As a teenager growing up in Salt Lake City, Utah, I would have guessed that the adult Jewish community’s favorite loaded question was, “Are we Jewish Americans or American Jews?”
It seemed that every year or so the question was posed, often at a youth group activity or Jewish camp. And though I endured an eye-rolling number of the ensuing conversations, the question remained interesting, engaging and confusing.
I think there were points before high school when I could easily say I was an American Jew, emphasizing that my Jewish identity was primary. Perhaps it was the effect of unwrapping my matzah sandwich beside the bread-eating masses — an acute awareness of being an extreme minority.
Later, that turned into lots of questions and years in which I likely answered that I was a Jewish American, with a shot of guilt that poisoned all the heady freedom. And then I became something of a universalist, a citizen of the world, and I saw all my identities as clothing, removed from my core identity as a human being.
But that ubiquitous question is still a good one and should be posed to young people with the frequency that I endured it. It’s a question that deserves probing and soul searching by community leaders and shapers also.
At the recent annual conference of the American Jewish Press Association, Steve Bayme, director of Jewish communal affairs of the American Jewish Committee, described the great need among American Jews to find meaning in their Jewish identity.
“There is a dual narrative. On one hand, Jews are doing well as Americans,” he said in a discussion about the 1990 and 2000 National Jewish Population Surveys.
The surveys show that the Jewish community is “highly coveted,” seen as assertive and sure of itself in public; but it is “unsure of itself internally and not so sure of itself as Jews. … [I]n the privacy of our own homes, we have trouble finding language for why it’s important to be Jewish,” he said.
Why is it important to be Jewish? There certainly are as many answers as there are people. In that spirit, I asked a smattering of community members and the prevailing answer (after a fair amount of badgering on my part) pointed to honoring our ancestors and carrying on tradition; that in itself is a worthy gift for our children.
Some mentioned the great privilege to be part of a people that claims a rich history of strong values and great thinkers and achievers.
To others, the question itself is ridiculous; being Jewish is not a choice but an integral part of our souls; and the only question is: “How can we obey God’s commandments and follow the Torah?” since that, after all, is the basis of Judaism. Or, in another vein, “We couldn’t help being born Jewish but we might as well dig in and live fully as Jews.”
I must admit that I discovered my first passion for Judaism in anti-Semitism. I had been almost envious of the civil rights movement of the 1960s and the fire it created among African Americans — a return to roots and a sense of power.
I had my first taste of that while living in San Francisco at the outbreak of the first Persian Gulf War. After seeing too many anti-Israel signs at the street protests and marches, I found myself indignant and, nine months later, I was boarding an airplane for Israel.
For me, Israel helps answer the question of why it’s important to be Jewish: Unlike the heavy weight I felt in my Jewish identity as a child, Israel showed me a Judaism that was colorful and alive, diverse and earthy.
Loving Israel and becoming Israeli have, in turn, taught me about nationalism, and therefore, have led to me a deeper appreciation of America.
So this Independence Day, I will sit on a blanket with my American-Israeli family and watch fireworks. Passersby might catch us singing the music of Naomi Shemer, Israel’s national folk musician who died last Saturday and whose music has been constant in my car stereo since.
“Bless the honey and the sting/ Bless the bitter and the sweet/ And my good Lord, bless this young homeland … For the sake of all these things, Lord/ Let your mercy be complete” (loose translation from “Al Kol Eleh,” “For All These Things”).
Our music — in thick and delicious Hebrew — may mingle with the songs of the myriad of nations that will dot the lakefront that night. That diversity, with each singing their own clear tunes, shapes what is unique about our country. And that, for me, is a reason to celebrate the Jewish-American within me.
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