I spent my childhood in rural northern Michigan, in a small town called Alpena. My family was probably the only Jewish family for 150 miles in any direction, a fact we were continually reminded of by other members of the community. Though I never experienced outright anti-Semitism, there was a palpable sense of discomfort regarding our perceived difference from those around us. The mere fact of our existence seemed to make us “too Jewish” in the eyes of many of our friends and neighbors. Because my father’s family had been small business owners, and thus depended on the patronage of non-Jews, their assimilation into the overwhelmingly Christian community of northeastern Michigan was deep, unequivocal, and probably necessary for survival. As a result, my siblings and I were told that we were Jews, but given absolutely no Jewish education or a sense of what being a Jew meant. Our Jewishness was a distinctly clannish association predicated on fretting over the difficulty of obtaining matzos during Pesach and the invention of characters like the Chanukah Bunny, a joke which took the place of actual Jewish knowledge.
Only once during my childhood did anyone in my family try to rectify this awkward situation. In 1993, my father took me and my siblings to Rosh Hashanah services. We accompanied an elderly great-aunt, and I don’t know if the decision to take the three of us was her idea or my father’s. Services were held in a small synagogue across the street from my junior high school. Before that night, I don’t think I knew that shul existed. The presence of a synagogue in Alpena, MI indicates that at some point in time there must have been an active and vibrant Jewish community in the area. Unfortunately for us, that community did not appear to exist anymore. I remember the room being filled with old men, and my siblings and I were the only children in attendance. Afterwards, the man (rabbi? rabbinical student?) who had been leading the service (I’m assuming he’d been brought in for the occasion) let the three of us blow the shofar. Over 13 years later I still remember what it smelled like. After that, I didn’t step foot in another synagogue until 2005.
When I entered the University of Michigan as a freshman in the fall of 1999, I suddenly went from being “too Jewish” to “not Jewish enough.” My last name served as a beacon, announcing to everyone what I was (or what they thought I was). I found myself on email announcement lists for several Jewish groups on campus without ever having signed up for them. Fellow students living in my dorm approached me with the question “Where did you go to camp?” My complete ignorance of Jewish summer camps immediately exposed my lack of Jewish social knowledge, and I felt my first stings of rejection from other Jews. Looking back on these exchanges, I now realize that my awkwardness and ignorance probably had more to do with my socioeconomic background than my (lack of) Jewish education. Ann Arbor exposed me to other Jews, but it also showed me the disparity between my own class and that of most of my fellow students.
These initial feelings of alienation eventually faded, and I didn’t give my Jewishness much thought for the remainder of my time in Ann Arbor. The city and the university had large Jewish communities, so subconsciously I probably thought I could always immerse myself in Jewish life if I ever felt the need. But the vibrancy of the Jewish community lulled me into complacency—I was surrounded by Jews, so I never felt an urgent need to assert my own Jewishness, nor did I feel compelled to learn about it.
Moving to Boulder, CO in the summer of 2005 disrupted my nonchalant attitude. Suddenly I found myself in an environment in which Jews were rare. Once again my Jewishness was marked as difference. I felt like the token Jew, called upon to represent all of “my people” and to speak authoritatively about topics for which I felt completely unprepared. I hadn’t quite become “too Jewish,” but I was Other once again. It was a disorienting experience I had not expected.
In the fall of that year (my first in graduate school), I attended a “welcome back” dinner and Shabbat at the CU-Boulder Hillel. The event was well attended, and everyone seemed friendly, but I couldn’t help feeling that I didn’t belong. I was an interloper, a fraud. I worried that I might be discovered at any moment. These feelings disturbed me, and I didn’t go back to Hillel after that.
In the winter I worked up the courage to go to Friday night services at the local Reform synagogue in Boulder. Though I didn’t feel as afraid, I didn’t feel any particular connection to the ritual or the environment, either. Since then, the demands of graduate school have made it difficult to explore options for Jewish engagement in Boulder.
Despite my lack of time and my disillusionment with previous attempts to immerse myself in Jewish life, I still feel the need to learn what it means to be a Jew.
So here we go...
