A Little More Than Six Sentences

Monday, November 24th, 2008
by Lilly S

Being raised by a reform Jewish father and a moderately strict catholic mother is terribly underrated; from the star of David ornaments dangling from the holiday tree in the living room to the ripping off the wrapping paper and finding a fake “bag-o-coal” on the fourth day of Chanukkah, my childhood consisted of a decoupage of various religious beliefs.

Friends and family often chuckle when I refer to myself as being “Jirish”, as I am from English, Irish, Scottish, Russian, and Estonian descent. Although I may be fifty percent Russian, my fair milky skin tone pales (no pun intended) to my siblings bronze coloring. My parents came to an agreement early on in their marriage to raise their children to observe the Jewish faith. It is ironic however, because my mother is Catholic and my father is Jewish, some conservative and all orthodox Jews do not view me as Jewish. My mother did not convert to Judaism and sometimes even attends mass on her own, but she has solely been to one encourage Jewish beliefs in our home, while my father who was raised by two Jewish immigrants in Brooklyn, NY has little time to preach to about the importance of religion. I have learned through my Bat Mitzvah and confirmation however that although my mother may not be Jewish, I am still truly Jewish at heart and can truly appreciate the time my parents sacrificed transporting me to and from religious school and Bat Mitzvah tutoring (even if I did have to miss Wednesday practice and some Saturday games).

My lack of stereotypical “Jewish traits” have even led my siblings in their younger years to convince me that I was adopted or switched at birth. “They found you in a van down by the river,” my brother would tell me when he would be so-called babysitting me while my parents were out. “Yeah and they said you were surrounded by aliens too!” my sister chirped in, satisfied by the horrific look on my face. It took crying fits and pictures from the moment I was born for my parents to prove to me that I was in fact their daughter and not the product of some crazy science experiment.

When I walk through the doors of apartment 805 in the sunny Bal Harbor Florida I can always count on being flocked by my two elderly Jewish grandparents who shout “Ich hob dir lieb!” (I missed you!) and Vos hert zich epes nei’es? (What is new?) while smothering me with kisses. They help me understand how warm, accepting, and sometimes even crazy Jewish culture can be. My grandfathers stories about his emergence into the American life from his Estonian culture helps me to comprehend how lucky I am to have not only a supportive family but also a supportive community. He tells his tales of learning on his first day of school how to say “bathroom” as he thought it would be the key word of survival.

Around the Jewish holidays I catch myself tracing my Hebrew name Leah in script across my spiral bound notebooks and myself drooling at the thoughts of apples and honey, latkes, or on Yom Kippur, any food at all. Reminiscing on the days of name-calling and jeers of Jewbaca! on the back of the bus only make me want to work that much harder in establishing a positive and enlightening connotation of the Jewish faith. However I will coyly admit that I do occasionally recognize my Christian roots by belting out Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer and eating candy cane upon candy cane. Who would have thought a Brooklyn Jewish boy and a Catholic “Woostah” girl could have created such a complex array of ethics?

Photo Credit: Hamed Saber & Renée Ann Wirick

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