To be a Jew is to be linked to a religion filled with culture and customs, heritage and history, persecution and prejudice. It is to feel a sense of peoplehood, rooted in tradition that connects individuals all over the world. However, in contemporary America, to be a Jew can mean a hundred different things. One can be a Jew by blood, a Jew by features, a Jew by observance. Another can identify as a Jew by culture, by race, or by ethnicity. It may even be one’s mother, one’s father, or one’s connection to state of Israel. Ultimately, to be a Jew in America is solely dependent on one’s community and how that environment influences individuals.
I grew up in the northern suburbs of Chicago, a cluster of towns heavily populated by white, upper-middle class Jews. I went to synagogue every Saturday, attended a Jewish day school from September to May and a Jewish summer camp from June to August. My friends were Jewish, my teachers were Jewish, and my role models were Jewish. I dwelled in a Jewish bubble filled with culture and customs, heritage and history. I loved my childhood. It was a nice way to grow up. I felt connected to my community and never waivered in my Jewish pride.
To be a Jew in the northern suburbs of Chicago was certainly not characterized by persecution or prejudice. No, swastikas and neo-Nazis did not dare penetrate the protective Jewish bubble. Little did I know, it didn’t always used to be that way. My acknowledgement and awareness of the agonizing and unforgiving Jewish past arose from education and literature.
As a child, I seldom enjoyed reading. That is, until I came across the novel Number the Stars by Lois Lowry. This book was delivered by my third grade during our literary Holocaust unit. I became fascinated by the saddening, yet hopeful story and was innately connected to its rooted history. I related to the characters’ identities, becoming emotionally attached to the narrative of hardship, affliction, and adversity. These were my people.
Year after year, I looked forward to the various Holocaust novels and began to develop an academic and personal interest in these books. They told distant, yet recent stories, sharing a piece of history with me that touched my morality and identity. I learned of the righteous gentiles who risked their lives to save another. I learned of the horrifying individuals that put humanity on trail.
As I grew older and visited the concentration camps of Auschwitz and Treblinka, I grew to appreciate what it means to unpack my experience, to tell my story because so many stories remain untold. I began adding parts in my daily prayer. Thank you for allowing me to have freedom of religion. I began appreciating what it meant to be the last generation to hear from Holocaust survivors. Thank you for allowing me to be Jewish in my own way, for allowing me to express my opinions and reflect on my experiences.
I came to embrace and seek out Jewish persecution and victimization because I do not currently face it. It nevertheless is engrained in my identity as a Jew.
I write for the same reason I pray: to appreciate the gift of life, to soak up and be grateful for opportunities in my life. I do not write to tell the stories that were not told. I write to tell my story because so many stories have been lost. By writing, I am taking the opportunity to live a more thoughtful and meaningful life. I write because I can. And that should not be taken for granted.