I No Longer Want to Pass as a Non-Jew

“No offense” is a common precursor to something you’ll likely find offensive. As if those two words give you permission to spew hate, like a childish “no backsies.”

“No offense, but” is the trilogy of words I hear when someone says you are not who I thought you were, or more specifically, who I stereotyped or pigeonholed you to be. I always thought was a compliment, until now.

The performance by Vanessa Hidary -- aka the Hebrew Mamita -- seems to be making the social media rounds again (Google it but warning you there are expletives).  I smiled in our similarity.  Two outspoken Jewish poets people often mistakenly think are shiksas.  Not in the blond-haired, blue-eyed way, but in the maybe-you-are-Latina-but-you-can’t-really-be-a-Jew kind of way.

I can pass as a non-Jew, I thought. I enjoyed that privilege.

Hidden identities play tricks on your mind. Having secrets do that.  They seem precious at first, something you alone hold onto, but after a while they slowly chip away.

Passing as a non-Jew can be helpful. It saved my grandmother during the Nazi regime, and it allows me to enter certain circles for a time. But that gets shattered when they ask me to spell my name. Pronounce my name. It is not shortened or disguised. It is full-on semitic. But people look at my olive skin, my coloring, and think, she’s not Jewish.

I used to think this made me cool. For me, being Jewish always felt a bit nebbish, nerdy.

But this has changed since October 7^th. A lot of things have.

I no longer want to pass or blend, even if it’s easier and more comfortable. As a people we’ve been doing this for far too long. Turning a blind eye, accepting the jokes, the commentary, and much worse.

Instead, I want people to know I am Jewish.

I do little things. I ordered silver chains from Israel with my Hebrew name written across it, took out the old Chai charm I purchased when visiting Jerusalem and wore it dangling from my tanned neck. Sometimes I catch people staring, and thinking, but they never say anything.

A few weeks ago, I walked proudly into a locker room in Upstate New York. My hair was in a bun with large hoop earrings. I was very tan and very free. As I walked into the stall, I heard two young girls laughing and speaking in Spanish or trying to anyway. It was clear in their words and mannerisms they were trying to mock me for being Latina. They’re not the first to think I was. But their hatred did not register right away. I forget that people think I am something I am not, even if they don’t accept it.

I wish it had registered in time, to say the things that needed to be said. Because not defending one minority is the same as being complicit. I wish I had on my large Jewish star and the chutzpah I have inherited to speak up. Just as I wish all those people would be speaking up for me, for my people, instead of tolerating racist jokes, allowing the hatred, ignoring our pain.

It’s almost a year since the brutal attacks on Israel. Over 1200 lives murdered, women and children, young men and old. Hostages that we cannot protect.

When I was in my early twenties, I graduated college, I was offered a job in the competitive field of advertising and I was about to set off on my path when something pulled me away. I chose Israel instead. I wanted to experience the Holy Land for myself. I was almost the same age as Hersh Goldberg was, living on a Kibbutz. I have no doubt I would have been at the music festival if I could have arranged it.  Every life taken could have been mine. It still can be.

Yet, I continue to find ways to let people know who I really am. I am a Jew. And I am no longer concerned it makes me an outsider, or if it makes them uncomfortable.

Because saying “no offense” to me is offensive. I am Jewish. I’m still here. And I’m not going anywhere.