THE AUTHENTIC ECLECTIC

Am I Jewish or Not? My Mouth and Brain Fire Up as I Wear My Heart On My Sleeve

It’s complicated or maybe not so much

“Oh, my God! Are you Jewish? I just knew you were!”

This is a slow-motion and much-repeated loop in my life.

We stood poolside and exchanged phone numbers for the future. The three of us women were strangers an hour prior but quickly bonded with common life experience disclosures. We covered a lot of ground in a short time.

Click, click, click…as I typed BRAUN into her contacts, her exuberance ignited.

The sun rays caught her Star of David necklace, and sparkly reflections danced across the pool water. Her bright smile was a contender, though, for the brilliant shine of jewelry I hadn’t noticed until then.

She instantly exuded excitement from every pore. I liked her and wondered if my answer would disappoint her.

“Oh, my God! You are Jewish, aren’t you?”

Oh, this is so complicated.

How deep do I go in on this first meeting?

I can’t lie about it, and the truth is a tad bizarre when I am cornered to reply. It’s a clearcut answer for most people. How hard can it be to respond to such a straightforward question?

It’s difficult to be an over-thinker.

For me to say yes would not be accurate. I was raised Presbyterian and was an elder in our church. To say no also wasn’t completely true. It was complicated enough to warrant the back story. Eventually, it comes together nicely.

Eventually.

I just met her and another gal at the pool. How much is too much during the ‘getting to know you’ phase?

I decided to start slow and test the waters of acceptance.

I laughed and told her yes and no.

“But your last name is Jewish,” she stated with great conviction, “so you have to be!”

Well, that’s my married last name. Ironically, my ex-husband and his family are not Jewish either.

I went with the Reader’s Digest condensed version. I was adopted at weeks old and placed with a family who belonged to the Presbyterian Church. Not until my early 40s did I discover that my biological mother was indeed Jewish. Her only request to the adoption agency was that I would be placed with a Jewish family.

Obviously, I was not.

The reactions to the brief version of my history were always the same. “You are Jewish then, if your birth mother was Jewish; it’s your shared bloodline.” This time was no exception and she threw her arms around me in delight.

I have the pleasure of adding yet another sister into my fold.

According to traditional Jewish law (halacha), Jewishness is passed down through the mother. So, if your mother was Jewish, you are too. This position is held by most members of the Conservative and Orthodox communities. ~My Jewish Learning

The article adds an explanation as to why the link is maternal.

Some people say that Judaism goes by matrilineal descent because we always know who a person’s mother is, and we don’t always know who a person’s father is.

I got swept up in her infectious laughter and agreed that it is indeed the traditional philosophy and I’m good with it. In fact, I followed up with the beauty of having the best of all worlds coursing through my system.

What I omitted in this initial friendship-building stage, was how I knew long before the documented truth unfolded.

The mystery for me is how I could intuitively comprehend an ancestry with no concrete background information.

Technically, yes, I was told scant details in my 40s. In my younger years, my heart had already confessed. I gravitated toward Jewish people and them to me. From a first high school boyfriend to specific incidents in public, where women flocked to me as if I was accepted by the Jewish mother ship, I knew I rightfully belonged.

How does that make sense? Did I emit an aura, energy, or something else intangible?

Even the stereotypical expressions would catch me off-guard as they flew from my mouth without thought.

Watching my young kids and husband step over the items strewn about on the staircase, I stood at the bottom and loudly uttered to no one, “And I should have to pick these up?”

My husband’s query echoed down the steps. “Who are you?” My phrasing seemed out of character. It was my knee-jerk reaction to say that a Jewish woman lived inside me.

For years, I proudly took credit for my uncanny ability to impose Jewish guilt tactics on the non-innocents as they lied to my face. I don’t even know if Jewish guilt is a real thing but the expression has been around for ages.

It wasn’t uncanny; I was a natural. Who knew?

I kissed and hugged a stranger goodbye who I had only met moments before she left a political fundraiser. I didn’t extend that warm send-off to anyone else at the function. There was something that drew me to her and I felt a kindred connection. I was immediately embarrassed by my missing filter.

We never acknowledged the incident until after our friendship strengthened. Fifteen years have flown by and she is still my sister.

We laugh about our auspicious beginnings and the power of Jewish blood. Yet, this was years before I was enlightened by my biological record.

Yes, she is Jewish and passionately asserted that I must be, too. Our little town teemed with Methodists, Presbyterians, Catholics, and Episcopalians. Somehow, I found Rebecca and kept her in my life and in my heart. She is the prettier and younger little sister I never had.

So, am I Jewish or not?

According to traditional Jewish law, yes. According to my Presbyterian Church membership, I guess not. I am comfortable in the middle of the road. My spiritual sense is strong, the buildings and associated doctrines don’t outweigh my love for God.

I believe I am a little bit of everyone. That works for me. I respect my biological heritage as well as the environment in which I was raised.

I am me.

I never fit neatly in a box then, and I suspect I never will.

For me, it’s not so complicated, after all.

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