Identity

“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 19^th or early 20^th century. My mother’s father was born in Poland. A Polish Jew brought to the US as a young child in the early 20^th century.

My father’s ancestors came from Germany in the 19^th 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.