For both personal and professional reasons, I’ve moved a lot. Seven states all together, not counting the duplicates (California twice, three times in Illinois).
That’s also meant changing synagogues. I’ve got the routine down. Meet the rabbi. Get in good with whoever runs Sisterhood, because that’s who’s really in charge. Volunteer for something to meet some people. And pay dues at whatever level you can afford to make sure you’re on the mailing list.
But before I can do any of that, I have to make a test run to make sure I’m not going to be treated badly. Because I’m black. And even though there are plenty of Jews of color all over the world, there are also people who live in a bubble and think every Jew is a white person with a big nose and a New York accent.
My worst experience was at a temple in Arlington, Texas, where I was completely ignored. I’m not sure what they thought I was doing there. Maybe they thought I was homeless.
After about three months of attending services and not one person speaking to me, I got lonely and brought a friend, a white Jewish woman I’d met who was unaffiliated. When we walked in together, my friend was positively love-bombed. Who are you? Are you new? Here is a brochure. Let us give you a tour of the temple. Come and meet the rabbi.
With every gushing welcome, my friend awkwardly pointed to me, still invisible, Hell-OH!!! They looked at me like I was some sort of space alien who had suddenly beamed in from the Starship Enterprise.
I never went back again, and neither did my friend, who concluded my reception (or lack thereof) was a bad sign. It was a year before I participated in a formal worship service again. I had moved to Indiana and decided to give it another try.
This time I wasn’t ignored. People were friendly, but curious. You’re Jewish? Really? How?
I recited my family lineage and credentials so many times that I honed a little stump speech that I could recite from memory on command. Sometimes I said it four or five times a Shabbat. It was a big synagogue, so there was a seemingly limitless number of white people in need of an explanation for me, a walking, talking challenge to dearly held stereotypes.
I gave really serious consideration at one point to following the lead of a biracial friend of mine who printed up business cards to pass out when somebody confused by his looks asked, “What are you?” It was a short little essay that started out, “Why do you want to know?”
But how do you condense millennia of global Judaism onto a business card? Even a double-sided business card couldn’t do justice to Judaism’s presence on multiple continents long before Europe.
I have an Ethiopian friend who rips people to shreds when they try to interrogate her. She’s a take-no-prisoners warrior who isn’t afraid to be rude or hurt people’s feelings. I admire her bluntness, but that’s not my personality. I hate confrontation.
Not that I’ve never been tempted to go off on somebody.
One Pesach I found myself in Anaheim, California, because a friend from out of town was visiting Disneyland with her kids. I knew the first night of Passover would fall during her visit, so I made arrangements ahead of time to go to a community seder at the closest temple.
Another black family also in town for Disneyland had done the same thing, and we ended up sitting at a table with them along with a few members of the congregation.
An elderly white man was stunned that there were not one but two black Jewish families at his seder table, who didn’t even know each other. He openly gawked.
“You’re Jewish?”
“Yes.”
“And he’s Jewish?” (at my son)
“Yes. That’s why he’s wearing a kippah?”
“Has he had a bar mitzvah?”
“Um, no, he’s 8 years old. But when he’s older, he will.”
Exchanges like this make my blood boil, but I try to be patient and treat them as teachable moments. Rather than point out the inquisitor’s staggering ignorance and intrusion, I wearily explain that Judaism is a religion, not a race, and there have been Jews of color for centuries. Then I answer extremely personal questions about my family history and religious beliefs and try hard not to roll my eyes when the 10,000th person makes the, “Funny, you don’t look Jewish” joke.
This didn’t happen to me in Israel, which I visited in 1993 to say kaddish for my late father at the Western Wall. Israelis are accustomed to seeing Jews from all over the world, so non-white Jews are not novel or exotic. There, we’re just part of the landscape. I was delighted that everywhere I went, people took for granted that the Judaica I was buying was for me, not a gift for someone else, and expressed sincere surprise when I explained that I wasn’t fluent in Hebrew.
Fortunately, as immigration, intermarriage, adoption and conversion increase Jewish diversity in the United States, domestic congregations are slowly catching up.
I just moved again, to the Antelope Valley a little more than an hour outside Los Angeles. Just days ago, I took my kids to what I hope will become our newest shul.
As the children dressed for Shabbat services, my teenaged daughter expressed concern that “white people are going to stare at us.”
I tried to assure her we’d be fine, but I arrived with a big fat chip on my shoulder. I told everyone we met that my daughter was a recent bat mitzvah. I sang the Hebrew prayers extra loud, to show doubters I knew the melodies and words and could pronounce them correctly. I was ready to do battle.
But none of that was necessary.
Everyone we met Friday was warm, welcoming and kind. Not one person asked if I was Jewish or how I was Jewish. And there was one other black woman there who everyone seemed to know and like.
We’re getting there, it seems. It’s taking a while, but we’re getting there.
