Finding Rejection and Inspiration
Gabriel Rothblatt, Sophomore, Goddard College
Kindergarten was the first time I was confronted with the fact that I was different. We were talking about what our families were going to do for Christmas. I remember the look of astonishment on the substitute teacher’s face when I said I was Jewish.
“You must be mistaken,” she told me. “You’re black; you cannot be Jewish.”
Fourteen years later, I can still remember her exact words and the feeling of displacement that followed. That same astonished expression appeared on numerous faces throughout the rest of grade school, as well as on the faces of Vermonters whom I now meet going to school outside of Montpelier. In middle school, the source of astonishment changed slightly from the fact that my black mother’s children were Jewish, to my dad who was having a surgery to become a woman.
Being Jewish I felt excluded from the African-American community. Being African-American I often felt excluded from the Jewish community as well. The custodian at my temple was a black man named Joe. If I had a piece of gelt for every time a temple member asked me if we were related just because we were the only two black guys in the building at the time, I’d be swimming in chocolate coins. In spite of the ignorant comments of the simple minded, I never felt as accepted by a group of people as I have by the Jewish community. I was even elected social action vice president of my temple youth group, and I participated in as many temple youth group events as possible.
From my involvement in temple activities I became interested in Israel as a place where I would be completely accepted as a Jew, irrespective of the color of my skin. The summer of my sophomore year, I volunteered for the Israel Defense Forces with Volunteers for Israel. I was stationed on an active IDF base and reported to a real job every morning. Working on the base was an amazing experience. In particular, I loved the spectrum of Jews I met from all over the world, every denomination on one base for one cause: Israel. That to me was beautiful because the Jewish Diaspora is not always an all-loving and accepting community.
I also learned that summer that Israel wasn’t the paradise I had thought it was. This became clear to me one day while I was walking through a market in the northern town of Safed with two of the women in our volunteer group. A man came up to me and started screaming in Hebrew. I didn’t need to speak Hebrew to understand what he was saying. The man’s tone and body language made it obvious. And the looks on the faces of those around me who did speak Hebrew confirmed my instincts. Before I had only heard of racism in Israel, but that day in Safed made it a reality for me. It saddened me to find that in the one place where I thought I would be unconditionally accepted, I still met with rejection.
Despite these and other challenges, as I grow older I appreciate more and more that my diverse background gives me a unique perspective that people of only one heritage don’t have. I find strength in my mom because of the pain she endured being an African-American woman married to a transsexual trying to find her place in a Jewish community in a Christian world dominated by men. (Did I mention that she is dyslexic with four kids?) There were times I despised my parents for making me who I was, but now I look to my mom for support because I know that no matter how bad anything gets I can think of her and find inspiration to keep going.
When the Menorah Burns the Christmas Tree
Elizabeth Leis, Senior, Northwestern University
“You don’t look Jewish” is the all too common refrain from friends or acquaintances. “Sorry I forgot to wear my gold star” is my general response.
I am a mutt, and I look like one too. I inherited my features from my Catholic grandmother. It’s not like tall, curvy, pale, blonde-haired women in synagogues are that uncommon. It’s just that for me it carries this implication: you don’t belong.
The truth is, I don’t feel like I belong. I don’t feel Jewish enough to be a Hillel regular, but certainly not Catholic enough to regularly go to Mass. My Jewish identity, like that of a poodle-German-Shepherd mix, is often conflicted.
When my Catholic father and Jewish mother were engaged, no one would marry them. They eventually got married in a Congregationalist church in Alabama, and agreed that while their children would attend Hebrew school, there would be no confirmations or bat mitzvahs.
It worked for a while. We were twice-a-year Catholics, attending church on Christmas and Easter, while sporadically attending synagogue for the rest of the year. One year the menorah flame caught the Christmas tree on fire, but other than that, things were fine. I learned Hebrew and the Lord’s Prayer. Whatever holiday services we attended, it was as a family, which to us was the most important part of religion.
But when I entered high school in Virginia, things changed. Religion suddenly became the key to being popular. Abstinence pledges adorned the walls. The jocks went to Fellowship of Christian Athletes, the student leaders went to Young Life, and the rebels swore allegiance to Satan. The Jewish kids, in turn, went to their own youth groups.
I felt like I was between a cross and a hard place. I avoided the Jewish kids, especially the girls. I felt judged by them, even though I know it was mostly in my head. Instead I joined a Presbyterian youth group, although deep inside I knew I would never give up Judaism. The group succeeded, however, in making me less angry, more spiritual, and closer to God. When my mother was suffering from breast cancer, the support of both communities made the struggle easier.
I wouldn’t advocate the road my parents chose, nor would I change anything about my life. This year I’m doing Lent and Passover. Does everyone think that’s weird? Of course. But it makes sense to me. I no longer feel guilty about enjoying the sermons of my Virginia priest or sitting while everyone else takes Communion. I’m fine with being a twice-a-year Catholic.
It’s been harder to trust in the Jewish community. Intermarriage is a point of contention, and you never know when you’re going to get the “Oh, I didn’t know you fasted” (fourth grade) or the “I don’t think your parents have a spiritual union” (eighth grade). But I know when I look at my extended family that Judaism is a part of our past and our future. Its principles are what I believe in and the traditions are ones I want to follow. My identity and appearance is that of a mutt. I told my mother this once. “Yes,” she said as she stroked my hair. “But you know what? They’re the smartest and best breed.”
Jewish There…and Here
Yevgeniy Diamant, Second Year, Kingsborough Community College
I was born in Kiev, the capital of the Ukraine to a Jewish father and a Ukrainian mother. When my mother told her parents she wanted to marry my father, they weren’t happy. They didn’t want her to marry a Jew, but she told them that she loved him and was determined to marry him.
In the Ukraine, being Jewish is considered a nationality. Because my father is Jewish it automatically meant that I was considered Jewish. When I went to school and my teacher asked me, “What’s your nationality?” I explained that I wasn’t sure, that my father’s Jewish and my mom’s Ukrainian, so probably I’m a Jew. I was about seven years old and I didn’t realize it was such a big thing to be a Jew. But then three years later a couple of my classmates started calling me “Jew” and using anti-Semitic slurs to refer to me. If there were other Jewish students in the class, they hid it–nobody was saying, “Hey, I’m Jewish.”
Growing up, we didn’t celebrate any Jewish holidays because it wa
s not allowed. Still, I knew a little about the holidays. My grandfather, who learned how to read and write in Hebrew when he was young, taught me some words in Hebrew. But my grandfather never taught my father any Hebrew because he was born after World War II when everyone was trying particularly hard to hide their religion.
Since we tried not to show we were Jewish I didn’t really feel like a Jew there. Mostly I felt Jewish because I was discriminated against as a Jew.
We left the Ukraine about six years ago for America because my father couldn’t get a higher position because he was Jewish. When I came to America some Jewish guy asked me if I was a Jew. I explained that I wasn’t sure, that my mother’s Ukrainian and my father’s Jewish, and I was considered a Jew in the Ukraine. He said that he didn’t think I was a Jew, and explained to me that according to Judaism someone is Jewish if his mother is Jewish. I thought, “What do you mean? I was always a Jew and I was discriminated against in my country because I was a Jew.” What I learned is that here in America Judaism is seen as a religion and not a nationality. In Russia it’s seen as a nationality, and not just a religion.
I still think I’m Jewish because inside I feel like I’m more like my father than my mother. For instance, I see Jewish attributes in myself. Jewish people like to teach, they like to give advice, and I see this in myself–I like to give advice. I don’t care what anybody says–I was born as a Jew and I still feel Jewish.
