The first time I got Jew-outed in Spain, I stood in a group of my fellow American exchange students outside our medieval Christian art class. It was the beginning of my semester abroad, back when I could only understand 40% of any given lecture and I spent my days struggling alongside Spaniards who had been studying art for years and, you know, spoke Spanish as their first language. That day in the hall, our professor approached us. He chatted with us about our majors, and then, because of the religious content of the class, he wanted to know if any of us identified as something other than Catholic. I looked down, planning to keep my mouth shut. It was too early to say anything, and it was too public.
But one of my classmates chose for me, gesturing in my direction and saying in Spanish, “Sarah’s Jewish.” I froze.
The professor looked at me kindly. “You’re Jewish?” he asked.
I didn’t make eye contact. I shrugged. The professor told us he was an atheist and the conversation moved on, but I didn’t hear the rest of it. I could feel the shrug in my shoulders still, running all the way down my spine. Why would I shrug? I am Jewish. By some estimates, very much so. Proudly so. But in that moment I just wanted to disappear. I felt guilty of something, but I wasn’t sure what.
I made it back to my apartment before I called my parents, trying and failing not to cry. They talked me down, gently reminding me that the important thing was that nothing bad had happened, that I was ultimately safe. Despite their assurances, I still felt unmoored and a little bit out of control. It felt like that classic stress dream where you go to school naked—vulnerable and exposed.
Learning how to react to Jew-outing was a significant part of navigating life as a Jewish student in Spain. I struggled in those early days with the question of whether to tell people. And for those I wanted to tell, I debated when, where, and how. Some other American students told me that they had heard some choice comments about Jews and money in classrooms. One girl told me she saw a swastika inked on a bathroom stall. I knew that these incidents didn’t represent everyone’s beliefs, but I had no idea what sort of reaction I would get to being outed, and that terrified me.
The knowledge of my religious difference was omnipresent during my first months in Córdoba, while I was still adjusting to all manner of new cultural and linguistic practices. Although most of my classmates didn’t go to Mass or believe in God, I still felt the overwhelming Catholicism around me. Maybe it had something to do with Córdoba’s many churches, or the enormous religious processions hoisting a crucified Jesus that occasionally traversed the city center. I did find remnants of Judaism, starting with the fact that the old tourist district is called the Judería (Jewish Quarter), but despite the Star of David magnets on display in tourist shops, I’m fairly certain I was the only Jewish person in the city.
When I did finally start opening up to people, I always felt a fleeting moment of fear, hoping I hadn’t accidentally revealed myself to a raging anti-Semite and put a target on my back for the rest of the semester. Then, when I got a positive reaction, an inevitable flash of self-doubt quickly followed. What was I so afraid of, anyway? After all, my parents were right: nothing bad happened. I was safe. Unhelpfully, I often found myself running through the greatest hits of anti-Semitism in my mind, just to remind myself that my anxiety was valid.
Every time I told someone, it left me a little deflated, confused about how I could find it so exhausting to say two little words—soy judía—when all I got back was exclamations of interest and support. It didn’t occur to me until much later that it was the lead-up that tired me out—putting myself on guard and preparing for the worst just in case, my body full of tension without any resolution.
Assessing the whole semester in hindsight, I am slightly embarrassed by my dramatic, tearful reaction to being outed for the first time. With my newly minted rose-colored glasses and a re-entry stamp on my U.S. passport, it’s easy for me to dismiss all the moments of discomfort I had while studying abroad as an irrelevant sideshow that distracted from my cultural immersion. But to discount the little things would mean ignoring an important aspect of my experience. It would mean overlooking months of internal conflict and growth and grappling with hard questions. Questions that continue to change how I think about my Judaism, even after I’ve crossed the Spanish border.
Sarah Asch studies English literature and creative writing at Middlebury College, where she will graduate in February 2020. She serves as the Editor at Large of the Middlebury Campus and her past work has appeared in the San Francisco Public Press and Tikkun Magazine.
