[Updated from February 2024]
There are moments in life, both big and small, global and individual, that give rise to questions about who we are, and what we believe. When my husband Steven died, part of my identity died with him. In the blink of an eye, the exhale of a last breath, I went from being a wife, and someone’s life partner, to being a single mother, and for the first time this year (for tax purposes) the “head of household.”
My son Henry went from having two parents to being a fatherless boy, and as a 12 year-old on the cusp of puberty, he already had a lot of questions. I thought that revisiting my own childhood might unearth a foundation on which I could rebuild my life, but I’m finding more questions than answers. What do I believe now, and what do others believe about me?
Looking back, it was my mother's influence that shaped much of my early identity. Ruth was the black sheep, the rebel, and the only one in her family to “escape” her middle class Jewish upbringing in Chicago. She longed to live in New York City, a place where she believed her rebellious spirit would be embraced during the early 1960s.
Ruth rejected all religions, especially the one she was raised in. She considered it a system of female oppression and the reason her parents favored her brother over her and her younger sister. That didn’t stop my mother from embracing the secular aspects of other religious holidays, like Christmas and Easter. Once in New York City, she schlepped a live Christmas tree to our apartment every year, filling the house with the smell of pine needles and the glow of twinkling lights.
When the Women’s Movement gained momentum In the 1970s, Ruth jumped at the chance to be a part of it. Much of her early identity was formed in opposition to the limits placed upon her as a teenage girl in the 1950s. She raised me to believe that I could be anything I wanted, as long as I didn’t limit my prospects with religious beliefs or becoming a wife and mother.
Growing up, I felt like I was first and foremost a New Yorker, that is, until I went to college in suburban New Jersey. I was less than an hour’s drive from home, but it felt like a different world. Everyone thought I was Spanish or Italian, but when I mentioned my ancestors were Jewish I repeatedly heard, “You don’t look Jewish.”
It was intended to be a compliment, and I cringe when I look back and realize I took it that way. I told myself I didn’t want to look Jewish because it didn’t jive with my identity as a non religious person. On a deeper level, I understood that in their eyes “looking Jewish” meant ugly, with stereotypical facial features, especially a large, hook-shaped nose. In this context, they were defining Judaism as a race, rather than a religion, or even a culture.
After college I moved back to New York City where I continued to live my secular life. That was 30 years ago, and not much has changed. Although my late husband grew up more observant than I did, (we met on J-Date.com in 2007), as a couple we did little more than light the candles at Hanukkah.
Like many couples who try to have a baby in their mid 40s, we turned to IVF to conceive. On our fifth try we were successful using donor eggs and donor sperm (both anonymous). Our IVF clinic matched us with the egg donor, but we chose the sperm donor from a cryobank database. I remember it felt similar to online dating but without the photographs.
Neither the sperm donor nor the egg donor were Jewish. Waiting to be matched with a Jewish woman could have taken months, even years, and it wasn’t a priority for us. At 44 years-old I felt time slipping away. While our son does not share our DNA, I carried and gave birth to him, and have the episiotomy scar to prove it!
From the beginning of our IVF journey, we knew if we were lucky enough to have a child, we would incorporate the donors into their birth story. We never wanted there to be a big “reveal” moment or worse, have them find out on their own. Secrets are breeding grounds for regret and shame, so we found a few age-appropriate books about the concept of egg/sperm donation and incorporated them into Henry’s bedtime routine.
Our son was 9 years-old when Steven died. While we had laid the foundation about what is needed to make a baby, and where that genetic material might come from, he wasn’t old enough to understand the concept of DNA and the hereditary of genetics until recently. While studying ancestry in school, Henry became curious about where he came from.
We were told the donors’ backgrounds were Western European, mainly English, French and German, but my detail oriented child wanted to know the percentages of each. He asked if we could both do 23 and me genetic testing to find out more and I agreed. I knew there was a possibility of finding DNA relatives, but at the moment, Henry wasn't interested in that information. His results were as predicted, (listed as percentages from specific Western European countries and/or regions).
My results were surprising. I had expected to see a breakdown similar to my son’s, except mine would be with percentages from Eastern and Western European countries. And while the main heading on my ancestral composition list is European, the list is further broken down by my Jewish ethnic group. Next are the regions within specific European countries where my Jewish ancestors came from.
There is still debate as to whether Judaism and Jewish identity are a religion, an ethnicity, or both. It’s easy to say that it’s for the individual to decide, but when a country’s policies and laws explicitly make that distinction for you, it’s complicated.1 My identity is only associated with my Jewishness as it relates to how others categorize me, not how I categorize myself.
I felt very uneasy seeing my ancestry defined first and foremost by my Jewishness. I used to say that I'm only Jewish to the extent that if the Nazi’s came back into power, I would be deported to a concentration camp. I thought Judaism was something you practiced or believed in rather than something that was written into your DNA. This wouldn’t be as shocking to me if Christian ancestry was reported in the same way, but it isn’t.
Although Hitler may have popularized the ideology of Jews belonging to an inferior race, there are earlier references in the New World. Peter Stuyvesant, director-general, New Netherland (modern New York and New Jersey), in a letter to the Dutch West India Company in 1654,
Prays that the deceitful [Jewish] race - such hateful enemies and blasphemers of the name of Christ — be not allowed to further infect and trouble this new colony.
However, there is a broad consensus among the biological and social sciences that race is a social construct not based in scientific fact. It’s up for debate whether Judaism and Jewish identity are considered religious or ethnic. I choose to see them as a set of religious beliefs that do not define who I am. I don’t ascribe to the laws of any religion, and I don’t want my identity defined by something I don’t believe in.
I am not comfortable with my ancestors being defined as “Jewish from” followed by a particular country or region because that reinforces a belief that Jews were never granted citizenship in any country until the formation of Israel. While that may have been true for my distant relatives, it isn’t true for me.
So today, as the world watches the unprecedented humanitarian crisis unfolding in Gaza, I bear witness and wonder how much more pain, death and despair my heart can hold. I am raising one child, but I am a mother to all children; that role cemented the day my son was born. Beyond my DNA lies my humanity, and I am grounded, not ground down, by my hometown city streets.
Gift link to full article in The New York Times Opinion by Michelle Goldberg Senators Need to Stop the Antisemitism Awareness Act, May 6, 2024,
The bill [Antisemitism Awareness Act] relies on a definition of antisemitism adopted by the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance in 2016, which lists several examples that could, accounting for “overall context,” constitute antisemitism. Among them are “applying double standards to Israel,” claiming that the country’s existence “is a racist endeavor” or using “the symbols and images associated with classic antisemitism (e.g., claims of Jews killing Jesus or blood libel) to characterize Israel or Israelis.”
Even if you agree that all these things are signs of anti-Jewish animus, there are serious First Amendment problems with trying to classify them that way legally.
One of the lead drafters behind the IHRA definition of antisemitism, Ken Stern, has consistently opposed the Antisemitism Awareness Act.
The document was meant as a research tool, not a basis for legislation. He offered an analogy: Someone studying racism in America, he said, might want to look at opposition to affirmative action, Black Lives Matter and the removal of Confederate statues. That’s very different, however, from enacting a law declaring those attitudes racist. The law is supposed to address conduct, not ideas, which is why federal civil rights law doesn’t define racism, sexism or homophobia.
Do I Look Jewish?