I am a Jew.
Always have been, always will be.
There was never a moment in my life that I can remember that I had to be taught that, or have it explained to me.
There was never a moment in which I had to wonder, am I an American first or a Jew first? I mean, I knew I was both, but Jew would definitely be the first answer to the question of who I am.
There was never a moment in which I questioned that.
There was never a moment in which I considered hiding that fact. Not when, at the age of 7 or 8, I was aggressively yelled at to “shut up, Jewish girl” or when later, at the age of 10, I was dismissively informed “you’re not a real Jew. The black people in Somalia are the real jews.”
There were defining moments in my understanding of being Jewish.
As I started to learn about the Holocaust (at a very young age).
As I started to hear some of my grandparents’ stories; the ones who were survivors of Theresienstadt and Auschwitz, or the ones who danced in the streets of Israel on Yom Ha’Atzmaut.
As I started to learn that the world around me saw me as a bother, or possibly even as a threat.
There was never a moment in which being Jewish was something I was ashamed of. My parents taught me that it was a point of pride. That it was something to live up to. Never something to hide.
I grew up knowing that I was a proud Jew, and I love knowing, despite everything we are currently enduring, that looking around at who we are, I feel that pride so much more.
I am a Jew.
Always have been, always will be, never prouder.
