SEPTEMBER 1
I never learned the how-tos of keeping ethnographic field notes. Grad-school courses offered no rules, no instructions about the process. I understood it was a science of intuition. You were simply supposed to figure it out yourselfâwrite down what you heard, what you saw, and what you thought, in the hope that sooner or later youâd see patterns emerge. If you were patient, these patterns, invisible in life, would rise up through the blue-lined notebook paper, dot the page like small beams of light. The knots and gaps of a changing culture would be there, in your lap, illuminated.
Iâve decided to give it a go. Why not? For a month, Iâll keep field notes. The result will be a nativeâs ethnography, a small personal anthropology of Jewishness, the way it is now, for me, for people like me, those at once ambivalent and attached to something we havenât quite figured out.
SEPTEMBER 2
I talk with Meryle Weinstein, a research associate at the Institute for Community and Religion. âThe whole issue of what a Jew is,â she says, âis tenuous.â
Meryle feeds me the facts, according to the 1990 National Jewish Population Survey. I turn them into an index of sorts:
SEPTEMBER 3
The numbersâwhat do they show? They show almost anything. They show that you can be a Jew if you call yourself a Jew. They show that some people are Jews because they go to synagogue, while others are Jews because they have Jewish blood. They show that lots of people of Jewish lineage donât identify themselves as Jews. And they show that the Jewish Population Survey can give you a headache if you stare at it long enough.
The numbersâwhat do they mean? They mean that millions of American Jews fall outside mainstream Judaism. Thatâs the condition of my generation, the post-Holocaust generation of Jews. Millions answer the question of whether Judaism is religion, culture, or race with a shrug.
Religion. Culture. Race.
Synagogue. Museum. Body.
These are my vehicles to encounter Judaism, avenues at my disposal. Now for the test: Where will I truly make contact?
SEPTEMBER 4
I leave the Jewish Film Festival without getting crushed. Beforehand, I sit through a full-length movie about the Orthodox and a short about Jewish singles. Then two hundred Jews try to squeeze out the theaterâs double doors with me. I flatten and make it through.
Outside the doors, a bearded guy in a too-small polyester suit and a knit skullcap flags me down, shoves at me a flyer for something called the Jewish Food Festival. A festival in celebration of Jewish, um, cuisine? I raise my eyebrows. I donât even want to think of the ramifications.
âNo thanks,â I say.
I take a few strides and he dogs my heels, waves his hands, tries to peer into my face. âYes?â he yells, two feet from my ear. âYouâll come, yes? Latkes. Piroshki. Matzo brei. Saulâs chicken soup. Mamelahâs famous kishke. Next week. You take Highway 24 to the Broadway exitââ
I feel the heat of his breath. A voice rises within me. âWell,â it says, âare we feeling Jewish yet?â
SEPTEMBER 6
Santa Cruz. David and I spend hours in bookstores, then ride the Giant Dipper twice (me screaming on the downslide, envisioning the next dayâs headlines: Earthquake Topples Beachside Roller Coaster, Kills All). We eat tostadas near the ocean, decide not to do anything as ambitious as swimming and instead fall asleep on the beach, legs entwined like curled limbs of driftwood.
Dinner at India Joze. We order tofu and taro root, soft things, entrees with made-up Indonesian names. Lots of peanut sauce. Then David opens his mouth, steps unknowingly into enemy territory.
âIâve been thinking,â he says casually. âItâs actually kind of odd, the way your writingâthe stuff youâve shown me recentlyâkeeps focusing on being Jewish.â He spears a tofu cube with his chopstick.
âWhat do you mean?â The back of my neck tenses.
âWell,â he continues. Munch. Spear. Munch. âYou donât go to temple.â Munch. Spear. âYou donât observe the Sabbath. You donât even celebrate the major holidays. RememberâI was the one who wanted to go to the Passover seder last year. You bagged out at the last minute, so we didnât go.â
The broccoli head. Fake to the left. Spear. âBut your writing makes it sound as though Judaism is important, as though itâs a focus of yours in everyday life.â
âIt is.â My hand closes in on my napkin, clenches the fabric.
âReally?â He looks at me.
âYeah.â
He shrugs. âWhatever you say. I just donât see it. I donât see any evidence.â
âEvidence?â
âRight. Youâre not religious. You donât even belong to a Jewish cultural organization. Youâre not a member anywhere. Itâs like your Judaism is invisible.â
I lean forward over the table. I raise my voice. âThe way I spend my days doesnât express my thoughts. Going to temple wouldnât make me more of a Jew. And the last time I checked, I didnât need a membership card for this tribe. I was born into it.â
Iâm pissed off. David looks baffled. âWait. Look. Iâm not trying to start a fight. I just want to understand your relationship to Judaism.â
I know heâs first rewinding and then fast-forwarding the conversation in his head, searching for clues, wondering, Where was the landmine? What did I say wrong?
But it wasnât what he said. Itâs what I thought I heard; itâs the thought behind his words; itâs what I projectedâYou arenât a convincing Jew.
Heâd hit a sore spot. I stab at my bits of Bo Lop beef. I wonder if heâs right.
Would going to temple be proof of a commitment to Judaism? Iâd guess that many people in any given religious service spend time daydreaming. Some think about what theyâre going to make for dinner or worry about their next paycheck. Some probably canât explain why they go to services at all. Perhaps itâs a habit, like doing sit-ups in the morning. Perhaps itâs a form of solace, like sitting with old friends. But is it always evidence of religious commitment? Of a struggle for religious meaning? Of being a True Jew? No.
I say none of this. Dinner comes and goes. Half-eaten plates of noodles are exchanged for a check. Iâm in a funk. In the silence of our drive back home, it occurs to me that my thoughts are rarely visible. Mostly they grow and change and shed as invisibly as layers of skin.
SEPTEMBER 8
I find this quote in The Book of Questions, by Edmond Jabès.
SEPTEMBER 10
My parents will be in town for Rosh Hashanah. I decide to take them to a service. This could be a problem:
- I donât belong to a temple.
- My mother has never been to a high holy day service.
- My father hasnât gone since he was forced as a boy.
When my mother calls, I ask her if sheâll go.
âA service?â she says. âAll of a sudden you want to observe Rosh Hashanah? Why?â
She pauses, asks suspiciously, âAre you going through some kind of religious Jewish phase?â
I get the phone number of Aquarian Minyan, the Jewish Renewal congregation in Berkeley. Jewish Renewal is a relatively new branch of Judaism. They claim a spiritual, politically aware, nonsexist, creative interpretation of Judaism.
The woman at the other end of the line tells me there are still spaces left for Rosh Hashanah services. She mentions that I should bring a drum if I have one. I reserve four seats even though I can already picture my motherâs raised eyebrows.
SEPTEMBER 13
The Claremont Hotel, room 202. My mother is wearing perfume. When I tell her that Aquarian Minyanâs flyer discourages wearing perfume at the service to protect the health of people with chemical sensitivities, she rolls her eyes.
âI can tell already what this night will be like,â she says. âCanât we just go to a movie and forget about Rosh Hashanah?â
She grabs the flyer from me and reads aloud: ââPillows will be provided for those who want to sit on the floor.â Pillows? For the floor?â
She looks down at the tailored skirt and elegant jacket sheâs wearing. Then she laughs. âMurray,â she yells to my father in the other room, âI think weâre going to be a bit overdressed for this one.â
David arrives at the hotel a half-hour late, gripping a cup of coffee. I see the coffee as a mild insult. Does he expect to fall asleep? We pile into the car. Everyone is too conscious that weâre going to a religious service. My father says something about the oppressive nature of organized religion. The car should have a placard attachedâWarning: Three Uncomfortable Jews and a Lapsed Unitarian. Contents Under Pressure. My mother asks why Jewish services are going to be held at a Unitarian Church.
âBecause the Jews own everything,â David says, âeven the Unitarians.â
They banter until we stop at a light near the UC Berkeley campus. From a herd of students crossing the street emerge two Orthodox Jewish men. The men walk in front of us, a slow-motion detail of Jewish life. I see everything: their overgrown beards and black curls, their prayer-shawl fringes hanging beneath jackets, their dark-skinned hands grasping prayerbooks, their unabashed Jewishness. The juxtaposition is jarring. My family lacks a sense of necessity about the eveningâs activity. Itâs an elective, a novelty. Our voices cease as we stare. These men are a sign of some sort. Theyâre my conscience.
David breaks open the moment. âIxnay on the ew-jay jokes,â he says, gangster-like, out of the side of his mouth. Who knows why, but I laugh. Then the light changes and weâre off.
The church is jammed. Most people are in loosely flowing cotton clothes. Luckily, no one is wearing beads. One guy, inevitably, is in tie-dye. I see a sign for a scent-free zone and steer my mother past it quickly. We find seats in front of a nice man resting his arm on a congo drum. He invites us to use it whenever we want. My parents are charmed.
Because this congregation has no rabbi, practiced laypeople lead the service. It begins with a request for all congregants to introduce themselves to those around them. David and I say hello to a few people and smile politely. Then I stare straight ahead until David nudges me.
âLook at your folks,â he says. âItâs like theyâve been coming here for years.â
I turn. Theyâre leaning forward, then backward, then to either side, talking at great length to everyone around them. Now they...