Pride and Passing
I’m a proud Jew who, in daily interactions, passes as non-Jewish, as some kind of White. But even this statement is open to contestation – whether or not Jews can pass as, or can be, White is a matter of debate. The best summary I’ve ever heard is that Ashkenazi Jews (my ethnic background) are “conditionally white” – considered White when it’s disadvantageous to be so, as in conversations about equity, and considered non-White when it’s disadvantageous to be so, as in the ability to be accepted into mainstream culture.
Over the years, I have noticed that many Jews prefer to pass as non-Jewish rather than openly identify with their ethnicity. I once took a whale-watching tour in Vancouver guided by a woman with a very Jewish last name who was originally from Chicago, where my mother is from. She became visibly uncomfortable when I tried to play Jewish geography and responded, “I’m from around. We’re all from around.”
I used to feel that such ambivalent Jews were betraying their heritage, and, I suppose, the rest of world Jewry in the process. I was younger then; I had completed an undergraduate thesis on the ills and limits of assimilation in Enlightenment and Revolutionary France and was fiery about my Jewish identity in the context of such history.
In the small town I just moved to, my husband and I are probably the only Jews in the municipality, and most of the time, are easily accepted into the community, on the surface. But I hesitate to wear overt signs of Jewishness such as a Magen David necklace or a yellow ribbon outside our shul in the nearest sizeable city. I hesitate even though I would likely not encounter issues if I wore them because the community here would not know what the symbols are. My home is a visibly Jewish home, with a mezuzah, Shabbat and Chanukah candle lighting in front of wide dining room windows that face the street, a Chagall poster, and piles of Jewish books. Yet when I move even a small distance away from my Jewish home, I hesitate to be visible.
Maybe this development in a post-October 7 world is part of why I have become more understanding of those who feel the need to pass, to erase or at least soften their difference. Perhaps passing runs on a spectrum, and in the aftermath of my move I am locating myself on a new spot within it. Perhaps I am allowed to change in this element of my identity, in how and when I express it.
Perhaps I am also allowed to take other elements of my identities, Jewish and otherwise, into account. I recently completed a course on Jewish ancestral trauma and have begun to consider family stories in a new light. Ancestral trauma is a belief, with some backing in the science of epigenetics, that the trauma our ancestors lived through is passed on to us through biological coatings of our DNA. Ancestral trauma does not directly change our genes but it can change their expression. Since taking this class, I have thought about the impact of coming from many generations who needed to pass for safety or advancement. This kind of trauma can leave a residue. For example, my mother has told me the story several times of when her great-aunt traveled from her shtetl to Warsaw for medical treatment and pretended to be deaf on the train because she had a Jewish accent. Her brother-in-law – my great-grandfather – spoke for her because his Polish was accentless. The story made a deep impression on my mother, I think because it illustrates the need to hide that permeates the history of our family and our people.
Another element of my identity, or of what I live with in this world, is the disability that profoundly affects my life. February is Jewish Disability Awareness and Inclusion Month and I want to call attention to that here: as a Jew with an invisible disability, I am tasked with passing on two fronts. The ability to pass, to blend in and escape discrimination on some levels, may well be a privilege, but it also takes from the one who is passing – energy, peace of mind, sense of belonging, sense even of being lovable or worthy. It is the opposite of true acceptance and welcome.
At the same time, it is up to each of us to determine our level of connection and commitment to the Jewish aspect of ourselves. It runs deep for me, but I am learning that I need to respect other approaches and problems. If I could go back in time to that whale-watching boat in Vancouver, I think this is what I would do: smile knowingly at the tour guide, and give a silent recognition of her presence and her good work, let myself wonder if she and I might be connected, and then let her get on with her day. Now, I (sometimes regretfully, sometimes with relief, sometimes both feelings at once) leave discussions of Jewishness to Jewish spaces, like this one, and try not to make assumptions about others’ attachments, or lack thereof, to their Jewish identities. I’m still a proud Jew.