Knowing Where I Come From

Embracing my Judaism one breadcrumb at a time

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 Christopher Sardegna on Unsplash

My Jewish roots were planted by accident. In 1971, when we relocated from Brooklyn to Staten Island (which was considered practically rural), my parents sought out a neighborhood with a synagogue. They didn’t intend to join it; they just wanted to live in an area with a Jewish presence. They identified as Conservative Jews, but their religious observance didn’t go far beyond affixing a mezuzah to the front door and putting an electric menorah in the windowsill in December. 

My parents didn’t realize that Young Israel of Staten Island was an Orthodox shul. The sidewalks of our street were filled with observant families. In the fall, I saw decorative Sukkahs go up in their backyards; in the winter, menorahs lit up their living rooms. My parents couldn’t have known that “Good Shabbos” would enter my vocabulary, or that—through the dining room window—I would watch our next-door neighbor don tefillin and daven every day.

Despite the absence of rituals like this in our home, I grew up with a sense that being Jewish was important. Matzah brei was a treat during Passover, and we occasionally spent the holiday with family on Long Island. Every other Sunday, my grandfather would visit from Queens, bringing us lunch from his local Jewish deli. In the run-up to Rosh Hashanah, he delivered blank New Year’s cards and a yahrzeit candle, and he gave each of his nine grandchildren five dollars at Hanukkah.

While the Holocaust wasn’t discussed in my house, I knew that my grandmother’s family in Poland had been killed. My mom scolded me when—as part of a sixth-grade history project—I drew a swastika. On my last day of middle school, my eighth-grade English teacher—a Jewish woman—whispered: “Don’t forget where you come from.” 

These breadcrumbs gave me a connection to my Jewish faith, even if I didn’t quite know what it meant. But I pointed my compass in its direction. I hoped to one day give my own children firsthand knowledge of Judaism. 

When those children arrived, we joined a temple, celebrated holidays, and created traditions I hoped would last for generations. Mezuzahs adorned all our doorposts, and our shelves were stacked with Jewish books. I filled our home with the scents of cinnamon noodle kugel, brisket and chicken soup. My children attended Jewish sleep-away camp and study-abroad programs in Israel. While they were entrenched in their Jewish education, I wanted to do more than just drive them to Hebrew school. I embarked on my own educational journey, and became a B’nai Mitzvah in my forties. My Torah portion was Leviticus 19:14: “Do not put a stumbling block before the blind.” 

Alongside a sense of belonging, my children also experienced their share of stereotypes and cruelty. In elementary school, their classmates asked them where their horns were. Their high school peers threw pennies on the floor and taunted them: “Watch the Jews dive for money.” 

This year has challenged our concept of what it means to be Jewish. Stopped at a red light a mile from home recently, I was startled to read the super-sized font of the bumper sticker in front of me: “F— ISRAEL.” I often think of my cousin in Tel Aviv, and of the sirens that send him running to the nearest bomb shelter. Amidst a resurgence of swastika flags, antisemitic placards and one-sided social media posts, I wake each morning to check the outside of my house for vandalism. It’s exhausting to continually assess every situation and wonder if I’m safe.

Fear has driven some Jews to remove the mezuzahs from their homes and the Stars of David from their necks, while pride has brought others back into temples and classrooms. Antisemitism is baked into the experience of being Jewish—but this doesn’t extinguish my pride in being Jewish and giving my children a Jewish community. They will always know where they come from. 

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Melissa Giberson is an author, occupational therapist, and a proud mama bear to two children. She’s the author of Late Bloomer: Finding My Authentic Self at Midlife, and her essays have appeared in multiple online and in-print publications. As she adjusts to empty nest life, she wonders why she still finds her kid’s socks in random places. 

Instagram: @melissagiberson031

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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.