Threats Make Us Stronger
Our Jewish ancestors prepared us for times like these
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.
My grandmother, of blessed memory, was born in Manhattan in 1909. She was a prodigy, attending Hunter College at the age of 16. She was 68 when I was born and she lived for another 40 years, long enough for both of my children to get to know her. My oldest child remembers climbing onto her chair and cuddling in her lap during our visits.
Even though she was only five foot two, she was a very strong woman, of Hungarian descent, and never sugar-coated or minced her words. Years ago—before I was married, before I was a mother—I asked her what it was like to be a Jewish American during the Second World War. How it felt knowing that your people were nearly eradicated by Hitler, and that your country didn’t act until provoked by Japan. She looked up from the newspaper she was reading—I think it was the Schenectady Gazette—and looked into my eyes, shoulders squared.
“It made us want to be stronger Jews,” she said. Then she went back to her paper.
I went to public school in a working-class neighborhood, and I still sit with my back to the wall in restaurants. I am not the skittish type, but it’s an old habit. People who grew up in similar circumstances understand.
A handful of years ago, when my children were in preschool at a local synagogue, three innocent people were murdered at a kosher grocery store in Jersey City. After this horrific incident, parents at our nursery school raised money to bolster security—Jersey City isn’t that close, but it isn’t that far. A few families considered switching to secular preschools.
My husband and I were proud to be able to send our children to private school—where they wouldn’t need to develop street smarts; where safety is taken for granted. And while I appreciate our school’s top-of-the-line security precautions, my heart still drops when I pull into the lot and see that the local police department has deployed a few extra Sheriff SUVs to our campus. I can only imagine how difficult the last year must have been for Jewish families with students at Cornell, NYU, Columbia or any of the other campuses that were engulfed by the “free Palestine” movement.
On October 7, 2024, I woke up wondering whether our children’s Hebrew day school in West Orange, New Jersey would have extra security. My husband and I had considered keeping them home for the day, but we decided against it. Much worse is happening in Israel, and life goes on. The Israelis set an example for us. Even so, before my children left the car with their backpacks and lunch boxes, I advised them to pay extra attention to their surroundings. Then I told them that I loved them and wished them a good day.
Perhaps these calculations have always been a part of what it means to be Jewish. Our grandparents told their stories for a reason. Whether they were Holocaust survivors—like all four of my husband’s grandparents—or whether they fought as US cavalry in WWII—like my grandfather—our relatives warned us: you are Jewish; people will hate you for it; stick together and watch your collective backs.
There are aspects of being Jewish that are more pleasant to discuss. I have fond memories of watching our daughter prepare for her bat mitzvah; going apple-picking for our Rosh Hashanah feast; listening to our precocious son review the weekly parsha with his bubbe; being welcomed at synagogue by our smiling friends. Perhaps the best thing about being Jewish is knowing that we have each other; knowing that we are not alone; knowing that we are loved and embraced by our community, just for being who we are.
When it comes to all things Jewish, I defer to the wisdom of my maternal grandmother. We live with the tsuris of the modern world—contentious elections, war, violence—and all of it makes me want to be a stronger Jew. To me, that is what it means to be Jewish now. And for the next generation, that is what it must mean.
Melissa J. Elbaum grew up in the rural suburbs of Denver. She earned a BA in Philosophy from CU Boulder, graduating cum laude and Phi Beta Kappa, and went on to graduate school for Philosophy at UCSD. Some of Melissa's writing can be found online. She currently lives in New Jersey with her 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.
 | A guest post by
|