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.
In the late 1980s, while pregnant with my son, I responded to a Village Voice ad for a free Hebrew class being held on the NYU campus. I was determined to raise my child as a Jew (despite having married a Protestant with no interest in organized religion), and this seemed like the perfect time to deepen my own Judaism. I beamed with pride as I arrived at my first class, and quickly bonded with the teacher—a petite Orthodox woman named Lisa, who happened to live right across the park from my husband and me in Jersey City. I memorized the aleph-bet’s 22 letters, and soon found ample opportunities to practice my newly-acquired Hebrew skills. It was thrilling to be able to make out the words “Glatt Kosher” on Seventh Avenue restaurant windows, and to sound out the Hebrew signs in New York’s Garment District.
When our son was old enough, I enrolled him in preschool, and later Hebrew school, at our local Reform synagogue. I learned alongside him, attending his classes as a teacher’s helper. A few years after his bar mitzvah, I participated in an adult b’nai mitzvah class myself. At the age of 45, I—alongside a handful of others, including our temple’s Hispanic custodian—became a bat mitzvah. It was an honor to present the Dvar Torah for the week’s portion, Parashat Sh’lach, which describes G-d’s decision to make the Israelites wander in the wilderness for 40 years. Like the Israelites of Parashat Sh’lach, I had been on a long, arduous path toward embracing Judaism.
My husband jokingly calls me a born-again Jew. Despite having two Jewish parents and 99 percent Eastern European Jewish DNA, my relationship with Judaism has been a work-in-progress for much of my life. My parents neglected to enroll me in the religious classes my Jewish girlfriends were attending, and I spent the next 40 years wondering what I’d missed at that Arverne Community Center on Beach Channel Drive.
My lack of a Hebrew school education was partially mitigated by my dyed-in-the-wool identity as a New York Jew. In the 1960s and 70s, Nordeck, the moderate-income apartment complex where I grew up, was predominantly Jewish. As a child, I thought the world was 98 percent Jewish.
I’ve always felt drawn to Judaism. Every year, I looked forward to Passover seders with my observant grandparents in Gravesend—the symbolic menu and captivating stories. During the High Holidays, I would put on my best clothes and sneak into the Rockaway Peninsula synagogue where my friends’ families worshiped. Those crowded yontif services stirred my soul.
Since the devastating events of October 7, my Jewish belief system has been tested once again. Hearing people from all walks of life—reporters on TV; acquaintances on Instagram; a distant relative at my aunt’s memorial service; my fellow poll workers on Election Day—describe Israel’s incursions into Gaza as “genocide” has been painful. The war in Gaza and in the wider Middle East is one Jews did not start and do not want. But every day, my connection to a higher power grows stronger. I have faith in emet (truth) and tzedek (justice), and I pray for peace in the world.
Susan L. Miles was born in New York City and trained as a visual artist at Purchase College. Newly retired from the textile industry, she lives in central North Carolina and divides her time between caretaking responsibilities and writing a memoir about her sister, Carolyn.
Instagram: @smilessays
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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Such a relatable story, Susan. Thanks for telling it.