By Courtney Naliboff for Raising Kvell
I
was raised by my secular, humanist Jewish family in the woods of
central Maine. We were surrounded by lakes and maples, heard loons at
night and occasionally, a moose and her calf wandered into our backyard,
much to the consternation of our golden retriever. There were no
sidewalks in our town, no traffic lights. My sisters and I played Laura
Ingalls Wilder in the backyard until dark. It was isolated and idyllic.
That
same isolation became disruptive once we entered the small public
elementary school in the next town. We were raised to be proud and
outspoken about our heritage, to speak up when teachers talked about
Hanukkah in the context of “Christmas Around the World,” to bring in our
brass menorahs and wooden dreidels and explain our customs to our
classmates.
You may already know how this story goes. Sixth grade
boys drew swastikas on their notebooks and showed them to me. “Do you
know what this means?” they asked, feigning innocence. My sister’s
classroom teacher referred to Judaism as a branch of Christianity, and
her classmates called her a “stupid Jew” when she corrected her. A small
blonde girl in my class kicked me as I walked up the stairs to the bus,
hissing “Jew” in my ear as I fell. In middle school, well-meaning
friends urged me to become a Jew for Jesus, to avoid my inevitable
damnation. Our bus route took us past hand-painted signs nailed to a
grove of trees that read “Jews = Sinners” and “Sinners Damned to Hell.”
I
fled, first for Providence and then for Boston, planning a career on
stage or in jazz clubs. I attended Yom Kippur services for the first
time my freshman year at Brown, and marveled at how I had gone from sore
thumb to getting lost in a crowd of other Jewish young adults. I was
finally able to visit the delis I had only read about, join a klezmer
band, enjoy a seder with my friends. I reveled in the normalcy of it
all.
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