Olivia Reingold@Olivia_Reingold
Being half-Jewish has been one of the most painful experiences of my life. I just spoke with a rabbi about the possibility of taking Hebrew classes—he was lovely, but when he learned that my mother is not Jewish, he told me he’d have to check to make sure I could still attend. I tried not to cry, apologized, and hung up.
It’s not unlike being mixed race—the gentiles think you’re too Jewish, and the Jews think you’re not Jewish enough. So I feel like I'm nothing. And the world often agrees—friends, especially non-Jews, have told me I’m “not really” Jewish.
And I see why they think that. For generations, my ancestors were Jews. My great-grandfather came to America to escape pogroms in Europe. His son, my grandfather, married a Jewish woman named Thelma, and they raised their three sons to be Jews. My father, like his brothers, was bar mitzvahed and still attends temple. But he fell in love with my mother, an atheist, and they both decided religion wasn’t important—what mattered was that they raised their kids to be good people. They might have succeeded there, but what they failed to realize is that their daughter might want to be Jewish—and that their decisions would make that nearly impossible.
Some family members have encouraged me to hit the books, to find groups to attend. But when I try, I’m either embarrassed by how little I know or am asked about my lineage. When I was a reporter in Montana, I used to volunteer with girls from the Northern Cheyenne nation—they would tell me that they didn’t feel like “real Indians” (their words, not mine). Many of them had light skin and were ashamed at not knowing their native language. It is strange to say, but I could relate. They didn’t even know where to start—how do you learn as a teenager what you should’ve learned as a toddler? And would their elders even take them seriously?
I ask myself the same things (except I’m an adult, not teenager). I used to think my journey would be embracing my Jewish heritage, learning Hebrew, and growing closer to God. But I think I am getting pointed in the opposite direction: maybe I am not Jewish, and my family hasn’t been for a long time. I’m embarrassed of what my ancestors might think—but maybe what’d they’d judge the most is that I ever thought I was Jewish at all.
This is the pain of being half-Jewish.
