What Am I?

Once upon a time, around the 6th or 7th grades, the answer to the above question sort of eluded me.  I was not even aware that this information was lacking as my mother always told me that I was Jewish and her close friends & family agreed that "You are what your mother is".  I don't think any of them took into consideration that there was this whole other language, culture and set of traditions (not to mention religion) originating from a pretty little island about 3 hours from NYC by plane.

There was actually a time, much to a certain Tio's chagrin, when I would pick the gandules OUT of the rice; a time when I had to be coerced or outright bribed into speaking any words of Spanish.  It probably felt to my father's side of the family like my Puerto-Rican heritage was being erased or denied. 

My mother's family wanted me to be that "nice little Jewish girl" who wore prairie skirts and recited the Prayer for the Bread over holiday dinners.  I was actually taught some of the simple, Hebrew prayers early on while attending a Jewish-religion camp on Ocean Parkway. 

Here, the girls were separated from the boys in their own groups.  We didn't swim together or even do any of the activities together save lunch.  We couldn't remove our shirts when overheated (sorry, I was only 4 at the time!); we couldn't buy what we wanted from the vending machines at the Bronx Zoo since we were expected to be strictly kosher.  This did not sit well with me; young, stubborn and a free-thinker; and I simply did not fit what they expected. 

Eventually, I took up my parents' hippie-style of protest and made picket signs to object my return to the Jewish camp in favor of more integrated activities with a more diverse population.   So they decided to send me to Puerto Rico for the summer to my Grandmother's house where I was able to experience the roots of my father's family-heritage.

It wasn't like I never had exposure to Dad's family - they were a huge part of my life and I loved them. I got to spend many a holiday with them as well.  My Grandmother and Aunt would take me to church in secret and they even made me feel special by letting me eat those wafers and drink the thimbles full of "wine"!  I was not supposed to tell my mother or her family about this and that was really not a problem for me.

So when I entered Junior High, someone in the lunchroom came and asked me "So, what ARE you, anyway?”  Of course, I gave my stock answer "I'm Jewish".  She was like, "Um, what's your mother? What's your father? What countries are your parents from?”  I was stymied so I told her that my father is Puerto Rican and my mother is Jewish.  She furthered my frustration by saying "Um, 'Jewish' is not a nationality.  So you're half-Puerto Rican. Where is your mother's family from?"  I was mortified as I honestly did not know the answer to her question. 

All these years of living (all almost-13 of them!) and I could not tell people my mother’s national origin!  The only things I knew for sure were: they were Jewish and my mother's parents spoke a little bit of Yiddish.  But I was sure they weren't from anywhere in Germany which is what Yiddish sounded like to me. 

I couldn't really figure out why they left me so clueless!  I could only deduce from some stories my Dad had told me that maybe my Mom's family was of some kind of Slavic descent.  Maybe Polish? 

So it turns out that my mother's family is a mixture of Polish, Romanian, Russian and Austrian.   My Great-Grandmother took her friend's boat ticket as she had second thoughts about going all the way to America.  My grandfather's parents were Russian.  At least I'm pretty sure they were...

Although I truly love both sides of my family, I wound up identifying more with my Puerto Rican family.  They were always very accepting and never asked me to deny any part of my identity.  Although I was carried for nine months by my mother, there is genetic input from 2 sets of DNA - NOT just the Jewish one.