My relationship with Judaism has fluctuated throughout my life, but it’s consistently been complicated. My Mum’s side of the family is Christian (but she converted to Reform Judaism before I was born) and my Dad’s side is Jewish. In terms of Christmas vs Hanukkah, I’ve been lucky enough to have had it all. However, this combined exposure to a pretty secular life and periods of more frequent cultural practice has left me confused about the relationship I have with Judaism. I’ve always felt a little bit in between. Not Jewish enough. Not ‘normal’ enough.
I grew up in a small town in New Zealand where my understanding of Jewish culture was limited to the occasional singing of Holy Day tunes and the seemingly trivial lighting of two candles every Friday night. My Dad, bless him, would sometimes conduct what he called ‘Hebrew School,’ for my younger brother and me. We’d groan about these classes going in session on our precious Sunday mornings, but really they were a few joyful little hours filled with singing, making menorahs out of playdough and hunting for letters of the Hebrew Alphabet in our garden. At this time in my life, I interpreted Judaism as a fun quirk that made us different — in a cool way.
In 2010, my family moved to Melbourne so we could get a taste of the big smoke and become more immersed in our culture through enrollment at a Reform Jewish school. The Reform Judaism denomination aims to adapt the faith to modern evolutions in society, abandoning some of the more Orthodox elements of Judaism that don’t really fit with modern-day changes to society, politics and beyond.
I did everything I was supposed to do. I read from the Torah for my Bat-Mitzvah, I went to synagogue when I was expected to, I tried not to skip out on Friday night dinners.
Entering what’s affectionately known as the J-Com (the Jewish Community) felt equal parts comforting and nerve-racking. Meeting so many people who had such an undeniable likeness felt like a long-awaited warm hug. But I also felt completely out of my depth. My knowledge of Judaism was years behind that of my peers, and I couldn’t speak a lick of Hebrew. But it didn’t matter — I was given a chance to build a relationship with Judaism from the ground up.
I embraced Judaism with open arms, encouraged by an echo chamber brimming with like-minded friends treading a similar path. I did everything I was supposed to do. I read from the Torah for my Bat-Mitzvah, I went to synagogue when I was expected to, I tried not to skip out on Friday night dinners. Within the safety of the bubble I existed in, being Jewish became a loud and proud aspect of my identity.
But humming in the background of all this cultural practice were qualms about my religion starting to creep forward. I felt that my identity as a Jewish person was greatly conflicting with my values as a passionate feminist who wanted to explore the world beyond the confines of familiarity.
I started to feel like a hypocrite offering praise to a God I didn’t believe in.
I started to feel like a hypocrite offering praise to a God I didn’t believe in. When I travelled to Israel, I didn’t experience the spiritual awakening I’d been promised to feel at the Western Wall — fixating instead on the shamefully small amount of space the women were allotted to pray in what’s regarded as one of Judaism’s holiest religious sites. Whispers of gossiping mothers around me saying women like my mother weren’t ‘real Jews’ prompted me to question if I’d ever truly be accepted by the community I’d come to adore.
The sheltered bubble I was in felt suffocating. I craved an empty canvas to colour in the aspects of myself that had been left blank for years. So when I graduated from school, I left my safety net with an emboldened desire to explore sides of myself that held potential to be more important to me than Judaism.
I embraced secularism, defining myself as something entirely separate from being Jewish. I’d swat away any questions directed towards my glaringly Jewish last name and leaned into the parts of myself that I thought made me more relatable to the people I was meeting. I’d lead with the fact I sometimes celebrated Christmas when seeing my Christian family overseas. The fact that Orthodox denominations of Judaism wouldn’t even consider me to be Jewish, became my go-to line in explaining away my confused cultural identity.
I’d be left stumped by workplaces audaciously asking the question ‘how Jewish are you?’ loaded with the implication that non-practising and not-going-to-have-to-take-leave-to-observe-holy-days was the preferred answer.
Even though I’ve been immersed in progressive Reform Judaism, my personal values and agnostic beliefs have never aligned with the wider perception of Judaism, which similar to many minority cultures, is misconceived as being synonymous with fundamentalism — a space with no grey areas. I’m acutely aware of how rife casual anti-Semitism can be. How it grows best when fed by ignorance. How it’s kept locked away in connotations and stereotypes I was desperate to avoid. How it gets swept under the rug whenever I laugh off snide remarks.
If my efforts to water down my Judaism hadn’t been as convincing as I’d hoped, I’d experience gross forms of fetishisation from boys I was casually seeing. I’d be left stumped by workplaces audaciously asking the question ‘how Jewish are you?’ loaded with the implication that non-practising and not-going-to-have-to-take-leave-to-observe-holy-days was the preferred answer. I’d be teased in jest about the shape of my nose – plaguing me about an insecurity that still haunts me. The world kept telling me my Judaism stood out like a sore thumb, giving me more of a reason to feel embarrassed about admitting to my cultural roots.
Now, I often find that in newer groups of friends, I’m promptly labelled, endearingly, as the ‘Token Jew.’ Due to the habit I’d made of consciously trying to make myself more palatable to strangers, this kind of title is usually met with my knee jerk defence – ‘oh don’t worry, I’m a Cool Jew,’ a default throwaway phrase that is usually received with relieved chuckles of laughter.
I may not be religious, but I’m no longer ashamed of my Jewish culture.
But this ‘Cool Jew’ act isn’t cutting it for me anymore. I’m reaching a point in my life where I no longer feel the need to prove my secularism as much as I once did. The played-down charade was bleeding into internalised anti-Semitism, and toeing that line was too often filling me with pangs of guilt.
I may not be religious, but I’m no longer ashamed of my Jewish culture. I’m still navigating how it fits into my young adulthood, but after years of minimising it, a smidge of loyalty to parts of my heritage has returned.
I’ve rediscovered a comfort in giving new meaning to the traditions I used to reject out of fear of not fitting in. Making time to head back to my family home and sit around the dinner table in the glow of those two candles on a Friday, now radiates with love and connection to family. Though I may not attend Synagogue, calling my Jewish Grandparents overseas on Rosh Hashanah to wish them ‘Happy Holidays’ is just as important to me as spending hours reciting sacred prayer may be to the more observant. Although I no longer fast on Yom Kippur, I check in with my friends who chose to, sending them my best for the hungry day ahead. My relationship with Judaism now has almost come full circle, reminiscent of the days of home-grown Hebrew school, when it was all just for fun.
Although Judaism doesn’t have as much of a presence in my life as it used to, I’ve made peace with who I am. Being Jewish isn’t all of me, but it’s not entirely missing either. We shouldn’t have to dull down the vibrancy of our cultures just to appear palatable, even if our relationships to those cultures warrants a tick in the ‘it’s complicated’ checkbox.
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