I am not a religious Jew. I do not go to synagogue regularly. I do not celebrate Shabbat. I do not know the prayers by heart. I do not keep kosher, follow Jewish law, or study the Torah. Yet, I make a dope brisket, have a fair amount of health anxiety, will always show up when kugel is involved, and drop some Yiddish when it is called for (I am an expert kveller). More importantly, when asked what I am, I will always say, "I'm Jewish."
Growing Up Jewish (Sort Of)
I was born in Staten Island, New York, which for East Coast American Jews is sometimes considered the start of the Jewish Oregon Trail (NY-NJ-FL-Afterlife). Both of my brothers went to Hebrew school and were Bar Mitzvhed, but my parents didn't feel it was as important for a girl to do the same (the '90s were... a different time), so they gave me an option: go to Hebrew school or start dance classes. As an 8-year-old, an obvious choice was made.
At the time, I was thrilled to dive into the world of dance, even though I was TERRIBLE at it (you could find my rhythm-challenged self in the back right corner, hidden behind people with talent). I wasn't even really pressured to sit still during the high holiday services. Instead, I was ushered to the rock playground where my friends and I played tag, often falling and ripping our tights. I was allowed back in for the after-service lunch where I gorged on everything bagels, whitefish salad, and those rainbow cookies with the jelly in between. These lunches are one of my favorite childhood memories, and sometimes I dream about NY bagels.
The Disconnect
As the years went on, I felt disconnected from my Jewish heritage, even though I went to a Jewish sleepaway camp—a rite of passage that I loved. The experience allowed me to reconnect with my Jewish self and make lifelong friendships, but my knowledge of Judaism still lagged. All my Jewish friends had been Bar and Bat Mitzvahed and knew things about the religion that they spent years studying. I felt like an imposter amongst my own people, burdened by the gap between my limited knowledge of Judaism and the traditions my peers knew well.
But then my dad shared a story from his own life that revealed how our Jewish identity runs deeper than religious practice, and this tale forever changed how I see myself in respect to my Jewish heritage.
A Family History Rooted in Strength
My dad was born in 1951 and grew up in the projects of East New York in Brooklyn. The projects in the early 20th century were filled with immigrants, and many Jews migrated to the United States from the Pale of Settlement. My great-grandparents, who were among the Pale of Settlement residents, were part of those who migrated. The Pale of Settlement was a designated region in the western part of the Russian Empire where Jews were legally allowed to reside from 1791 to 1917, restricting them from living in most other parts of the empire. Established to limit Jewish economic and cultural influence, it subjected Jews to various forms of discrimination, including restrictions on movement, employment, and education, contributing to widespread poverty and periodic violent pogroms (want to know about life here AND sing along? Watch Fiddler on the Roof, which takes place in the Pale of Settlement. Yubby dibby dibby dibby dibby dibby dibby dum).
It was the beginning of what was soon to come, and I am forever grateful Yetta, my great-grandmother and the inspiration for my Hebrew name (Yente, also known as Yenta—and that kinda tracks) came to America during this time. Many of her family members remained in Poland, and after 1939 most were never seen again. She heard stories over time of the various ways they perished in the Holocaust. Some perished in the camps, others on death marches, and many were simply shot in the street. None of it good.
My Dad's Journey Through Faith and Friendship
Hebrew school was a given for most Jewish kids in Brooklyn during this time, and my dad's experience was no different. He studied at an Orthodox temple and became religious throughout this period in his adolescence, leading up to his Bar Mitzvah. His parents, my grandparents Frieda and Bill, on the other hand, were not religious Jews, and my father would often feel embarrassed by their lack of respect for the customs.
He mentioned instances of walking home from shul (a Yiddish word for synagogue) with his rabbi on a Saturday afternoon and passing my grandfather in a white ribbed tank top, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, washing the car—an act that was forbidden on the day of rest. My grandfather was clownish and, knowing my dad's embarrassment would wave at them wildly as they walked by, screaming, "MARK, SAY HELLO TO YOUR FATHER!"
My dad, Mark (Hebrew name Mordechai), had a best friend during this time named Mitchell (Hebrew name Melech) with whom he went through Hebrew school. After the boys' Bar Mitzvahs, they started to shy away from the religious customs and opted for more traditional teenage activities like playing basketball, wandering the streets of East New York, and talking about girls neither of them had the swagger to get. They stopped going to synagogue regularly.
The Egg Roll Incident That Changed Everything
One Friday night, my dad was sitting on the curb outside of a Chinese restaurant, waiting for Mitchell to return with some egg rolls, when their rabbi, Germaine, approached. He asked, "Mordechai, what are you doing sitting on the curb in street clothes on Shabbat?" My dad explained he was waiting for Mitchell to return from inside the Chinese restaurant (throwing his friend right under that proverbial bus). The rabbi replied, "Go get Melech." So my dad slowly walked into the Chinese restaurant, face beet red with shame and embarrassment, and told Mitchell that Rabbi Germaine was outside and wanted to talk to them. Mitchell, seeing my dad's expression, slowly followed him outside, a shaking egg roll in each hand, unsure of what was waiting for him on the other side of that grease-slicked door.
The rabbi simply invited both boys to the bris (a bris marks a male baby's entry into the covenant between God and the Jewish people) of his seventh and last child the following weekend, a gesture that carried significant weight given their recent drift from religious customs. This unspoken acknowledgment reminded them that, despite their waning observance, they were still valued members of the Jewish community. Being invited to the rabbi's home for such an event was both an honor and a subtle call back to their roots.
Rabbi Germaine didn't mention their absence from shul or the egg rolls tightly clenched in Mitchell's fist. He simply invited them to a traditional event. And although Melech and Mordechai were not chastised, they could tell the rabbi was disappointed in their transgression. This disappointment impacted the boys in different ways.
What It Means to Be Jewish
Both boys attended the bris together, and afterward, my dad decided that religious life was not his path and strayed further from the daily aspects of Jewish life; while maintaining the traditions of the high holidays. Melech, on the other hand, was so profoundly impacted by the embarrassing encounter; that he considered it a sign, and dived back into his studies, eventually becoming a rabbi himself. The boys' friendship faded over time, but in telling me this story, my dad wanted to share a very specific point about what it means to be Jewish.
"If someone asked Mitchell if he is Jewish, he would answer yes. If someone asks me, 'Are you Jewish?' The answer is also yes." You see, with Jews, religion is one aspect of who we are as a people, but it's not the only thing that makes us Jewish. You could ask religious Jews and most non-practicing Jews, and their answer would be identical.
Carrying My Jewish Identity Forward
So while I am not a religious Jew, I am now and will always be a Jewish woman. Hearing my father's story reminded me that being Jewish is more than religious practice, it's about the shared history, resilience, and identity that define who we are. It's in my blood, my bones, my heart, every fiber of my being is Jewish, and I am proud of that. I am proud to descend from people so strong that, in the face of persecution and violence, never hid who they were. I will certainly not hide who I am because their memory deserves to be honored, and in doing so, I carry their strength forward.
I hope I can impart this importance to my Jewish daughter as she goes out into a world that does not always understand her history. So while I do not celebrate Shabbat, know the prayers by heart, keep kosher, follow Jewish law, or study the Torah, when asked what I am, I will always say, "I'm Jewish." And I am honored to be able to say that with all the pride I can muster. No amount of hate will ever change what I know to be true. Now, excuse me, I hear there is a sale at Neiman Marcus, and a deal is a deal, amiright?!
"Strength and dignity are her clothing, and she laughs at the days to come."
– Proverbs 31:25
Love and Matzoh Ball Soup,
-Jenna
Author: Jenna Levine Liu, Founder and President of Sixx Cool Moms. You can follow Jenna on Facebook, Instagram, and begrudgingly TikTok
Love this Jenna, "If someone asked Mitchell if he is Jewish, he would answer yes. If someone asks me, 'Are you Jewish?' The answer is also yes." By the way - if ever you want to come for Friday night dinner, we can make it happen. 😊