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.
By any other name.