In the eyes of my neighbors, I was a very eligible young lady: fresh-faced, new to town and eager to make connections. When I was out and about exploring our town and making myself at home, I would feel their eyes on me, searching for answers. After striking up a conversation at the dollar store or the local diner, they’d finally come out and ask the question they’d been pondering since we met.
“Do you have a church yet?”
At first, I tried answering diplomatically. “I’m still looking for a place I feel comfortable,” I fibbed. Eventually, after enduring long country directions to small congregations (“turn off the paved road…”) and endless pamphlets pressed into my hands, I started answering honestly.
“Actually, I’m Jewish.”
Most Jews are familiar with the stock responses to declarations of semitism. Some folks try to relate: “My sister’s boyfriend is Jewish.” Sometimes the conversation sputters, interrupted by a lonely “oh…” that hangs in the air before both parties recover, perhaps by mumbling something about Hanukkah. There are the rare but pernicious instances of antisemitism and the less malicious, but still eye-roll inducing, “But you don’t look Jewish.” In my neck of the woods, the most common response is a simple declaration: “I’ve never met a Jew before.”
I love where I live. I am nestled in the Southern Appalachians, where lush forests meet pastures and lakes. I’m awakened by birds and sung to sleep by frogs. After moving around for a decade, I settled here and am proud to call this place home. But I’m an outsider, as I am reminded often. Even my love for the place marks me in the eyes of some locals. “Why would you choose to move here?” they ask agog, as if I’ve volunteered to lick a battery. Other folks will comment on my accent in a drawl so thick it rivals the sweet tea. My Jewishness is yet another thing that sets me apart.
Having traveled and lived in rural areas in other “fly over states,” I’ve been in this situation before. At first, I was as surprised to meet my first person who’d never met a Jew as they were to meet their first Jew. Growing up in Denver, I was surrounded by members of the tribe. Even the non-Jews knew about bagels and schmear and experienced the bizarre early-teen headiness of the bar mitzvah, doing the cha-cha slide next to your classroom crush while the bubbes looked on. But not every place is so kosher; I know this now. The places I gravitated towards, full of farms and woods, deer hunters and logging roads, happen to be particularly bereft of Jews.
When I was traveling in my 20s, I craved experiences. I sponged up different landscapes, incorporated new slang into my vocabulary and tried all the regional foods. As I was seeking novelty, I, a Jew-about-the-heartland, was also providing it to folks I met. I was a sample size of one, a real life, in-the-flesh semite. I can’t say I ascribed any weight to this unique position; I made jokes about how Hanukkah is a school supply holiday, claimed that Jerry Seinfeld and I were related and made a few flippant remarks about how my horns are hidden under my hair. My wry sense of humor was how I made my way in the world. When you are unmoored, and always the stranger, it’s a good tool to have. These jokes were funny to me, but they were inside jokes that would only land with someone already familiar with Jewish culture. In retrospect, I probably left a lot of gentiles scratching their heads. I didn’t particularly care though. I hadn’t asked to be an emissary for a whole faith or a model-minority. I was simply living and trying to laugh where I could.
Now though, I am rooted, building a life from the ground up. Sarcasm and a toothy smile fall short in a community where lives are woven together via acts of goodwill like sharing garden seeds, or supporting the high school baseball team by buying some terrible chocolate bars from an earnest, lanky teen. Some non-Christians bristle at the idea of being invited to a church sermon, but I’m grateful that people here want me to be ensconced in the community. By asking me to their church, they are inviting me into their lives. I may even enjoy a potluck here and there, or sing some gospel songs with my neighbor. But I’m not a Christian.
Sometimes folks here will respond to my Jewishness by asking if I attend “temple,” a word they often grasp for, uttering it hesitantly, or trailing off, leaving me to fill in the blank. I could indulge them and pretend to be a “good Jew” who drives over an hour to the nearest synagogue. But the truth is, though I will travel for a Passover seder or a rousing Purim carnival, if being ensconced in a Jewish community were truly a priority to me, I would’ve chosen a different home. Ironically, the fact that I am the most Jewish person in this whole county is actually a result of the fact that I’m not particularly observant of the religious and community-oriented aspects of Judaism.
But to me, the special thing about being Jewish is that I just am. Judaism, to me, is family food, memories and traditions combined with a spirit of discussion and inquiry that can be focused on matters of politics, philosophy or the divine. The Christians around me believe that the absence of church-going and belief in God are traits that set folks apart from them. In contrast, I don’t feel that my lack of synagogue-attendance and my agnosticism — nevermind the fact that I can barely make it past “baruch atta,” in my prayers — marks me as any less Jewish. I don’t doubt my Jewishness for even a second.
These are complicated issues for Jews to debate and untangle within our faith, let alone explain to someone unfamiliar with any of our traditions beyond lighting the menorah. No wonder I retreated into humor as an easy out in my younger days. I also dodged the question more often than not.
It’s never fun to let folks know you are Jewish only to experience a negative reaction, or have the sinking feeling that after you leave the room people will start talking about your heritage disparagingly. Sadly, it still takes some guts to declare that you are a Jew. Though I never felt that harm would befall me, the instant shriveling of a kind smile into a pursed frown or the general drying up of social niceties have their own sting. In the past, I was less apt to reveal my heritage, lest I be faced with such a situation.
But increasingly I believe that the more conspiratorial strains of antisemitism, ideas that “the Jews” run the media or the world bank or killed Jesus, come from people who have simply never met a Jew. I may know someone who holds these beliefs. Maybe they have seen me pruning bushes for a neighbor, or have noticed me driving my old ‘88 Volvo around and they feel the need to introduce themselves. If they find out that I am a Jew, will their narratives about Jewish puppet-masters crack at the edges? After all, what kind of cabal can we Jews possibly be running if I have to sell firewood and paint fences for extra income?
Today, I authentically share my story and the long winding path that has led me to a little cabin on the side of a North Alabama mountain. Part of my story is finding hidden afikomens, rolling rugelach and building a sukkah. I can’t separate my memories and my life from the culture and heritage in which I was raised. Traditions that are banal in Denver are downright unique in my small town. I choose to explain them because they bring me joy and are beautiful rituals to share with others. Being so far removed from Jewishness has taught me to appreciate these little delights. If sharing who I am ultimately benefits the second or third Jew who shows up, then I consider it a mitzvah on the mountain. And — after I explain what a mitzvah is — I hope my neighbors will concur.
