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Why I Am A Jew

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Jewish boys, when I lived on 63rd Drive in Queens with my mom and sister, wore religious garments weaved from their god’s commandments, hidden over their shoulders, under their shirts and tied at the waist. Dangling holy fringes handed down from parents, grandparents, great grandparents and so forth protected the little Kepis, perfect in the eyes of their families, with an ace up their sleeves and they knew it. Non-Jewish kids, having to face life barren of the symbolic breastplate, or the assumed Hasidic halo (another neat trick) knew there was something different being a modern Semitic but they could never put a finger on it. The only clue anything was going on inside all that Jewish hair was the fleeting smiles at the corners of their mouths a wisp before the lips turned smug.
I am a Jew, half by my father, my real father, the one who decided not to share his life with me. I am his blood child; I am also my Mother’s child, Irish/English and Catholic in the twentieth century. I came into this life half-gold half-green split down the middle, simple as that.
During my Mother’s pregnancy, the hasty decisions made were not at all in my favor. I imagine my parents breathed deep their collective sighs as they pardoned themselves from a baby-boy hot out of the womb. In 1949 post war America there was plenty of everything to go around, including guilt, but little time to do anything about it. Choices had to be made and fast. Everybody was in a hurry to get to the future.

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