I used to say that my parents were Jewish anti-Semites, but that’s not really true. They chose to live in a predominantly Jewish suburb, joined a Jewish country club and socialized mostly with other Jews.
What they were against was being too Jewish. Lots of things could make one too Jewish — talking about Judaism; using certain words, like synagogue or shul instead of temple. It was OK to visit Israel, but too Jewish was to gush about it or go more than once. It was too Jewish to wear lots of gold jewelry or accessories with designer initials, like Gucci belts or Louis Vuitton purses.
Psychotherapy was on the border of being too Jewish, psychoanalysis was over the border and talking about one’s psychoanalysis was about as too Jewish as one could get. Those who wore necklaces with Jewish stars were "professional Jews," which was even worse than being too Jewish because professional Jews were too Jewish and proud of it.
There was nothing exempt from classification in this scheme. I can remember my mother commenting on the "too Jewishness" of other people’s home décor, wedding invitations, children’s names, choice of college, and cars. The latter was somewhat confusing. My pediatrician’s white Mercedes Benz, for instance, was simultaneously too Jewish and an affront to all Jewish people.
This is not to say that my parents accepted anything deemed "not too Jewish." The world was far more complicated than that. Too goyish was not as bad as too Jewish, but it was nonetheless cause for comment. (The word "goyish" was, not surprisingly, too Jewish.) Parents who didn’t seem to care that their child wasn’t pulling down straight As at Scarsdale High School were too goyish. Serving a basket of pretzels as the appetizer at a dinner party was too goyish, although elaborate trays of carefully arranged crudités and layered dips were too Jewish. Family vacations that involved camping, especially in national parks, were much too goyish.
The ideal condition was to be Jewish but look and act goyish. This combination coupled Jewish intelligence with goyish good looks. It combined Jewish success in business with a goyish distaste for conspicuous consumption. It offered all the advantages of being a chosen person but none of the drawbacks.
Since my parents figured that being Jewish but appearing goyish offered the best of both worlds, we celebrated Christmas and Easter with gusto. We had more than enough decorations for the 6-foot Christmas tree my father dragged home each year, plus all kinds of Santa Claus and reindeer tchotchkes for the rest of the house. Each spring, my sister and I colored Easter eggs and posed for photos in our new Easter dresses, clutching our Easter baskets.
But my parents refused to abandon their Jewish identity. They taught me that Jewishness was immutable, like my curly hair or my tendency to blush. In fact, my parents saved some of their strongest contempt for Jews who converted or "passed" as Christian — a choice they viewed as cowardly, dishonest and destined to lead to rejection from the best country clubs: Jewish and Christian.
Although Jewishness occupied quite a bit of my family’s attention, Judaism did not. I was in my mid-40s when I decided that I wanted religion in my life. By then I was married to a non-Jew and had a shelf in my own garage reserved for cartons of Christmas ornaments, many passed down from my parents.
I began my religious practice at the Self-Realization Fellowship, but soon realized that this choice was grounded more in fear of becoming too Jewish than in any innate attraction to a meditative lifestyle. It was time to face my demons. With ambivalence accompanying every step, I enrolled in an introduction to Judaism course, attended services at a variety of synagogues and, finally, joined a small Reform congregation in Santa Monica.
During services, I look around and tell myself that these are the people with whom I share a history, a heritage and a set of values and beliefs. I tell myself that these people, if I let them, will offer me comfort when the world seems cruel beyond all endurance. In time they will, perhaps, allow me to comfort them. For now, they tolerate my ignorance, my awkwardness, my bumbling Hebrew and off-key singing. They offer me wine and challah and help me find the right page in the siddur when I get lost.
And still, when I catch a certain inflection in someone’s voice or see certain hairdos or purses or profiles, I find myself inwardly cringing and thinking, "That’s too Jewish. I don’t belong here." The smallest thing can trigger that thought — an elderly woman kvetching about the air conditioning, a father bragging about his son, the Purim play the religious school produces about Harriet Potterstein or the way a woman with long Barbra Streisand-like nails waves her hands over the Sabbath candles. At such times, I feel lonely, alienated and hopeless about my ability to forge a true sense of connection to my temple or to Judaism.
And then, at the end of each service, we put our arms around each other’s shoulders, making sure no one stands alone, and sing out our longing for peace. These few powerful lines from the "Kaddish" connect the yearning for peace in our souls with the dream of peace in the world. I don’t know every word, but the song comes from my heart. And, for a few minutes, I’m proud to be too Jewish.
Maryann Gray lives in Los Angeles and works as a university administrator.
