Having a mother who is a convert to Judaism makes for no less than two Jewish first cousins from my father’s side, which dwarfs in comparison to my much larger immediate family. I decided the summer’s end was the perfect time to visit my only Jewish relatives, in West Hartford, Connecticut. With a mere bus ride, the visit transported me to my great-aunt’s terrifyingly clear memories of Kristallnacht and riding a second-hand bike to school with my uncle. These ‘trips’ were all witnessed by the familiar faces that I saw staring back at me in the numerous albums that I carefully flipped through.
I am astounded at how deeply moved I am staring at the photos and reliving the stories in my head; as I wade through the thickets of stories, recipes and wisdom of yesteryear that I have recently gathered. Before my trip, I had what I would consider a general interest in genealogy. I thought it was an interesting, but a tedious hobby for people looking for a story to tell.
My mother has always held great interest in her genealogy, tracing her southern roots all the way back until the Revolutionary War. (In fact, she is a proud member of the Daughters of the American Revolution.) I remember one summer in particular when I was dragged around cemetery after cemetery, hunting through graveyards looking for a tomb of a long lost relative, and waiting patiently as names, birth and death dates were carefully written down.
“Don’t run in a cemetery!” my mother hissed at me once when I could no longer sit still, “It’s disrespectful to the dead.” This made no sense to nine-year-old me. I was confused at how my restless feet could affect the dead below. The tape recorders with audio files of stories, notebooks filled with hastily written notes and the never-ending pictures were constantly reminding me of a past that held little of my interest. And yet, about twelve summers later, I felt not only curious about exploring my limited Jewish genealogy but also felt an almost primal need to seek out answers of my family’s past on my father’s side.
As I finished speaking to my great-aunt on the phone about my upcoming visit, she noted with a quiet voice how “strange” it was that I had called her on that particular afternoon as it would have been the birthday of my late grandmother (her sister). I was startled as I grew teary-eyed about a woman’s birthday I never even knew until this comment was made. How could a previously insignificant date suddenly develop deep sentiment in a span of five minutes? How could I all of a sudden miss someone I had never met?
I chanced upon an answer from Bayla Sheva Brenner, a senior writer in the OU Communications and Marketing Department. Her article, titled “Jewish Genealogy: The Journey to Oneself”, describes her impression of genealogy after she experienced what she described as a “growing hunger” to find out about her recently deceased mother’s past. I found myself reading the words that I had been feeling during and after my trip as Brenner quoted Eviatar Zerubavel (professor of sociology at Rutgers University and author of Ancestors and Relatives: Genealogy, Identity, and Community): “individuals who are busy reconstructing their family’s past are not merely keeping track of their ancestral history”, they are in fact, “refining their identity.” There was my answer staring back at me from my computer screen: in examining my family history, my identity had begun to expand as a result; there was much material to be added allowing for more colors and textures to be had and enjoyed.
To trace one’s family tree — whether it be Jewish or secular — is to step into another world that at first glance seems foreign with its strange languages, customs and values. But after poking around a bit, you feel at home; you found a place to belong, and incredibly it’s in the past! As strange as it may sound, I feel more safely anchored in my own identity after having heard about my family history. My trip showed me that their love, loyalty and sacrifice run through my veins, helping to shape who I am and who I will continue to be.
Though rather personal to share on such a public forum as the opinion section of The Observer, I felt it necessary to share the realization of how important and impactful one’s family history can be. I urge readers to make the trip (or the phone call) and speak to someone from an earlier generation. Start with a few simple questions and see where they take you. Perhaps you too will experience the surprisingly satisfying experience of enhancing your own identity as you comb through your family’s history.
As I enter my senior year, my head is filled with worry and ambition, a dangerous combination which I know I do not alone share. Whether you are a true freshman or a super-senior, we are all entering the year with butterflies in our stomachs. As I try to ease my way into my final fall semester of college, I feel more calmly grounded in who I am today after having researched my family’s history. I feel blessed to enter this exciting and frightful time in my life strengthened with the history of the women and men before me.