Family, Faith, Fear

Navigating the world as a mixed family

This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.

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Photo by Clay Banks on Unsplash

I don’t remember smiling for my kindergarten class picture 40 years ago, nor do I know what became of the photo. But I can still see it clearly in my mind’s eye: my long-sleeved red shirt and the orange pom-pom ponytail holder peeking over the top of my head. Around my neck was a pendant with a gold heart, and inside the heart was a Jewish star.

I don’t remember who gave me that necklace or how long I had it or what became of it. It’s the only school picture I wore it in. I’m not sure if, at five-and-a-half, I knew it was called the Star of David or even that it was a religious symbol.

I vaguely remember my mom wearing a small Star of David, but she always kept it hidden inside her shirt. If the necklace popped out, she would quickly tuck it back in. “It’s no one’s business,” she would say. I got the message: being Jewish needed to be kept private. A secret. Eventually, she stopped wearing the necklace altogether.

My mom always told us that, when asked about our religion, we should say that we were “Jewish, but not religious.” For years, I followed her advice. As I got older, I sometimes varied my answer.

“I’m Jewish, because my mom is Jewish, but my dad isn’t.”

“I’m Jewish, but we don’t celebrate many of the holidays, because my dad isn’t Jewish.”

“I’m Jewish, but we don’t say any prayers, and we only get a gift on the first night of Chanukah, since our family also celebrates Christmas.”

I’ve never like being asked about my religion. I prefer for it to come up naturally, perhaps alongside quirks such as my dislike of tomatoes and my inability to whistle. Why should new friends and acquaintances need to know that I’m Jewish? Would it make a difference in how they saw me? In how they treated me?

“I’m a ham-eating Jew,” I sometimes said. (Growing up, ham and latkes were our customary Christmas Eve dinner.)

When we became parents, my husband (who grew up Christian) and I decided to raise our son, Ryan, in much the same way that I had been raised. We celebrated some of the Jewish holidays, but without reciting Hebrew prayers or attending temple. We hung a Santa Claus wreath on our front door throughout the month of December— and we also put up a menorah in our front window.

When my son’s classmates began asking him about his religion, he found his own way of answering.

“I’m half-Jewish.”

“I’m Jewish and Christian.”

“My family isn’t religious.”

He seemed to have it under control—and anyway, it didn’t seem like he was asked about his religion as often as we were at his age.

But then October 7 happened. And it activated my Mama Bear, protect-her-cub-at-all-expense mode. It no longer seemed safe for my son to tell people he’s Jewish. So I did something I had never done before. Something that made me feel queasy and anxious. Something I confessed to my therapist, wondering if she would report me for being a bad mother.

I told my son not to voluntarily disclose his religion. And if someone questioned him persistently, I told him to say that he was Christian.

I realize that some parents may disagree with our decision. But it’s complicated. Because our family does not just navigate the world with a mish-mash of two different religions, but also with two different races.

When Ryan was little, he used candy to describe us.

“Daddy is dark chocolate,” he said one night at the dinner table. Then he pointed to me. “You’re white chocolate.” Then he pointed to himself. “And I’m milk chocolate.”

Not until high school, when we thought his peers would be more mature, was Ryan the victim of ignorance and insult from his classmates. They implied that he didn’t belong in the Black Student Union meetings to which he had been invited. He felt unsupported and stopped attending.

But his absence doesn’t make him any less Black. Just like wearing a piece of jewelry doesn’t make us any more or less Jewish. My mom used to tell us that we didn’t have to go into a special building, whether a temple or a church, to pray or speak to God. She said we could do those things anywhere, anytime.

I can’t control how someone will look at our mixed-race, mixed-religion family. I can’t control how my son will navigate the world as a mixed-race young man. But I can give him permission to either share or withhold personal information if he feels unsafe.

Because I believe that’s all any parent, of any religious or racial background, wants for their child — good health; adequate food, shelter, and clothing; and safety.

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Wendy Kennar is a mom, wife, writer, and former teacher. Her writing has appeared in a number of publications and anthologies, both in print and online. On her website, Wendy writes about books, boys, and bodies (living with an invisible disability). Wendy is currently at work on a memoir-in-essays.

Instagram: @wendykennar

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This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.