Last month, when my 4-year-old daughter, Ellie, started at the public elementary school down the block and I looked around her freshly decorated classroom, it hit me just how diverse our neighborhood is.
It was hardly a surprise to me that Jackson Heights, Queens – where we have lived for more than eight years – is intensely international. Nonetheless, I didn’t really feel it until the first day of universal pre-k, as I looked at my daughter’s 17 new classmates – one named Blanca, another named Mohammad – and at their proud moms, some decked out in saris and others in veils.
Ellie, her friend Lucy, and a boy who appears to be first-generation Polish, are the only white kids in the class. Save for the teacher, whose name is unmistakably Ashkenazi, my daughter and I were clearly the only Jews in the room, and my first thought was, “What will happen at Christmastime?” Then I realized that for every kid who comes to school talking about Santa, there will be another who celebrates Diwali.
Mostly I feel O.K. with this. I’m excited that Ellie will have an entrée into cultures that I’ve been too shy to get to know in any meaningful way. Unlike me, she’ll be more than a mere observer of our Indian, Pakistani and Colombian neighbors, whom I pass on the street, but largely avoid in favor of my parallel world of middle-class, like-minded, predominantly American-born people.
But I also feel a little wistful, particularly about the lack of Jewishness around us. On the one hand this seems like a silly concern in New York. Our mayor is Jewish, our governor is Jewish, alternate-side parking rules are suspended on Simchat Torah – and even Ellie’s school is closed for Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur. Our neighborhood may have virtually no Jewish amenities, but Yiddishkeit galore is just a subway ride away: not just in Manhattan, but in nearby Forest Hills, where I frequently shop for Israeli food and where Ellie and I once took Mommy &Me classes at the bustling Jewish community center.
Lately, though, with two small children – one stroller-bound, the other an exceedingly slow and whiny walker – the subway, with its numerous staircases (and frequently out-of-service elevators) often feels like an insurmountable barrier. And as I struggle to rustle up enough families for a local Tot Shabbat group, or search fruitlessly for challah or, more disturbingly, walk past anti-Israel placards waved by members of a local mosque, the charm of multiculturalism wears thin, and I long for the comfort of a Jewish neighborhood.
Indeed, when I was pregnant with Ellie, I developed a sudden and intense crush on a predominantly Jewish neighborhood in another borough. I was charmed by the kosher delis, the Jewish preschools, the bakeries stocked with babka and challah and rye, and the abundance of synagogues – including a friendly, progressive one where I could easily imagine becoming a member.
But Joe was less enthused. The commute was longer and real estate pricier, he pointed out. And I realized somewhat mournfully that, not being a member of the Tribe, Joe would never feel as drawn to a heavily Jewish enclave as I would.
Perhaps this is obvious, but living in Jackson Heights is a lot like being intermarried. In many ways, these situations make it much harder to live a Jewish life – I can’t be Jewish by osmosis or accident. But they also mean that I don’t take Judaism for granted, that I am often more conscious of my Jewish identity and more motivated to seek out Jewish things.
Because of being intermarried and living in Jackson Heights, I feel a keen sense of responsibility for bringing Judaism into our home. Our family won’t do anything for the High Holy Days unless I order tickets and invite people over for meals. As our daughters get older, it’s going to be up to me to arrange for Hebrew school and answer any of their questions about Judaism.
All that responsibility can be exhausting at times. But there’s something to be said for being the lonely Jew. I recently read about Jews who moved to Arkansas to work at Wal-Mart’s corporate headquarters. Far from Jewish hubs, they banded together and created a synagogue, although many commented that they would never have thought to join one had they remained in their hometowns. In the same way, two years ago when I realized Ellie was getting so much Christmas at her nursery school, I volunteered to teach her class about Chanukah. She still talks about how we passed out dreidels and gelt together. That spring, I organized a Tot Shabbat service and Purim party in our neighborhood, and now I help coordinate kids’ programming at a temple we just joined in Flushing. All of this has forced me to learn far more and play a much more active role than I would if ready-made programming were easily available.
I’ve often thought it would be nice to have my daughter come home from school on Fridays clutching a challah or telling me things she’s learned about Judaism. If she went to a Jewish school, it might inspire me to learn more and be more involved in the community. But it’s just as possible that I’d get lazy and use her intensive school-day exposure to Judaism as an excuse to do less at home.
I’m certainly not arguing that all Jews should marry gentiles and strike out for the hinterlands. I’m well aware of Hillel’s famous line: “Do not separate yourself from the community.” Nonetheless, a little breathing space isn’t always a bad thing.
