Assimilation was something you first sought,
babies born in the New World to escape
Cossack pogroms. But two generations in,
doubts bubble, the young camouflaged so
expertly they now poo-pooh Judaism as a
freakish throwback—black-clad bubbes
gesturing to ward off evil and using Yiddish to
hide anything of interest while serving
inedible food. True, in every generation, one, at least, re-
joins tribe, perhaps in college, starting again to
kindle the Sabbath candles. This one re-
learns the meaning of the holidays, how to
make charoseth and challah, and perhaps says
no to intermarriage. It’s a tricky business, to identify
or turn away—after all, which times and which
places are ever good for the Jews? a
question we laugh about, yet ask…
Recently, ethnicity’s become a badge of pride not
shame, so perhaps the number will grow. Why be
tarred with “white privilege” when a scratch will
unveil cagey survival stories, wits pitted against pernicious
villains? But even then, challenges rear—re: the endless
war in Palestine, the awkward taking of a stand,
x-ing off some boxes to be properly Left and others to be properly
Yid. Tribe, tribe sings in the blood yet
zaps us, a dance we do with pounding heart.