“What do you mean you’re not Jewish?” I ask Sophie as she hops up on the kitchen counter. She tilts her head down and to the right a bit, and her lowered eyebrows and confused smirk lead me to quickly interject, “Oh, never mind, I forgot.” Living in Westchester County is as normal as life can get. We reside just a quick twenty minutes from the bustle of The City, and while many will cling to their New York identity and claim they would kill to live in Manhattan, most rarely go south of Scarsdale. In fact, the older I get the less I seem to want to enter the lonely craze of the city streets. As much as everyone will say they resent it, I, being a senior in high school and seeking out nostalgia like an addict, have realized this normal, mundane county is somewhat pleasant.
Recently, I have dug deeper into my Westchester identity and tried to find some real meaning in the Jewish religion. I quickly realized that the Westchester version of a religious Jew is one who only steps foot in temple on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, and that all of them will one day feel they have fulfilled their duty as a Jew by throwing a gigantic party for their child at the age of thirteen, calling it a Bar Mitzvah, and then soon move on with their lives. Then to continue in the path of the Westchester Jewish faith, they seem to slowly develop a strong Bronx accent as the years go by, and sudden glimpses of language from the old country seem to come out, even though they are all United States born citizens.
I can tell you my mom is certainly taking this route. It seems comforting for her to take this role, since her mother is a great example of a New York Jewish grandmother. Coming up to visit every Wednesday when I was a child, she and my grandfather would travel from Queens to Westchester, which they referred to as “Upstate”, a title all living in Westchester will tell you is completely false and that anything north of us is upstate. When they would come, I would wait for them eagerly by the door and run into their arms the moment the door cracked open. We would sit around for awhile; my grandmother would tell some horrible story she heard on the news or rant about how the postal service is out to get her. My grandfather would sit down on the couch downstairs and snooze off until I’d come and demand attention. Sometimes he would tell me stories of his childhood or we would just talk about school and friends. Around the age of eight I had my first girlfriend and told him.
“Is she Jewish?” he’d ask in a Yiddish-English accent.
“Um, I think so,” I responded.
My mom overheard and said, “No, she’s Catholic.”
He let out a sigh and said, “Oy, well I guess it is 2002 and times are changing... Ah well you still have time, I’m sure you’ll end up with a nice Jewish girl.” I have a feeling now he may be wrong, but who knows?
I myself was a little shocked that my girlfriend wasn’t Jewish. Pretty much all my friends went to Hebrew with me, and ever since I could remember, almost every Saturday morning I would see my neighbors and friends at services. After services, me and the rest of the kids would head upstairs to start Hebrew school and learn the meaning of all the stories in the Torah as well as learn to read and write Hebrew.
When you’re five, they begin teaching you the alpha-bet, or in Hebrew the alef-bet. Then as the years progress, you start forming sentences and soon enough you’re reading verses from the Torah and the Talmud. As cultural and empowering as it seems, no one ever taught us to comprehend it; we were only given a summary of the reading and expected to accept what we had been told. Even when studying for my Bar Mitzvah I did not truly understand the meaning of the Torah portion I recited or the significance of the traditions. All I knew was I was going to have a great party, which had the potential for a rise on the social ladder, a very important ladder to climb at the age of thirteen. All the time I spent studying and all the time I spent praying was all culminating to what seemed to be so materialistic. Of course at the time I was blind to this kind of reflection.
Not too long after my Bar Mitzvah I started to completely lose contact with all that was my life until that point-- it’s as if my childhood had been split into two distinct eras. With high school came a great pride of opposition, and my Bar Mitzvah no longer stood for a milestone but the day when a large sum of money poured in which would secretly support my drug habit. Thankfully my worried parents locked the account before I could dig a few thousand deeper-- I had already seen significant damage.
After my run, God came back into my life again-- or for the first time, I’m still not quite sure. I decided to give my will over to a higher power since I had recognized my life spirals out of control if I take the steering wheel. However, those sentiments only lasted a short while since the higher power I was searching for didn’t seem to be looking for me. Somehow, I was able to pull it together, but was more doubtful then ever. It seems with tremendous life struggles, we seem to get so stuck in that present, that we hold the reins tight and do not allow ourselves to flow into the future. Soon enough, ignorance sets in, and all we can do is pray we’re not goners; all we can do is pray we’re not another Westchesterian who cringes as we incur sudden flashbacks as a Metro-North train whizzes through the town of Scarsdale.
With life back together, somewhat, I became bored with equilibrium and decided to spend the summer in Beijing. I had been studying Mandarin for four years and had always been passionate about it, despite the D I rightfully earned first semester of my sophomore year. My parents found this to be a great family-reconnecting-opportunity, since my downfall brought not only me but them along too for the ride. For the first month, my parents and I traveled to all the major cities in China. I was comfortable throughout most of the travel, despite momentary feelings of depression from my recent break-up. I stayed in the nicest American hotels and traveled in luxury. It seemed just like home, just with many more Chinese people, no one speaking English, and the landscape just a little different. When we arrived in Shanghai, my parents wanted to go to the Jewish Museum. During the Holocaust, German Jewish refugees set sail to many countries throughout the world, including the United States, and were all rejected entry. The last country they went to was China, and in the city of Shanghai, they were greeted with open arms.
In the museum, the tour guide was passionate and prideful, odd coming from a man who seemed to have no strong connection to Judaism at all. He asked me if I was Jewish and I neutrally responded yes. His face lit up and he said, “Oh wow, you must be very smart and rich, and wow you are so handsome too, you must meet my daughter.” I blushed and told him all his allegations were not true. This is the customary way of responding in China; it is considered rude to thank someone when they compliment you. Walking out into the sunlight on the hot Shanghai street, we looked down at what used to be the Jewish Quarter. There, Jews and Chinese lived side-by-side and shared their rich traditional cultures with each other. The most unlikely of companions can sometimes make the best roommates.
The second part of my trip was spent alone in Beijing with a homestay family. Never before had I experienced the loneliness and isolation as the first week of my stay. I traveled the city deadpan, alone with no one familiar to socialize with. I was the only American in my class, and since everyone stuck to the people from their native country, I had no one to cling to. About a week passed and I was dialing my home-stay mother to ask if she was going to pick me up from school that day. All of a sudden, a young girl with crazy brown hair and a friendly smile approached me. “I’ve seen you around before, but you always seem so alone. I thought I’d come say hello.” I awkwardly smiled and shook her hand. “I’m Amit,” she said.
“I’m Matt,” I responded. “Amit, that is a very interesting name. Is it Israeli?” I asked.
Her face lit up immediately, “Yes it is! I am from Israel but right now my family lives in Hong Kong.”
“No way, I’m Jewish!” I told her with pride. She hugged me, gave a kiss on the cheek, and asked me to eat with her at the Muslim restaurant with her. Oh the subtle ironies of life. As we ate, she told me of her recent dilemma: should she enlist in the army or attempt to study to be an ambassador from Israel to Hong Kong. I was fascinated by her flamboyant character and her striking wit. The connection we made from acknowledging our roots grew faster than any relationship, and the next day we went together to the synagogue in downtown Beijing.
The people there came from all over the world; some people were traveling and some lived there for business, but it didn’t matter where you came from or where you were going. All that mattered was that time together. The room roared with anthems sung in Hebrew, some of which I could hum along to from my vague memories of Hebrew School. In my memory, I always see myself being analytical and reflective at the time of the event, but this I’m sure, I was completely entranced by the whole marvel. There I was, trapped in between the only two other English speakers within miles from me, clumped into a room with hundreds of people I’ve never met, yet we seemed to know each other at first glance, and together we gathered to celebrate life and all its creations.
As my time in Beijing kept moving, I continued to return to services every Friday night. I just couldn’t seem to keep myself away. The people I found myself becoming very close to were all students who went to the synagogue as well, and it was as if we became our own group just as everyone else had formed groups with people from their own country. When we were together, I can’t say I felt more Jewish than I had in the past. I’m pretty sure I didn’t even think about it until every Friday night. But on those
Friday nights, in a small synagogue in the middle of the bustle of Beijing, the hundred other Jews and I would congregate in the same way Jews have been congregating together for thousands of years; and even though my Westchester Judaism might be as religious as I will get, the connection we all have-- all Jews across the world-- is something I’ll hold wherever my travels may take me.