A B O U T

Have you ever wanted to shed a part of yourself while searching for something that serves you better?

I have.

When I described myself as “used to be Jewish,” an acquaintance corrected me. “Once you’re Jewish, you’re always Jewish,” she said with all the white, Anglo-Saxon Methodism she could muster. And, you know, she’s right.

I use the words Southern, Jewish, Complicated to describe myself, but it’s much more.

It’s a commitment to reconciling all the parts of me while exploring who I’ve been and who I am becoming.

Maybe you’re hoping to do the same. Maybe you’re complicated, too?

I don’t know your specific journey (yet), but on my unexpected path to self-acceptance, I found these things to be true:

I stand on stories. We connect through them.

No small talk here. I’ll go first:

What Is Southern. Jewish. Complicated?

I found myself fighting Leon Minsky for the final forkful of chopped liver. I slipped stealthily into his personal space, boxed him out with buttocks and bosom and reached for the Ritz just in time. A quick swish, swash of the knife over the cracker and with that smooth move, the deed was done.

Photo Credit: Abbe @this_is_how_I_cook

“No, you have it,” I minced, forcing a smile through the teeth that Dr. Press Thornton had barely kept out of braces. “I’ve had plenty,” I added, lying. Who can ever have enough chopped liver?

“Sugar,” he said. “Let me fix this last cracker for you.” Only patriarchs like Leon Minsky or Eddie Marblestone or Leslie Blumberg could get away with calling me Sugar. Sugar is a synonym for all things positive in the South, including we’re so proud of you for just breathing.

Leon and I have two things in common: my mother and Jewish food. He makes such a mouth-watering potato latkes that I’ve traveled 3,000 miles just to be within grabbing distance when the hot ones come off the electric skillet. When Mama was recovering from hip surgery complications, he’d been a mensch, Yiddish for an honorable, decent person, an authentic person, a person who helps you when you need help.

The Encounter

When we found ourselves face to face with the final morsels of this mainstay of Jewish delicacies, it turned Southern.

I didn’t need the extra cracker, especially slathered with the fattening yumminess that some Jews called heaven. My jeans were already tight, my air flow constricted. But then neither did Leon.

One other thing we share: rotund figures.

That’s not a very Christian thing to say. About Leon or anyone.

Mama used that line once when referring to local news about a church goer who stepped off or over the acceptable line. Sort of a semi-slap of the wrist comment along the lines of if you can’t say anything nice, just don’t say anything at all.

The Outcome

To have a Jewish mother remark on what is or isn’t Christian sums up my identity: Southern, Jewish, Complicated.

My divergent journey began in fourth grade when I passed around matzo and butter to my classmates to celebrate the beginning of the Passover as a counterpart to the foil-covered chocolate eggs that somehow represented Christ the King’s resurrection. And later in the year, the Menorah and Chanukkah candles I brought in didn’t dim the Christmas spirits of my classmates: we played dreidel and sang Holy Night in the same hour.

With the recent faceoff between Leon, the chopped liver and me, I could have gone down a philosophical path and asked, “What would Jesus do?” Instead, I looked at Mr. Minsky, asked for permission, and devoured the final bite. Then, dabbing my mouth with a cloth napkin, I asked if he would share his secret recipe.

“Of course, Sugar, of course.”