I’m Jewish?

I remember the scene like it was yesterday.

It was Friday night, and my parents, brother and I had just arrived in Golden’s Bridge, NY — the weekend oasis of my childhood. Surrounded by dirt roads and oak leaves we walked down the path and into the house. We were doing some renovations at the time — the house smelled like paint. Included in these renovations was a new room in the basement for my brother and I, so we went straight downstairs to see how it looked. My parents followed behind, and after about 2 minutes of inspection, my mind completely changes subjects. I hadn’t really been thinking too much about this, given I was only 10 and didn’t really think too much about any one thing for more than a couple minutes. But for some reason, I turned around, looked at both my parents, and said, “I want to be Bar Mitzvah’d. I want to go to Hebrew school this year.”

I remember they turned to each other with a look of surprise. “Why would Jake want to go to Hebrew school, and be Bar Mitzvah’d?” they must have thought. After all, I am Jewish, but my family was never particularly observant of any of the religious customs; I had never even stepped foot in a synagogue, or any house of worship for that matter. My mother and father were much more interested in making me understand the cultural values and importance of Judaism. We observed Passover, Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah, but we did so without the prayers and religious aspects. Rather, it was about coming together as a family.

“Okay, Jake,” my father said. “You know that we are comfortable with whatever you want to do, regardless of my feelings about religion.” My father was a staunch atheist; he wouldn’t even allow a Rabbi to preside over my parents wedding. “But I’m just curious what made you want to do this out of nowhere? I mean, you’ve never brought this up before.”

But I myself wasn’t sure why I wanted to do it, or why I even said it. I think part of the reason was that, being from Manhattan, specifically the Upper West Side, the vast majority of my friends were Jewish, and around this time nearly all of them were talking about being Bar Mitzvah’d. It just felt weird to me that I was also Jewish, but I wasn’t having a Bar Mitzvah. Was I doing Judaism wrong?

So I looked up at my father and said, “Just because you don’t believe in God doesn’t mean that I don’t. I don’t know what I believe in, but I think I should give it a chance.”

I felt disconnected from my heritage and my friends, and I wanted to fill that void.

He nodded with approval, rather impressed with my answer, or at least that’s how I read it at the time. And a few years later, I did indeed have a Bar Mitzvah. It was at the very same venue that my parents were secularly married 14 years earlier.

After my Bar Mitzvah, I stopped attending Hebrew school (some kids went on for a couple more years to be confirmed) and basically lost interest in becoming more acquainted with the more religious aspects of my heritage. I went through Hebrew school, the Bar Mitzvah, the service, and I learned a lot about Judaism in its religious form, but I didn’t feel any spiritual connection to it. I think it was only when my lack of Judaism became salient to the community, when everyone was discussing Bar Mitzvahs, that I felt I was missing something or doing something wrong. Through wanting to become more connected with my religious heritage, I came to be an atheist.

It’s now the Fall of 2013, and I am just settling into my first semester at Middlebury. Having been recruited to play lacrosse, I had met the other 8 guys in my recruiting class over the past couple summers, so we started hanging out right off the bat. It was nice to have a group of friends right away.

I tried to think about the last time I had to make completely new friends. I attended the same school since I was 4 years old, and I was essentially friends with the same people for the whole time — it was a rather small preparatory school.

This was very nice in the sense that I have often been surrounded with people I knew pretty well, but it also hadn’t really exposed me too much to the friendship dynamics of anyone other than a basically fully white and Jewish group of friends.

So, we are all hanging out in my Hadley 4 double because it was a particularly large room compared to my other freshmen buddies, and I had lofted my bed to fit a small couch underneath — seating was everything in a small room. One of the guys, Jack, had a bag of Sour Patch Watermelons, and another guy, Sam, asked him for a few. Jack only gave him one.

That’s when I heard it.

“Don’t be such a fucking Jew, Jack!”

I cringed. I had never heard something like that before. I mean, I knew that Jews were discriminated against. I had seen it in movies and television, but I grew up amongst a particularly homogenous group of Jewish or incredible liberal people, or both. I didn’t think people actually said that stuff in real life.

I didn’t say anything. I just sat there. Like I said, I was an atheist and didn’t feel any particularly strong connection to my Jewish roots, but I had never examined my Judaism through this particular lens before. Although it was not constantly under attack, I never realized that the fabric of who I am was constantly open to attack, regardless of if I identified strongly with Judaism or not.

Jack looked at Sam and said, “Duuuude, Jake’s Jewish.” Sam quickly offered his apologies. “My bad, it was just a joke…uh, a figure of speech, you know? I didn’t actually mean it.” Wanting to just move on with it and not make it a big deal I just said, “Yeah, no worries.”

This hasn’t been a pervasive problem during my time at Middlebury, but it is definitely something I have been aware of. It’s the first time in my life that I have been reminded of the fact that I am Jewish on a rather regular basis. I mean, half the people who go here probably had relatives on the Mayflower. It definitely doesn’t help that I also play lacrosse, which is one of the least Jewish activities one can engage in. While I love, and feel connected with my friends in many ways, I also feel this glaring disconnect.

Just as I felt — disconnected from my heritage and my friends — when I was 10 years old contemplating a Bar Mitzvah, I feel now. Except this type of disconnection makes me feel more of an allegiance to my Jewish roots. It makes me realize that the Jewish part of me is important and not to be taken lightly, because even if I don’t consciously note my Jewishness, it is now clear to me that other people do.

Paradoxically, as I have been disconnected from my Jewish bubble in Manhattan, I have felt an even stronger connection with my Jewish roots. Even if I am not religious, and do not believe in God, it is ceremony that matters. Ritual. Reminding ourselves that we are here because of what our ancestors went through.

And it is only now, 12 years after the conversation in the basement of my house in Golden’s Bridge that I can truly answer my father’s question: “Why do you want to be Bar Mitzvah’d?”

Although I may not have done it for the right reasons at the time, I am thankful that I was Bar Mitzvah’d. It gives me the ability to reach down and connect with my Jewish heritage at anytime, and, as I am now, reflect on how being Jewish can mean different things at different junctures in my life. Right now, for me, it is the celebration of family, heritage and culture that matters; but that could change in the future. Being Bar Mitzvah’d keeps the culture alive regardless of whether or not you believe in the God you are praying to. It is the mere practice, not the intention, of the rituals that allows other people to do them for years to come; it is a responsibility to those in the future as well as to those that came before me.