My relationship with Judaism has fluctuated throughout my life, but it’s consistently been complicated. My Mum’s side of the family is Christian (but she converted to Reform Judaism before I was born) and my Dad’s side is Jewish. In terms of Christmas vs Hanukkah, I’ve been lucky enough to have had it all. However, this combined exposure to a pretty secular life and periods of more frequent cultural practice has left me confused about the relationship I have with Judaism. I’ve always felt a little bit in between. Not Jewish enough. Not ‘normal’ enough.
I grew up in a small town in New Zealand where my understanding of Jewish culture was limited to the occasional singing of Holy Day tunes and the seemingly trivial lighting of two candles every Friday night. My Dad, bless him, would sometimes conduct what he called ‘Hebrew School,’ for my younger brother and me. We’d groan about these classes going in session on our precious Sunday mornings, but really they were a few joyful little hours filled with singing, making menorahs out of playdough and hunting for letters of the Hebrew Alphabet in our garden. At this time in my life, I interpreted Judaism as a fun quirk that made us different — in a cool way.
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