I met a woman in a knitting store (I love to knit, it gives my hands something to do – sitting idle is not something I do well), she’d picked up the most beautiful variegated yarn. We started chatting and I told her my DNA surprise story. Turns out fate had smiled on me that day, Zoey is Jewish and invited me to temple with her the following Friday.
We met for dinner and then headed to Temple Beth Am in northern Seattle. The first thing that struck me as we walked toward the temple was the double entry doors and the security guard. While I’ve only been to a few churches, none of them ever had an armed guard. It says something about our society that the Jewish community needs armed guards to feel comfortable worshiping.
We entered through the first set of doors and then the next and I found myself in a small foyer. Outside the entrance to the sanctuary, we picked up our Siddurim, prayer books, and made our way inside. We took our place among the crowd. I opened my book and discovered I was at the end. It took me a moment to remember Hebrew is written from left to right so the beginning of the book is at the “back” of the book.
The temple was packed with people who spilled into an overflow space. This was the first Shabbat service after the horrific shootings in Pittsburg. I had no idea what Shabbat was. I had heard of observing the Sabbath but didn’t know what that meant.
“Zoey, is this normal, I mean all the people?” I asked.
She shook her head. “More members came today and there are many non-Jews here to support the Jewish community.”
I nodded. Knowing the room was filled with others who may be attending Shabbat for the first time too made me feel a little better. Part of me felt like an imposter. I wondered if someone would turn to me and ask if I was Jewish or if was I was sure I belonged there. You see I’ve never really felt like I belonged anywhere. Growing up biracial you never really fit into one place—half of you stands on each side of the railroad tracks.
People were always asking me “What are you?” I knew what they meant when asked the question. I’d usually say, “Guess!” Their response was “Italian, Greek, or Hispanic.” When I’d tell them I was half-black they’d nod, but doubt filled their faces. Funny thing is, I never doubted who I was but I always felt like I didn’t fit in. I was too white to be black and just swarthy enough not to be white.
As the service started I was surprised by the singing. All of the prayers were sung. The music entered every pore of my body and hummed within me. The sound was deja vu to my ears. It felt like I’d heard the rhythm a thousand times before.
I turned and whispered to Zoey, “Is that the priest, I mean rabbi, singing?
“No, he’s the cantor, he’s from South America.”
The man had a beautiful voice, but I had no clue what she was talking about. Later that evening I looked up the difference between a cantor and a rabbi. A rabbi is a teacher educated in the traditions and laws of Judaism. Rabbis aren’t ordained by God in the Christian sense. A cantor leads the congregation in prayer and often has musical and religious training. I was surprised the rabbi was female. Boy did I realize, there’s was a lot I didn’t know about Judaism.
The rabbi talked about unity but honestly, I’m ashamed to admit I don’t remember much of what she said given the gravity of the events the week before. I was too busy looking around. One thing struck me, I looked like a lot of the people in the room: the color of my skin, my nose, my hair was like theirs. This was a first for me. Most of my life I wanted to walk into a room and feel like I belonged. That night, I felt this for the first time.
