They Tried To Kill Us, We Survived, Let's Eat

When I was in Kindergarten my teacher had me make a Hanukah tree. The rest of the class was making cute little Christmas trees out of fake branches and bells and buttons. She gave me branches and yellow string, and found- somewhere- a star of David for me to place on the top. It almost fit in with the other’s.

I grew up as the only Jewish kid in my elementary school- until 3rd grade that is, when the Jewish population expanded to include my Kindergarten aged little brother.

I wasn’t always the only Jewish kid, but there were never enough of us that I was more then a token minority. I can’t even count the number of times I have been asked for “the Jewish opinion” on something or to tell us “what Jews think” of an issue, which is something I’m super uncomfortable with. That’s the thing about being a minority- people will constantly ask you to speak for the whole group, which isn’t fair and is basically never accurate.

I had the privilege of attending a talk tonight by SoniaTaitz, who wrote the book ‘The Watchmaker’s Daughter’ about growing up in New York, the daughter of Holocaust survivors, dealing with everything that comes with the lives of those of us who try to fight to uphold a culture that is constantly under attack while simultaneously wishing we didn’t have to fight so hard.  She spoke about how when she was little she just wished she could “be named Suzie and have a dog” or live a normal life and not have to think about all the things that people who have these sort of fractured identities have to think about.

I wasn’t raised by Holocaust survivors, but I was raised by parents who wanted me to be proud of who I am and where I come from. There’s an old Jewish joke- that every holiday we celebrate can be summed up with the phrase “they tried to kill us. We survived. Let’s eat!”. The story of the Jewish people has been filled with strife and with hardship and with discrimination, but somehow- incredibly- we continue on.

I’m proud of who I am, and I am proud of the people that I come from. People that have fought tooth and nail to continue on. People who have a weird sense of humor, and seem to always have a compulsive need to feed anyone and everyone at all times. I love my religion, as a moral center, as a culture, as a history, and as a system of belief.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I feel lucky that I have something that means so much to me that I want to keep it alive even when I’m stuck making a Hanukah tree while the other kids get to make cooler crafts. I’m lucky to have ancestors who cared enough to want to keep my religion alive when faced with unspeakable horrors.

I’m lucky.

update: my mom texted me some pictures of my Hanukkah tree. They are too ridiculous not to share.