A Rose 

I’m not Jewish.

My name, my behavior, my actions. They’re not Jewish.

I asked a colleague at my new work (hey, I got a new job!) if he seder-ed this weekend. He looked at me, puzzled. I felt awkward about the silence, about the stealth bageling, the obvious targeting of a fellow Jew. His name is unmistakably Jewish. Israeli. A Yid.

The name on my newly-printed business cards with the fancy title says a name that doesn’t match to my I.D. from a different authority. The two children who live in my house and call me Mommy don’t know me by a Hebrew name. It’s ironic, this name that’s on my business cards and e-mail address and bills. And I hate the difference between the two.

I’m split in half.

Hiding in plain sight.

A rose.

No.

A Raizel.

By any other name.

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