I Love Being Jewish, But I’m Not a Human Encyclopedia for Our Calendar and Customs

Street cleaners know when it’s Shavuot because in New York City, alternate side parking is suspended to observe the holiday. Sometimes, I wish my friends were as savvy as the Department of Transportation. Growing up and attending college in the WASP-ier enclaves of New England, I’ve secured a few Jew-ish friends but most are not members of the tribe. By default, I’ve become an encyclopedia of Jewish customs and holiday dates since as long as I can remember.

The thing is, I love sharing challah on Fridays and hosting Hanukkah parties and seders. Some of my fondest memories include my mom introducing latkes to my preschool classmates in the early ‘90s and dragging my friends to Sunday bagel brunch at our college Hillel. These moments celebrating together have always brought me joy, but as an adult, the weight of frequent explanations of our nuanced traditions has become heavier. I’ll always know about Santa and December 25, but it’s tiring having to be a keeper of our holiest days and customs.

The first time I realized I would have to do some explaining around the obscure traditions of Judaism, I was in second grade. My childhood friend had her birthday party during Passover. Though she was Catholic, her family was aware of the dietary restrictions of the Jewish holiday and ordered a kosher cake. The colorfully sprinkled Chocolate torte from the Stop & Shop Bakery was indeed kosher, just not for Passover. As a seven-year-old barely understanding why I had to avoid bread in the first place, I watched with tears as the other partygoers devoured the floury confection. Looking back on that memory now, I see it differently. The family may not have bought the right cake, but they made an effort without me having to ask. My customs were considered, something that now seems less often.

When it comes to the calendar, I live a double standard. I’ll always know Easter falls in March or April, but my friends have to ask me when Hanukkah is. Yes, it’s confusing that one year it’s on Thanksgiving and the next New Year’s Eve, but that’s what calendars are for. When my two closest friends planned their joint 21st birthday on Yom Kippur, I was torn. Either attend a catered, open-bar extravaganza or repent my sins in synagogue. I ended up choosing the latter. I politely declined the invitation and reminded them it was Yom Kippur, the holiest day in our entire calendar. If they had only consulted it, I thought but didn’t say. Though my friends apologized, they weren’t going to change the date. If it were me, I wouldn’t dream of planning an event on Christmas or Easter, but I’m stuck picking sides.

In the ten years since then, I’m still faced with these conflicts. Most recently, I’ve been invited to both an engagement and birthday party on the same weekend, which happens to be Rosh Hashanah. Though technically I could RSVP yes because I observe the first night and day of the holiday only, I still have to make a sacrifice. If I go to their parties, I forego celebrating the holiday with my out-of-town family. When I said something, they replied it was the only weekend their family and friends could attend. I guess that everyone didn’t include their Jewish friends.

While history seems to repeat itself with scheduling conflicts, I’ve never felt more like an encyclopedia than when my friends started building their families. Until they started having their own babies, I didn’t know how common baby showers really were. The first and only one I attended was for a co-worker in my mid-twenties, which was pretty much an obligation as it was during the workday. The long registry of overpriced, unnecessary gifts and silly games now seem inescapable. The thing is, it takes a lot for me to swallow my customs and attend a shower or even send a gift before the birth. That’s because in my Jewish family, there’s superstition around pregnancy. We’re not uber-religious or observant, but I’ve always known not to set up a nursery in advance, or say congratulations before the baby has officially been born. Not only has this custom come with a lot of explaining, but it’s also been met with numerous surprising glances from non-Jewish friends. Sometimes it makes me want to abandon my values rather than explain to another person why it’s not comfortable to me. I may know about baptisms, godchildren and giving up something for lent, but without my explanation, it seems they wouldn’t know a Bris from a Bar Mitzvah.

Sometimes it makes me want to abandon my values rather than explain to another person why it’s not comfortable to me.

Being an encyclopedia is not only tiring but also plain awkward. When my Jewish friend was expecting a child with her non-Jewish husband, I uncomfortably fielded his comments criticizing the notion that Jewish people don’t name their children after living relatives. Ultimately, they ended up naming their son after a living grandfather, not just an initial, but a full name. Whatever my opinion or tradition was, and as much as it took me to share it, my thoughts weren’t going to be the final decision. Instead, I kept my mouth sealed when she shared the name.

Sometimes the idea of having to explain myself and my traditions makes me want to retreat. Unlike a traditional encyclopedia, I’m here for the comments, not just the answers. The joy of sharing my traditions isn’t the same when it feels like an explanation. The street cleaners who get the day off on Shavuot may not know what the holiday is, but they’re aware it’s important enough to have the day off. Looking back on the memory of my friend’s Passover birthday, I see it differently now. The family may not have bought the right cake, but they made an effort without me having to ask. My customs were considered and that is what really matters most.

Sophie Katzman is a New York City based education professional and freelance writer.