“How can you be Black and Jewish?”
I’m Black. Visibly, unmistakably Black. I don’t pass the paper bag test. I wear my natural 4C hair. There is no mistaking me for anything else. I’m Blackety Black Black Black!
I’m Jewish. Vocally, proudly Jewish. Not a day goes by when I don’t say I’m Jewish, do something Jewish, or think about being Jewish.
But I get that I can be an odd sight in many Jewish spaces. I notice the people who seem surprised to see me. I receive their curious glances, and I can almost read the questions percolating in their heads, “What in the world? How is this possible?”
I know that the polite, educated answer is something along the lines of, “Jews are a multiethnic, multicultural, multiracial people. We come in all colors, speak all kinds of languages, live all over the world. So, of course there are Black Jews.”
That’s what I say when I want to get my point across without scaring white people.
But sometimes, what I really wanna say is, “Do you have any idea how Black Jewish people are? Do you have any idea how Jewish Black people are? Far more confusing to me than my Black self showing up in a shul is how anybody can know anything about Black folks and Jews and come away thinking that Black and Jewish are an oxymoron.”
No, I don’t mean that Khazar theory garbage, either.
How Black are Jews?
There’s a sense of deep familiarity when I experience the call-and-response parts of Jewish prayer even when I don’t know the words or the melodies. But when the Spirit seizes the crowd, the only thing that’s needed is a couple of women shouting, “Yes, Lawd! Hallelujah!” then fainting in the aisle, and that’s a Sunday morning at a Black church. Then again, before COVID-19, I’m fairly certain that happened on a weekly basis in some Hasidic gatherings, except the ones shouting and fainting were men.
But holiness isn’t just for churches and synagogues. Something sacred lives in the Beit Midrash and the barbershop too. They are places where memory and culture pass from person to person, generation to generation, in conversations that are equal parts storytelling, history, stand-up comedy, and philosophy. They’re places where our people can come together and be ourselves without the judgmental eye of the dominant culture. These spaces are by no means perfect, but holy light still shines through broken vessels.
I think about Hebrew, the sacred language of the Jewish people, being part of the Afro-Asiatic language family. Where do you think the Levant is, somewhere in Sweden? It’s right between Africa and Asia! Our sacred texts mention Egypt and Ethiopia countless times, as if they’re practically next-door neighbors with Canaan. Then, in the diaspora, we put our own spin on local languages and created something vibrant and new: African American Vernacular English (AAVE), Yiddish, Gullah, Ladino, Creole, Judeo-Arabic, Jamaican Patois, and more.
How Jewish are Black folks?
Let’s talk about food. With the exception of days when most people are fasting, there is no gathering of Black folks or Jews where guests are allowed to leave hungry. There will be food. Always, and I don’t mean crackers and water, either. We gon’ eat! But first, we need to know: Who made the ‘tato salad? Who made the kugel? But even if the ‘tato salad or the kugel is a hot mess, you put a little bit on your plate anyway to be polite.
Food is not just what we eat. It’s how we show love, how we preserve memory, how we pass culture from one generation to the next, often through the hands of women. I learned how to cook certain things from my mother, who learned it from her mother, who learned it from her mother, and who knows how far back it goes?
(Mother. Mama. Ima. She who gives us life, who sustains us, who teaches us. She who inspires love, awe, and terror (“Don’t make me pull over!”). Mother: a name for God.)
Speaking of mothers, I think about the way that family is more than mom and dad and kids. It’s grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and “cousins” too. It’s also the ancestors we keep alive by telling stories about them. For us, kinship runs deeper than blood. It’s that ineffable thing that makes you nod your head and go, “Yep, you’re definitely one of us.”
How Black are Jews? How Jewish are Black folks?
After everything that was done to us—centuries of collective trauma—we’re still here! After everything that was taken from us—our homes, our freedom, our lives—our humanity has stayed intact, a victory deeper than survival.
“How can you be Black and Jewish?”
How can I not be?
