The most important lesson for my American Jewish children
Feeling safe and loved is important. So is the truth.
At the start of the school year, I stood outside an activity doing what moms do: commiserating. Our most basic common denominators are light complaints, which flow freely when our hair is on fire with the kids’ new schedules. I nodded along, paying slight attention, until one mom said something that woke me up.
“Can you even believe how many holidays the school closes for this month?!”
It was September. They were my family’s holidays—our most holy days of the year.
I know she meant no harm. Well, I don’t know that, because I don’t know her well. Her words did carry a subtle tinge of disgust. But she was confident she was not insulting me, a certainty that distinguished between us and them. She thought I was an us. My daughter and her strawberry blonde hair. Our last name, Boneparth. She didn’t know. I believe this mom came from a place of ignorance, not anti-Semitism. But having lived 37 years as an American Jewish woman, I know how often ignorance lives in the gray. It is hate’s easiest target.
I try to explain anti-Semitism to people who don't know how to see it with their own eyes: dog whistles of greed, control, mistrust, and conspiracy. Sometimes, people like Kanye whistle too loud. They say "Jews.” We call them out while others explain it away—people always find reasons to explain it away or feign ignorance over what they see. This is the cycle. Today, animosity against Jews remains at a simmer until the next terrifying incident of spillover occurs. My young children have seen little of this yet, but sadly, they will. It’s a consequence of who we are.
When we moved to our town six years ago knowing barely a soul, I knew we would find a home in our local Jewish community center. Of course, we sought social commonalities to ease the burden of our move but also comfort due to where we stood in the world as Jews. Vocal anti-Semitism during the 2016 election season and years to follow was being normalized, and we wanted to surround ourselves with like-minded people we believed we could trust, a foreboding concept that proved even more crucial during the pandemic. Darker reasoning aside, we also gained our first real opportunity to lay roots as a family, my children establishing a foundation for their Jewish lives. They love sharing with me their simplistic understanding of our customs, our stories, and our beliefs. They are so beautiful and innocent. I am thankful our community gave them a place to belong.
But my six-year-old daughter is in public school now. She is longer flanked on both sides by little girls who know why they are off from school in September, or why we light candles on Friday nights. She thinks Harry Potter was bar mitzvahed and everyone loves Israel. She is cute but naïve; her world too small.
The time always comes when we realize there are more people who don’t share our beliefs than those who do. It’s just a matter of when.
I struggle to determine the outer limits of truth to share with her now. As parents, do we disrupt the rosy outlook painted for our children when they are so confident and grounded in the space they exist in? I didn’t experience anti-Semitism firsthand until college, and I realize that privilege comes not only from where we live but what we look like. We are fortunate that the extent of their discomfort in early grade school might be as simple as not having a Christmas tree, but that does not even touch upon what will be their lifelong experience. Some people hate us for what we believe—for the mere fact that we exist. Our villains are not fictional wizards. They are real, and they always seem to return.
I don’t want the truth to take until college for my girls. It can’t. Not in today’s world, where technology quickens the spread of anti-Semetic trope and enables Neo-Nazis and their sympathizers to congregate. Celebrities and politicians spew nonsense with no recourse. Our spillover moments occur with more frequency as the temperature of hatred against us rises. My incident with that mom was benign but a reality check nonetheless. I shouldn’t sit in silence while others express discontent that our highest holidays are an inconvenience to them. Everything is not fine enough to let that roll off my back.
Sometimes, being Jewish might feel lonely. This is why we cultivate communities as our sanctuaries of love and acceptance. But we cannot use them as geodome where we retreat and hide, exist amongst ourselves, and wonder why no one knows us. The true power of community comes from its collective strength. We don’t only seek a place to belong. Backed by our people, we build and maintain the confidence to show everyone else we belong.
For our children to fully grasp their Jewish identity, they need to see beyond those most familiar to them and look around at everyone else. Our differences play out in real life when people do not see what we see. When the time is right, I will implore them to watch what others do next. Does a neighbor seek exception? Does the town diminish swastikas on the playground as teens acting out? Does a friend say you’re taking it all wrong?
I will tell my oldest daughter about Harry Potter, and that most of her classmates will have Christmas trees this year. She might be upset. We will work through it. As she experiences more of what comes with the territory of her religion, we will go deeper. She might wish to lean into her community, and I am proud as a parent for finding her places and faces to make her feel safe.
But something else can happen, too. She might take all of these values and run with them. She might be braver than I am. She might tolerate less than I do. She might take others along with her, people who have never known how to stand by a Jew. Our greatest lessons turn our children into teachers. We can’t ever take that for granted.
I am tired. Thanks for reading this snapshot of our experience. I’m here if you’d like to discuss: averagejoelle3@gmail.com.
The little things
Behold, The Boneparth Family Pumpkin, my most basic-yet-satisfying seasonal craft indulgence. Each year, while the kids make avant garde work of their own pumpkins, I paint one with their favorite cartoon character of the minute. I’ve done Peppa, Olaf, and SpongeBob. When I set out to paint Bluey, though, my younger daughter insisted I paint Bluey and Bingo. Of course, I obliged. We can’t leave out little sisters.
Also
Moving forward, I want to provide you with even more links to what I’ve been reading. Here’s what I enjoyed this week:
The Strange Comfort of Jet Lag - The New York Times Magazine
Welcome to the Lavender Labyrinth: Taylor Swift’s ‘Midnights’ is the Mastermind’s Ultimate Power Move - Rolling Stone
What You Buy When You Buy a Home - Men Yell at Me
Why Wasn’t I Canceled? - The Atlantic
Your wins
Natalie’s daughter made it all week with no accidents at school or home! IYKYK, this is a mother’s win, too.