture.
And still, adhering to both traditions would pass an important familial
heritage along to the next generation. Despite my lack of Jewish religious
practice and assuming a continuing lack of active Jewish cultural affiliations,
I still believe it is important to pass along family custom. There are two
reasons for this. The first reason links back to the fundamental lack of choice
that a religious minority has about their own identification in the face of
bigotry. My children must be aware that they may be hated through no fault of
their own, and be ready to face that possibility. Second, it provides cultural
optionality for the next generation as they mature. They will hopefully
understand both my affiliation with secularism and connection to Jewish
traditions as an evolved balance that reflects my apprehensions about religion
as well as my path-dependent ties to both Jewish and secular life. To leave
secularized Jewish traditions unpracticed would close off an important
experiential educational opportunity and misrepresent how fondly I feel about those
parts of my Jewish experience. The final tally does not reject Jewish or
non-affiliated life, Judaism or other religions, but tries to incorporate what
I find to be the positive aspects of each of those influences on my life.
Thereby, younger family members can choose from and latch onto whichever pieces
they find most appealing.
[1] A
person who believes that nothing is known or can be known of the existence or
nature of God.
[2] I
admit, a trip to Israel is quite a substantial activity and is a
quintessentially American Jewish cultural experience. I put the American before
Jewish because several of my trip-mates were completely unaffiliated with
Jewish culture before this trip. They were almost completely secular Americans.
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