High School Jew-bilee

Gawking is bad form, particularly when you are the designated "gawkee."

How does one explain to a group of high school students in a Catholic school what it means to be a Jew? As the kids filed in, the boys in their button down shirts and ties, the girls in their pleated plaid skirts and knee socks, I was relieved to be sitting behind the desk, my fashionable thigh high boots discreetly hidden from view. I realized I had way more questions for this curious and somewhat alien looking band of young creatures than I had answers about myself. The caged lioness on display had become the spectator, peering wide-eyed at the strange cluster of humans gathering to question me about my mysterious tribe. 

While I gawked rather shamelessly, these teenagers behaved with a startling degree of decorum. Though some cast occasional surreptitious glances my way, for the most part they betrayed little interest in me as they went about their alien rituals.  My social graces, learned as they were in a chaotic Jewish home and reinforced in a public high school where, some days, survival trumped any objectives scribbled on the chalk board, leave little room for subtlety. There was nothing surreptitious about my open mouthed utter fascination with the uniformity of their uniforms, their sartorial anonymity, their exotic customs. In unison, they rose, staring at something I, for the life of me, could not see (for a moment I thought it was me until I realized they were praying; even my delusions of grandeur have their limits), spoke some words, and made some brisk sweeping motions with their hands. "Our father," garble garble garble, hands moving up and down, side to side in front of their hearts. Talk about tribal. I  grew up thinking the moments before class started were reserved for the throwing of spit balls.

As it turned out, the creatures spoke English, in fact seemed to be members of a highly intelligent life form. I resisted the urge to roam the hallways and peer into other classrooms, just to see the other exhibits. What I had begun to refer to as "Jew and Tell" began in earnest. As it turns out, their initial show of indifference was just politeness; they were as curious about me as I was about them. With some gentle (or should I say gentile) prodding, I encouraged them to ask questions. Even armed as I was with a lifetime's worth of meshuganah Jewish anecdotes, I felt certain nothing could be as fascinating as what they could tell me about why all those girls had chosen to wear the same plaid skirt this morning. In a rare show of good taste, I did not ask.

After a brief but uncomfortable silence, one brave soul asked me to name my favorite Jewish celebrity. "Jon Stewart," I told them. They seemed to approve. "Although Jesus was a bit of a rock star," I added, thinking we would all relax a bit if we remembered we share a favorite son. They laughed. I thought about the Catholic school around the corner from where I grew up, the girls and boys in uniforms who walked the same sidewalks as we did at the end of the school day. We never spoke, rarely even acknowledged each other's existence. I wonder now whether they viewed us with as much suspicion and curiosity as we viewed them. All I know is my mom assured me that despite the modest skirts and all the virgin Mary crap, those Catholic school girls were promiscuous little sluts. I so wanted to be Catholic.

Jew and Tell sped by, as the students and I traded ideas about religion in general, and all sorts of stories about religious and cultural customs, from food to prayers to games to mourning rituals, and to the beauty of Christmas time in New York. Toward the end, one girl asked me what I thought was most different about my childhood from theirs. That one was easy. "We Jews address our parents' friends by their first names," I told them. They all nodded in immediate agreement, some pointing to the vivacious Italian girl in the front row as a notable exception. An interesting example about how incorrect  overgeneralizations and assumptions can be; about how each of them, as individuals, and I might have lots more in common than we think we do. 

I emerged, a bit sheepishly, from behind the desk to wave goodbye to my new young friends. Come to think of it, boots and plaid go quite well together.