Meet the Non-Jew Jew

Plenty of questions accompanied the hugs when Bubbie my grandmother and Zaidey my grandfather reunited with their First-Born Grandson after 20 years.

”We have to plan your bar mitzvah,” Zaidey said not long into the conversation. “When would be a good time to start?”

(Crickets chirping. Awkward silence. Mouth moving but no words. Quick. Do something. Smile. Yes, smile. No, smiling too hard.)

Never saw that one coming.

“What have you been doing?” “Tell us about the Wife.” “When will we meet out Great-Granddaughter?” Those I expected.

Bar mitzvah? Conversation and bagels may have been a better way to ease into the topic. Perhaps a bowl of matzo ball soup.

Confused? You should be. But here’s a Pat-at-Birth primer to help.

*Protestant Mother and Jewish Father marry.

*Mother and Father procreate. (Read below for full explanation. NOT ABOUT THE SEX but what happens with Mother. Perverts.)

*Mother and Father divorce.

*Mother obtains custody.

*Little, if any, contact from Father, Grandparents, Aunt or Uncle. (The "Why?" is up for debate.) However, Aunt Canada keeps in touch the entire time.

To understand Zaidey’s excitement and sense of urgency, we need to talk about a party -- a celebration that must have been a doozy.

One photo captures two relatives holding an infant -- me -- and smiling.

Might have blacked out, because I don’t remember a thing. Long assumed someone laced a fingertip with Manischewitz wine and stuck it in my mouth.

And, get this, a stranger took a knife to … uh … umm … my manhood, which really wasn’t so manly at the time. Yes, I was circumcised.

Welcome to the ’60s. Welcome to my bris.

For the curious few, my birthday occurred 13 days in Adar 5724. Although Feb. 26 works just as well. I’m fairly confident Hallmark never issued an “Adar by Far You Are the Star” birthday card. Then again, I don’t read Hebrew.

The bris takes place eight days after the child’s birth. Did mine? Not a clue.

That day I received my Hebrew name – Pesech-Elisha Ben Shmuel – and was bestowed with the Hebrew version of Willie Wonka’s Golden Ticket. It’s a certificate signed by a rabbi stating I was “a member of the holy family of Israel.”

In other words, I became a Jew that day.

Except it’s a lie or it may be true. The events took place but the interpretation is at issue.

Zaidey, the officiating rabbi and the mohel (aka “The Cutter”) signed off on the deal. (I have the “official” circumcision certificate.) However, the remainder of Father’s family and every Jewish denomination (including Jews for Jesus) say “Guess again, Gentile Boy.”

Mother’s side never knew what to make of it all.

“So, are you Jewish?” A question Mother’s family often asked. The last time was on Thanksgiving.

The Jewish bloodline works likes this – Mom: Jew. You: Jew.

(Repeat.)

Mom: Jew. You: Jew. Mom: Jew. You: Jew. Mom: Jew. You: Jew.

(Faster.)

Momjewyoujew. Momjewyoujew. Momjewyoujew. Momjewyoujew. Momjewyoujew.

And then a conductor shouts. “All aboard!” and shortly thereafter the engineer pulls the steam-powered Hebrew Express out of the station.

Apparently, my ticket wasn’t properly punched.

One story goes that Mother was in the process of conversion when the bris occurred. That may have opened the road to Israel. Then she opted out. Who knows? The key players -- Mother, Father, Bubbie and Zaidey -- are gone. Aunt Canada fills in some of the blanks while Mother's Baby Sis offers her version.

Who willing wants to be a Jew? The moment you are born millions of people want to terminate your existence. You are hated. Others believe you control the monetary system and Boca Raton. You become a scapegoat for crimes real and imagined. Millions don’t trust you. A majority don’t know what to make of you.

And I want to be a part of this mess why? A portion of my identity has been stripped, and I need to have resolution. Plus, Zaidey thought it was important.

So meet the Non-Jew Jew. Maybe there’s a bar mitzvah in my future. Then again, maybe not.

But who doesn’t love matzo ball soup?