“Who is a Jew?” is the title of the Wikipedia article.
“Am I a Jew?” is the question I’ve asked myself, just as
others have asked me, “Are you Jewish?”
Well...
My mother was Jewish, and as far as I know, so were her
mother and her mother’s mother and her grandmother’s mother, and so on. That’s
the way I remember it explained to me so many years ago. My maternal
grandmother’s family were Jews who emigrated from Russia, probably in the late
19th or early 20th century. My mother’s father was born in
Poland. A Polish Jew brought to the US as a young child in the early 20th
century.
My father’s ancestors came from Germany in the 19th
century. When asked by my peers, as school kids casually ask, “What’s your nationality?”
I would say, “Half German, a quarter Russian and a quarter Polish.” Today, if
asked my nationality I say, “American,” and if prodded for my ethnicity I add,
“With German, Russian and Polish ancestry.” Sometimes for simplicity’s sake I
say, “German-American.” My German-ness wins by plurality, but that’s only half of
the story. If the conversation engages me, and if I don’t feel the inquirer
will judge my complicated self-identity, I may disclose that my mother’s
ancestors were Jews from Russia and Poland and my father’s from Germany, half
Jewish, half Christian. (Both of my paternal great-grandfathers were Jewish and
both paternal great-grandmothers Protestant.) Then if asked my religion, well…
My father identified as a German-American. I remember as a
child, going with him to an Oktoberfest celebration in Pennsylvania. Bratwurst,
sauerkraut, Oompah bands. When the emcee asked, “Who here is German?” my father
raised his hand. I didn’t raise mine, but wished I could. How much easier to
have a “one word” identity. To know what I am.
I was not brought up on German food or customs. Sauerbraten
wasn’t served in our home with any more frequency than lasagna, corned beef and
cabbage, or quiche Lorraine. The only foods reflecting my actual ethnic roots
were from my mother’s side of the family. My great-aunt Rose’s wonderful
chopped liver and boiled tongue. “The fishes with the faces” as I called them, served
cold with the heads still attached, not learning until an adult the proper
name, smoked whitefish. Gefilte fish with horseradish. Mom’s chicken soup with
matzo balls. Dill pickles and knishes. Manischewitz Concord Grape wine. Bagels
with cream cheese and lox. (I didn’t know that people ate bagels with butter or
jam until my freshman year at college. Nor had I heard of such a thing as a
cinnamon-raisin bagel until I ordered my first breakfast at the campus dining
hall.)
When Mom and Aunt Rose didn’t want me to know what they were
saying, they broke into Yiddish. I only knew a few words, like shmutz and
kvetch. Now decades later, after having
studied German, I understand a bit of spoken Yiddish, just as I can read most Spanish-language
subway ads, after years of Italian and French classes.
What is my identity? I am an American. I’m a
German-American. I’m an American of German, Russian and Polish ancestry. I’m an
American of three-quarters Ashkenazi descent, one quarter German Protestant
lineage.
What is my religion? I’m a Unitarian Universalist-Ethical
Culturist. A devout agnostic. My beliefs (or lack thereof) align more closely
to atheism than theism. I’m a Heathen. I’ve learned not to say, “Pagan,” since Pagans
hold firm beliefs.
Why does it matter how I see and define myself? Is it about belonging? Being part of a definable
group, a culture, a nationality, a tribe?
“What kind of a name is Eng?” I’m sometimes asked. “Chinese,”
I reply. (The El Al passport examiner at JFK was puzzled by my answer.) I
pause, then answer the unasked question. “My late husband was Chinese-American.”
My maiden name is Foise. A made-up name. My father’s
ancestors changed the spelling from “Feist” to “Foise” during the
Franco-Prussian War to pass for French. It was bad for business then to be
German.
Identity.
The Gospel of John recounts the story of the Pool of Bethesda, a site in Jerusalem where Jesus purportedly heals a paralyzed man. In New York City's Central Park, the essence of the healing message is depicted in Emma Stebbins's eight-foot bronze statue, the first major work of art in New York City commissioned from a female sculptor. "Bethesda," derived from the Hebrew "beth hesda" or "house of grace," lends its name to our famous fountain, whose beauty beckons New Yorkers and visitors alike to be refreshed by its calming waters. 
or vantage point for peaceful vistas of parkland and passersby.
And just beyond, the city awaits.
