Hope and Faith
norton94, Apr 15, 2020
- Description:
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Essay by my daughter:
While I don’t have frizzy dark hair or a distinguished nose protruding from my face, I am Jewish. Being Jewish means that I clip a kippah on top of my blonde hair, bless and then kiss both sides of my tallit before letting it embrace my shoulders, and rise at the sight of the ark opening to reveal the sacred Torah. Being Jewish means that from preschool on I attended religious school on Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights, where I admired the long history of my Jewish ancestors, immersed myself in the rich cultural practices of my people, learned how to read and write the ancient Hebrew letters, and held a Siddur rocking and humming in prayer. Being Jewish means that Friday nights growing up my parents miraculously managed to dress my brother and me in shul-appropriate attire, their efforts awarded with 30 minutes of picture-perfect appearance before I pried off my little shoes or my brother tugged at his tie to relieve its chokehold. Nevertheless, being Jewish means that I welcome the Sabbath at synagogue and pass the Challah to others, after pulling a portion for myself, sometimes earning scolds from my mother for popping the morsel of bread in my mouth prior to saying the Hamotzi blessing. Being Jewish means listening to the bellowing horns blown at Rosh Hashanah, dancing in costumes and acting out the story of Ester at Purim, wearing white and fasting on Yom Kippur, celebrating the fall harvest by shaking the etrog and lulav at Sukkot, and scrambling to find the Afikoman at Passover to win the prize for finding it first. Being Jewish means that at 13 years old I stood before my community, chanting portions from the ancient scrolls and giving a speech, as I earned my place as a Jewish adult in my Bat Mitzvah ceremony.
I choose to make being Jewish a central part of my life, though my thoughts about my identity have changed over my lifetime. As a child, I didn’t realize that being Jewish set me apart from my peers and, if anything, I enjoyed the extra attention of satisfying my peers’ curiosity by sharing how my Jewish lifestyle impacted me. On the other hand, I still remember yearning for the ease of practicing Christianity like most everyone else at school, as then I would share with my friends the experiences and conversations at religious school on Wednesday nights. I wondered how it would feel to paint Easter eggs, believe in Santa Claus (as I kept this secret for a long time, you’re welcome), have a sprawling Christmas tree canopied over my presents (a “Hanukkah bush” really isn’t a thing) and feel represented in the media. More than anything, I wished that I could fit in with my peers and have more than my brother at school sharing the same religion. At this time I understood my identity as a minority, but I didn’t recognize the hardships associated with a minority group membership until around 2nd grade when my peers told me that I will go to hell for my religious affiliation. Although I didn’t know what “hell” meant at the time, as it isn’t something Jewish people believe, my mother’s shirt soaked up my tears that night. Not long after, I started hearing Holocaust jokes, two words that never belong in the same sentence. I heard the anguished cries of my people being sent to death as I began recognizing the “Heil Hitler” salutes in society and the terrifying darkness of a Nazi symbol etched into school desks or Sharpied into classroom books. I understood that the persecution against Jewish people doesn’t just remain in the history books read in religious studies, but it bleeds into today’s society as well. Instead of boasting my differences in the confidence of a child, I tucked my six-pointed star under my sweater shining for only me to see.
Feeling isolated from my peers, I started viewing my religious affiliation as a sort of nuisance. My differences felt especially pronounced when missing school for the high holidays each year, which meant the added frustrations of mountains of homework and disgruntled teachers. This struggle of not having holidays align with days off from work/school remains common for American Jews. Being Jewish means actively pursuing religion, seeking the Jewish opportunities to keep some part of your Jewish roots alive, and understanding an “easy” way to practice Judaism does not exist. Jews can’t drive up any street and run into churches advertising get togethers or flip on a television for their weekly religious show. This struggle, though, to find my Jewishness has allowed me to belong to a tight-knit community of individuals, most of whom I know by name or family name. I greatly value this connection. Their familiar faces make attending synagogue regularly a sanctuary, a place of shelter and warmth where I feel most at home. Among these walls, listening to my rabbi speak helped calm my troubled soul, and lighting the Sabbath lights gave me glimmers of hope for peace and understanding. Within this space, I bonded with my religious classmates over the shared struggles of injustices within our schools and local communities. This sanctuary gave me the support to launch myself further into my religion, becoming as educated as possible about our history, the creation of Israel, and our beliefs, so I could intelligently converse with those who asked me. Though, I want to make it very clear that I won’t tell someone about my religion unless they ask me.
I believed giving others the space to practice their religion without judgement was common courtesy until witnessing individuals going around trying to convert people to their religion. To this day, I pray for these people who have the audacity to give their unwanted opinions. I especially pray for a certain red-shirted Target cashier who after seeing some Jewish items on the checkout belt attempted to convert me on the spot, not understanding that I just wanted to be handed my receipt and asked if I found everything alright. Oy Vey! While frustrating, sometimes I find these overt challenges to my religion more respectable than the challenge-disguised compliments. I find the people who upon finding out you’re Jewish grab your hand softly and say “I’ll pray for you” in a tranquil voice, especially disrespectful. You look at their face trying to convey a sense of confusion while remaining polite, like your Bubbe taught you, when inside you’re screaming I’M JEWISH IT ISN’T LIKE I CONTRACTED A DEADLY DISEASE. Though, I guess to them you may as well have a disease as you have a strain of difference about your identity that strays from the white-Christian-male notion they hold superior. Dear God, please give me the patience to deal with probing eyes and unsolicited advice.
While on a rare occasion an assumption proves correct, I will say that the idea that Jewish people want “accommodation” in school remains severely mistaken. In recent efforts to “accommodate” for the minorities, schools pushed away from mentioning Christmas in school (the formula lies in subbing “Christmas” for “holidays” in anything), or worse, added some Jewish songs into the Christmas setlist (while not understanding that Hanukkah isn’t a major Jewish holiday and I don’t want to explain to everyone how to pronounce words in Hebrew). This all started when “Christmas break” became “winter break” that magically falls seamlessly in line with Christmas every year. No, don’t mistake me, I AM NOT A GRINCH. In fact, I love Christmas music, food, movies, and the lively spirit of everyone. I just dislike the assumptions that I can’t enjoy all the festivities of Christmas even though the Christmas celebrated today stray far from its religious roots for the average American. These attempts to gingerly approach topics such as religion frustrate me, and I see these overcautious approaches functioning on a smaller scale within classrooms as well. Any teacher who turns their teaching space over to me unexpectedly to explain to the class what Judaism means during the religion units comes off as fearful of slipping up or fudging facts. Personally, I’d rather you seek clarification or address your gaps in knowledge, which we all have, than all of a sudden call me out to teach for fear of hurting my feelings with misinformation. Further, I respectfully ask that people take turns gauging my emotional stability when we discuss anything related to World War II; especially when there isn’t another Jewish person in the classroom, the beading eyes of an entire class overheat my back and can burn.
I find myself lucky though, as my personal encounters with antisemitism or challenges of being a minority don’t nearly compare to those plaguing our world. Despite our initial concern in moving to Iowa from ethnically and culturally diverse California, Des Moines surpassed our expectations. Fortunately, we found loving and welcoming neighbors in central Iowa, an anomaly in today’s world where political, racial, and ethnic differences spark conflict rapidly and take up the majority of the network news. The news cycle grows with an abundance of stories centered on conflict, and I fear that this creates a society numb to this barrage of injustices. When hard-hitting stories meet the television screen, people prefer to lower the volume or watch with glazed eyes. For my people, this means that the commonplace stories of Jews having eggs thrown at them or taunted with water gun shooting young boys shouting Seig Heil are overlooked. Other stories are sandwiched between commercials for the latest iPhone or fruit snacks. These stories include recent shootings at the Pittsburgh synagogue on Shabbat, a German synagogue during the holiest day of the year on the Jewish calendar, a San Diego synagogue, and a failed almost-tragedy at a Colorado synagogue (to name a few). The shootings and their limited airtime amplifies my fear of being Jewish in today’s world. A world where Swastikas line the streets of New York, more people believe the Holocaust never happened, Jewish cemeteries are increasingly vandalized (including where Sidney and Arlene Pearl lie in St. Louis), and hate crimes have surged. A world where every time I walk into my synagogue I fear that I may never walk back out. A messed-up world where some of the formerly-filled chairs in synagogue belong to volunteer men who now stand by the doors during high holidays in order to combat fear and in hopes of dissuading potential shooters. My own father, a kind hearted man with a soft gaze and gentle hands, stands tall at the doors of our synagogue. I wonder if a middle-aged, glorified doorman will discourage a shooter or whether I’ll have to resort to my mentally planned escape routes from the worship room, where the hiding places from childhood antics with friends may serve as a life-saving mechanism. God forbid my home’s windows from being shattered ruthlessly and from blood stains permanently marking its floors. May our faith stand unyielding in the face of terror. In these services, I may cling to my dainty necklace of a Hamsa hand -- a centuries old Jewish symbol which originates from the word “hamesh” meaning five, and symbolizes protection and peace. I remain hopeful for today’s world to fulfill the values this emblem of peace represents, and this hope blooms every time I encounter compassionate individuals. Often stories of kindness don’t make the evening news, and their positivity never bounces off the television screens glowing amid darkness. Rest assured, though, light continues to find a way through the fragments of our broken society. After the Philadelphia synagogue massacre, communities planned vigils across America. My own synagogue held an interfaith vigil. People came from all over Iowa to express their condolences to my people and show solidarity. Filling my sanctuary they came together, strangers before, overflowing and then surrounding the building to hold hands as a human shield to such evil in the form of antisemitism that threatens synagogues globally. Their candlelight and warm hearts demonstrate that we aren’t alone and the sanctuary stands as home.
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- Pollywog Team Layouts
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- norton94
- Date:
- Apr 15, 2020
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