I am Jewish.
This is not something that I have ever made much of a claim to with little more than a passing joke or a giggle at the religion I follow (I’m Christian) and the connotations therein. I am, by name, a Jew not in religion but by lineage. This was not a fact that permeated my identity as a child. I was never mitzvah-ed into manhood and the most I know about my heritage is a few lines of “Hava Nagila” and barely enough Yiddish to complete a sentence. But the fact still remains that I am a Jew.
This was a revelation I was awakened too late in my latter high school days. As time went on and things became more apparent, it was something that I began to take on as identity only in name. Instead I wore my English and Irish roots proudly as they are so much easier to identify with. Amidst waves of Sheppard’s Pie and pints of Guinness these became the history that truly made me who I was. As a young man and into my young adulthood it was always easier to drink pints with the boys, swear by all that is shamrock laden, and speak troves about the wonder that is
And that is where this all comes to a head. At 30 years old I am finally realizing that there is a whole part of us that we may never know about. With all the heritage websites and private investigating firms specializing in family history it is sad to say that today our lineage represents little but an excuse to get away with our vices in life. It is a culture of laziness that produces ignorance to the true nature of what our blood lines really carry. It is in this that we find answers to the unknowable questions. It is in this that we retain the memories of the elders of our clan. Most importantly, it is in this that we become aware of what really makes us who we are. It makes me proud to know that I am Jewish and that I share such a rich culture that dates back to the origins of man. I mean to do it honor by exploring what that truly means in my life.
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