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May 04, 2008
Home for the Holidays
The King of all Holidays in the Borovitz-Appelbaum household is, without a doubt, that festival of spring and liberation that happens upon us once a year. Imbued with flattened bread and sweet wine, gefilte fish galore and bitter herbs, the Passover holiday holds a unique place in my personal lore.
Every year, without fail, my family has gathered from all corners of the globe (alright, fine, the United States and Canada) to gather around our Seder table, to tell the same stories of suffering and salvation and hope that has been a staple of 2000 years of Diaspora. There is so much uncertainty in life, so many guessing games and questions, but every year my family was sure to have our youngest member ask at least four. We would all be together for Passover.
This year I was faced with a dilemma I had never faced before. Warsaw, Poland is hardly the hour-long flight to New Jersey that I have from Ann Arbor, Michigan. The prospect of interrupting my journey, my semester abroad, seemed unsettling. My mojo was flowing. I was in a Polish groove. I was easing into my Warsawian niche, and a part of me was afraid of going home. Would it hurt a part of this experience I had worked so hard to build? Would I lose something? Would my trip suddenly become something less than? I also could not help consider the fact that I was really enjoying being a part of the Warsaw Jewish community. A Seder represented that communal culmination, something I desired to be a part of.
Problems aside, a part of me still was not quite ready to break my “streak.” Was I really ready to spend my first Passover away from home? I had never experienced a Seder not led by my father. How would I react? How would I feel?
When I hear my cousin Kelsey, who was studying abroad in London, would be heading to my house in New Jersey for the weekend, my choice was made for me. It would take nearly half as much time to fly as I would spend there, but I was going home for Seder.
Some of my earliest memories are from Passover Seders in Paramus, New Jersey. I can still picture my burning desire to find the Afikomen, the Seder “dessert” that is hidden for young children to find. I can remember scrambling throughout the house, keeping a close eye on my father and grandfather, not sure how they would try to sneak off this year, not sure what sort of trick they would pull. All I wanted to do was to find that Afikomen, not for prize at the end of the tunnel but for the glory of the conquest.
In fact, it is though the prisms of Passover Seders that I can see elements of my own growth and maturiy. When I was younger, Passover Seders were a showcase for my self-perceived intellect and maturity. I would try to simultaneously compliment and disagree with everything my father said, trying to prove I was worthy of my birthright. I would to lead songs with gusto and assurance, even if my voice began to crack due to puberty. I had an overall sense of “I know more about Judaism than you do” arrogance that plagues Jewish communities today. I wanted to drink all four cups of wine and then some, proving I was a man. I’d like to think that I am different today, a little older and a little wiser, that my Seders are no longer a competition but a place of spiritual fruition, not about me but about we, about my family. And really, was why I came home.
It is funny how upon my flight home, I really began to focus quite hard on these past Passover versions of myself. Although Yom Kippur is the day you reflect on the past year of your life, Passover is the time when you get to reflect on all the years of your life as well as all the years of your ancestors’ lives, and then some. I have always believe that we neevr really understand how an experience changes us until after it is over. I suddenly began to feel this overwhelming pressure to interpret the previous 3 months, and, to a greater extent, the previous 21 years. How have I changed? Who have I become? What does being Jeremy mean?
Identity is a funny thing. It tends to be a conglomeration of every sort of group we are a part of. I am an American, I am a Wolverine, and I am very short. These things are easy to dissect, non-abstract qualities that I can easily understand. But I am also a Jew, as well as a whole host of other complication adjectives, and this is one of those places where definitions become a little more difficult.
For those of you who have actually read most of my entries (I hope you are still receiving paychecks from my mother) you clearly know that Judaism has been on my mind as of late. In fact, I have a sort of “streak” going. Every week since coming to Europe, I have been to a Shabbat service, whether it be in Warsaw, or Stockholm, or Lviv, or Prague. But what does all that really matter? And as soon as I return home, are my 56 games up? What is my real point, my end goal? What am I trying to figure out?
When I got home to New Jersey, no immediate revelation appeared to guide me, to show me what it was I was looking for. But for the sake of the streak, I did something I had not done in a very long time. I attended Saturday morning services at Temple Sholom in River Edge, New jersey, my father’s synagogue.
It may be worth noting that one of my impetus’ for coming home also happened to be the fact that it was my father’s 60th birthday. As I sat there in his service, his place of work and worship for almost 20 years, I could not stop dwelling on the fact that this was the synagogue I had grown up in. It was a wonderful service, and my father was on his A game. But what part of my identity, what fraction or percentage can be traced back to these walls?
Later that evening, I was discussing with my grandmothers (both of whom I love dearly) the concept of Jewish identity as I regaled them with stories of Warsaw. My grandmother Teedy told me a story of a family from Germany whom she had corresponded with 40 years before, and how once, when they had come to visit the family in Decatur, Illinois, they became absolutely awed at the friendliness and hospitality of Jewish people. My grandmother remarked that she felt it our duty to show the world how great Jews can be.
While I agree wholeheartedly with my grandmother in this sense, it is often a lot harder than it seems. Sometimes, I feel like “The Jew in the room.” I am, at least, partly to blame, if not wholly, for these emotions. I am not bashful about my Jewishness, and often times I go so far as to flaunt it. The best example I can give is that anyone who has ever sat down to a meal with me will become inherently aware of my dietary restrictions. I keep Kosher, or at least the Jeremy Borovitz version, and I do no eat meat in restaurants. Nearly everyone knows this about me. Nearly everyone knows I am a Jew.
Sometimes I fear that this price in my faith (if that’s what it is) can come off as arrogance. I fear that I give that “I am a better Jew than you” or even “I am a better person than you” vibe that was so prevalent at the Seders of my youth. Sometimes, I just want to be like everyone else, someone who may be of a certain faith, who may even be Jewis, but whose religion or minority status does not always have to be a part of their identity. Yet how can I do that and still follow the charge of my grandmother and my ancestors before me? Can I be a good human being and disregard my Judaism? Can I ever stop being an inherent representative of the Jewish people? How can I balance my desires to fit in and to be unique? To paraphrase a famous book, how can I be a Jew in the modern world?
I know the things I feel are not unique to Jews. Any member of any group seems to be an inherent representative. Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton are struggling with these issues as we speak in their Presidential campaigns. How can I convey my blackness without becoming too black? How can I be masculine and seem tough without losing touch with my feminine side?
Every time I hear of another Jew committing a crime of accentuating a stereotype, I become so disheartened. The Jack Abramoff scandal particularly shook me. Here were the Jews going at it again, the Elders of Zion controlling our political systems and hoarding all of our money. Yet again, we as Jews are not alone. Do you not think mainstream Islam had intensely pronounced antipathy towards the perpetrators of the 9/11 attacks, afraid the world would now see every Muslim as a terrorist? Was the Korean community not especially saddened by the events at Virginia Tech?
And yet, Jews continue to do wrong, and sometimes it seems as if other Jews do nothing to stop them. Michael Milken stole millions of dollars in the 1980’s and hundreds of Jewish charities have benefited. How can we expect moderate Muslims to speak out against extremism if we remain afraid to criticize our own?
At our Seder this year, we certainly had an eclectic group of Jews. First and always foremost, there was my sister Abby. In some ways, Abby and I are exactly alike; bubbly by nature, friendly, and excessively undersized. Yet in other ways we could not be more different, not the least of which is in our approach to Judaism. I know Abby cares about being Jewish, and I know it is certainly a part of her identity. Yet I don’t think she seems to feel the same burden I do, the same burning desire to share who I am and what I believe in. We grew up in the same home, and we hold similar moral values, yet the weight on my shoulders is not as heavy to her. This is not to be critical of my sister, whom I love dearly and who is a much more wonderful person than I could ever hope to be. Rather it is to be self-inquisitive, wondering, unsure.
This year at our Seder we also had a member of our synagogue, Eli. Eli is a Holocaust survivor, hidden in a convent during the War. Eli, however, does not talk often about his experience. He is soft spoken, exhudes an attitude of overwhelming calm and contentedness. I have known Eli for 8 years and yet only when prompted by my father at Seder did I finally hear his story. Eli is willing to share. But he does not impose the tragedy he survived on others.
The Spevacks, who have been members of our extended family since well before my birth, also joined us for Seder. Jesse, the oldest son, is the epitome of a nice Jewish boy. Jesse graduated from the University of Michigan (GO BLUE), and initially thought that Law School would be his avenue of choice. High salaries and high lifestyle seemed just over the horizon. Yet Jesse decided that before he would give law school a whirl that he would give Teach or America a try, and he was placed at an inner city school in the Bronx, New York. After fulfilling his two year commitment, Jesse could have left and never looked back. But Jesse felt as if his first year had no been good enough. He did not feel he met his own criteria. So Jesse decided to stay for another year, and is currently rounding out year three and preparing for year four. I had the honor of watching Jesse work in his classroom before I left for Poland, and I was amazed at how skillfully he performs his job. He is engaged with his students and he enjoys his work, although its is certainly a daily struggle. Law School and big bucks will wait while Jesse changes the world.
It was seeing Jesse that I was reminded of an old Jewish teaching, “Tikkun Olam,” or fixing the world. I have always been struck by the fact that it does not say “Tikkun Yisrael,” or fix Israel or the Jews. We are given a moral imperative to make the world a better place for everyone. Why do we so often drop the ball?
I had a conversation a few weeks ago at a Friday night Shabbat Dinner in Warsaw, where the topic of “who constitutes a Jew” came up. I remarked that I did not see Judaism as a right, or even as a privilege. I do not think that is what “the chosen people” means. Rather, I think we are chosen to burden a responsibility, to be an Atlas to the world and lift all people up.
As I sat at my Seder table, going through the motions I enjoy so much and reflecting on the streak I have worked so hard to build, I realized how much I cherished moments such as these. For me, it is the yearly repetition of “we were slaves in Egypt, and now we are free” that encourages me to fight oppression throughout the world. It is recalling all that is Dayenu, that would have been enough, that I realize how fortunate I am and how much I have to back.
I am still not sure exactly what part of my identity is Jewish, or what influence being Jewish has on my identity. The truth is, while Judaism, and religion in general, is a wonderful thing, it has so often been used throughout history as a terrible thing. There are wonderful people who are religious and not religious, who are Jews and gentiles, and there are evil people who make up parts of the same group. I think that all I can do is carry the burden with pride, to always choose the route of right and to do it as the Jew that I am. It is in undeniable part of me, and to attempt to hide it would incite a web of personal dishonesty that could tear away at my moral fabric in general. But while I wallow away as the Jew in the room, others will work next to me, as the token Black or Catholic or Hispanic or Irish or Protestant or Muslim or Polish or anything in between, all of us trying to make the world a better place, all of us participating in the holy act of Tikkun Olam.
I believe it is possible to be a good human being without being a good Jew. I am just not sure if it is possible for me.
Posted by borovitz at May 4, 2008 08:58 AM