When it comes right down to it, some would say I’m not a very good Jew. I stopped taking my kids to Sunday school years ago because their travel hockey got in the way. I never really gave much thought to whether or not they should have a Bar or Bat Mitzvah and I rarely keep them out of school on Jewish holidays. On top of that, they are the product of a mixed marriage and claim to think of themselves as half Jewish.

Despite my tendency to bear some guilt surrounding this, I try not to beat myself up too much. After all, homemade Matzoh ball soup is a staple in our house and I’ve been known to whip up pretty decent potato latkes for Hanukkah. I also insist on going to religious services for the High Holy Days when our school-work-sports schedule accommodates.

The truth of the matter is that my own Jewish upbringing wasn’t all that different. Both of my parents are Jewish, but we belonged to a Reform Temple, and our religious practice was limited to Sunday school, worship, and Jewish food on the High Holy Days. At some point, my parents asked me if I wanted a Bat Mitzvah and I promptly declined. It was all fine and good just the way it was.

Then I went to summer camp and everything changed.

It was a small Jewish camp on the shores of Seneca Lake in Upstate New York. Here, I spent 4-7 weeks every summer with kids just like me. We lived in villages named after the Six Nations of the Iroquois Confederacy and did all of the traditional summer camp activities like sailing, waterskiing, arts and crafts, tennis and swimming. But we also joined together in prayer before meals, sang Jewish songs, celebrated Shabbat, ate bagels on Saturday morning and held services around a bonfire on the lake. When the summer session came to a close, we draped arms over each other’s shoulders, swayed and sang John Denver’s “Leaving on a Jet Plane” around the campfire. We even shed a few tears. Camp is where I found my people and my identity as an ethnic minority.

The profound and lasting impact of my camp experience also helped me develop some kind of Jewish radar. I know, it sounds crazy, but I can pick Jewish people out of a crowd as if they were wearing Rudolph’s blaring red nose. And it’s not all about how they look or talk or carry themselves. There’s an almost magnetic quality to it. Some connection or unspoken language we share that I just seem to hone in on. I’m not alone either. Over the years, my Jewish friends have spoken of this too. It’s how we find each other and create a sense of community and belonging wherever we go.

It also helps me dispel any guilt or ignorance I might feel about my religious Jewish practice because I’ve come to understand that it really has no bearing on whether or not or how much of a Jew I am. Being Jewish, it turns out, is in my DNA. It’s part of my nationality, culture and citizenship. I’m on the radar whether I choose to be or not.

As a mother of two in a family with a deliberately light religious undertone, I hope my kids will find their own unique connection with their heritage. I hope that they will take pride in being Jewish, honor Jewish traditions of their choosing and pass those on to their kids. I hope that they may find their relationship with Judaism somewhere in the mix—in temple, in the food we eat, in the people they meet or at summer camp. I hope that perhaps they too, will someday find solace and joy in belonging to this tribe.

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About the Author

Dori

Dori Gilels is Mamalode's Publisher and COO. She once told her husband there isn't a single thing she started that she didn't finish. Need we say more?