The Weight and Light of Being Jewish
I can still remember what it felt like to notice, for the first time, that being Jewish made me different. It was never a single moment, but a series of them. Small experiences that accumulated quietly until they became impossible to ignore. At school during December, holiday parties were filled with stockings, candy canes, and carols that everyone knew by heart. I joined in the fun, but deep down I knew that while my classmates would spend Christmas morning unwrapping presents, I would be at home lighting the menorah for another night of Chanukah. On Sundays, while they swapped stories of weekend plans, I trudged off to Hebrew school, sitting in a classroom that smelled faintly of pencil shavings and old books, learning the letters of a language most of my peers had never seen.
That difference followed me through childhood. December was always the hardest. Walking down the streets at night, I would see lights twinkling in every window, inflatable Santas waving from lawns, and songs blaring in every store. At school, we decorated paper stockings, rehearsed for holiday concerts (which were essentially Christmas concerts), and exchanged gifts in Secret Santa games. Chanukah was lovely at home with the menorah’s glow, the scent of frying latkes, and the crackle of dreidels on the table, but outside our front door, it felt invisible. I would often ask my mom questions I did not yet know how to fully articulate.
“Mom, why do I need to go to Hebrew school? There is no point. It is stupid.”
“What is the point in being Jewish?”
“Why do I need to be different? I just want to be “normal” like everyone else.”
Her answer never changed
“As Jews, we are a minority. “
“You will understand when you are older.”
At the time, I did not understand. It wasn’t only about holidays. It was about identity, history, and a sense of belonging. When kids in school threw around stereotypes like, “I thought all jews had a big nose,” or joked, “You probably only eat bagels and lox,” I laughed along so I wouldn’t stand out more, but those words left little bruises which I didn’t know how to name back then. Being Jewish often felt like living in two parallel worlds, one in which my traditions mattered deeply, and another in which they barely seemed to exist. I was not ashamed of that difference, but I felt it constantly, as though I were carrying something invisible that no one else could quite see. It was older, steadier, and it lived inside me. It took me years to realize that what my mom had said was right, what sometimes felt like loneliness was also a thread tying me to something more vast.
My grandmother used to tell me stories about her childhood while we sat in the kitchen. A small room, warm with the scent of our freshly baked lemon meringue pie cooling on the counter, sunlight glimmering through the glass doors. She would sit at the wooden table, hands resting lightly on its worn surface, with her eyes distant yet alive with memory, as she told me how her parents clung tightly to tradition, even when it set them apart. Her voice carried a mixture of pride and heaviness, always reminding me that our people had carried this identity across countries. Across both joy and persecution.
“You are never alone when you are Jewish, ” she would say.
“You are standing with everyone who came before you. It is up to you to preserve their memory.”
I later learned that historian Simon Schama described Jewish identity as a “portable homeland,” something that the 0.2% of jews worldwide carried with them wherever they went, no matter the country or era. Hearing my grandmother’s words, like a gentle drumbeat of belonging, and later reading Schama’s words echoed the same truth: the very thing that sometimes made me feel different also gave me a home I could never lose.
That idea became real to me during the four months I spent in Israel with a bunch of other kids like me. I was anxious before going. I had never traveled so far from home for such a long time, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. But the first night, when we sat in a circle singing Hebrew songs, something shifted inside me. The voices around me rose and fell like waves in the ocean, carrying a warm and somewhat thrilling familiarity. The room buzzed with the rhythmic stomping of feet on the floor, while the glistening blue and white Israeli flags we held swayed in unison, echoing the beat of our song. For the first time, I wasn’t the odd one out. The energy was overwhelming in the best way, as if something in me finally aligned with something greater than myself. Before the trip, I could count on one hand the number of Jewish kids I knew, but now I was immersed in a community of fifty kids like myself who had traveled to the Jewish homeland together. While 2.4% of the population in the United States is Jewish, here, surrounded by peers who shared my traditions, I didn’t have to explain why my holidays were different or hide my true identity. Instead, I was a part of a chorus, a living thread of culture and memory, blending old and new, carried by the desert wind and echoing in my chest.
There was a moment at the Kotel, the Western Wall, that still lives in my memory like it happened yesterday, a moment like a breath of fresh air. I pressed my forehead against the warm stone and slipped a folded piece of paper into the cracks. The Wall felt alive, its ancient stones worn smooth by centuries of whispered prayers, grief, gratitude, and hope layered into its surface. Around me, people stood in quiet reverence; some prayed softly in different languages, while others simply leaned against the stone as if searching for something ancient and unbroken. The Wall is more than a remnant of history or architecture. It is a living link to generations of Jewish faith, resilience, and survival, a place where Jews across centuries have mourned, celebrated, questioned, and left pieces of themselves behind. Historians note that it has stood for nearly two thousand years, enduring conquest, exile, and destruction, yet it continues to draw Jews from around the world back to its stones. Standing there, I thought of my grandmother, her parents, and every generation before them who carried Judaism forward with unwavering devotion so that I could exist in that moment, connected to a history far greater than myself. The loneliness I used to feel melted into something different, a kind of belonging that wasn’t dependent on my school friends or the world around me. It was older, steadier, and it lived inside me.
Back home, the feeling didn’t disappear, though differences remained. Christmas lights always go up in the neighborhood, and I still have to explain why I can’t eat certain foods at certain times or why I have to take off school for Yom Kippur. But instead of feeling like a burden, it feels like a badge. I now realize that being Jewish means carrying a story. One that stretches further back than I can fully comprehend. That story is filled with pain, yes, but also with resilience, joy, humor, music, and food that smells like memory itself.
Sometimes it is lonely. There are still moments when I feel like the odd one out, when people don’t understand, or when antisemitism quietly creeps into the corners of everyday life. But there is also a comfort knowing that every Shabbat candle I light, every Hebrew word I stumble through, every holiday meal I share connects me not only to my family and friends, but to millions of Jews across the world and across time. The connection matters because it reminds me that difference does not mean isolation. It means inheritance.
Looking back, I see that the loneliness I felt as a child was never the full story. Yes, being Jewish set me apart in ways that sometimes hurt. But it also gave me strength, community, and perspective. I know what it means to carry history in my veins, and to belong to something larger than myself. Something that cannot be erased by ignorance or indifference. Being Jewish, I have come to understand, is about holding onto identity even when it would be easier to let go. It is about lighting candles in the dark, telling stories that refused to be silenced, and finding connection across oceans and generations. It is about recognizing that even in moments of differences, no one is ever truly alone.
