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Monday Lament: Wanting to be Jewish
It seemed like a good idea at the time
When I was a kid, I told people I wanted to grow up to be Jewish. I remember shocking a bunch of my mother’s friends after church one Sunday when I was six years old, and one of them asked what I wanted to be. My mother never mentioned it afterward, and neither did I.
The image has stayed in my mind for seventy years, so the effect must have been memorable, for it was a German fundamentalist church, and everyone knew that Jewish people were evil.
I don’t remember why I wanted that, but I may have gotten confused about who the good guys were between the Old Testament and the New Testament. I kind of liked Satan, too, but later discovered he didn’t exist in the Old Testament — another good reason to like Jewish people.
There weren’t many Jewish people in Indianapolis in the 1950s, at least, I couldn’t identify any. My mother told me they owned all the department stores, but I could not confirm that.
Then, in high school, I discovered Shapiro’s Delicatessen in the old south part of Indianapolis. The dill pickles were amazing, and the pastrami sandwiches beat the hell out of baloney. I don’t eat pastrami anymore, but I miss the pickles.
