Don’t Call Me 'Jew'
A new convert weighs in on bridging her black heritage to her Jewish identity. Judaism is my religion, but black is who I am. There are aspects of Jewish tradition that I marry with my black culture.

by Erika Davis, TribeVibe.net
November 12, 2011

I, Batyah bat Avraham v’Sarah, am now Jewish.
Photo: Erika Davis
 

I, Batyah bat Avraham v’Sarah, am now Jewish. When I have children, they will be Jews. They will be born not only unto a Jewish mother, but into the culture, as well. Their children will also be born Jews, and so on down the line. However, I, Erika Davis, am not a Jew. Judaism is my religion, but black is who I am.

Owning my black heritage was not easy. Growing up in downtown Toledo, my parents sent me to Catholic school in a white neighborhood, where I was the only brown face in every class picture. Under the guise of diversity, I was singled out as the token black kid. During Black History Month, teachers called on me to talk about “the experience” to a room full of my white peers. At one point, I was even asked to define the word “ashy.” This hyper-awareness of my skin tone didn’t make me feel special or unique; I just felt like an outsider.

It was only as an adult that I learned to love my black identity. Let’s be honest; it’s not exactly something I can hide. My hair is natural and kinky, and my skin is deep ebony. Even though I don’t care for rap music or put hot sauce on my food, black is in my blood, and my heritage is rooted in the pain and suffering of my predecessors. I am the product of a mother with North Carolinian roots and a father from New Jersey. Based on historical probability, my ancestors were slaves. And while my parents weren’t Black Panthers or anything, I am proud to be a black American.

Just like I grew up struggling with my minority status, so did many of my Jewish contemporaries. I’ve heard personal accounts of Jews from small towns, who were bullied and taunted as kids. Some were even told that because they were Jewish, they were going to hell. Those same children grew into adults who take pride in identifying themselves as Jews. Black and Jewish Americans share the same challenges and triumphs, from the enslavement of our tribes to the cultural cornerstones of faith, family, and community.

The shared struggles and values of these American minorities unified them in the face of discrimination: the first two presidents of the NAACP were Jewish, and Martin Luther King was a pro-Israel activist. Yet on an individual level, Blacks and Jews seldom display this sense of solidarity. Forget the Crown Heights riots. I have overheard educated Jewish women calling blacks “schvartzes,” and I’ve seen black people sneer in the direction of white Jews. While we may be political allies, Jews and Blacks are separatists at heart, protecting their own and often living in insular communities.

So what do I do as a black Jew, side with my race or my religion? Last summer, I met a Russian woman who told me her national passport lists her race as “Jew.” I found this categorization to be shocking. The same sort of horror I felt while studying World History and seeing the words “Colored,” “Black,” and “White” on the passports of South Africans. I came to Judaism not to establish a new racial identity, but because I found a religion that satisfied me on a deep spiritual level. However, to identify as a Jew is to identify with a race and culture of people, a need that I’ve already satisfied through the black community.

While I’ve embraced the religion of Judaism, navigating the culture has left me conflicted. Still, there are aspects of Jewish tradition that I marry with my black culture. On Rosh Hashanah this year, I served black-eyed peas in the Sephardi tradition alongside the collard greens of my youth (minus the ham hock). I feel Jewish, but to call myself a Jew is to identify with a historic nation that is not mine. I came to Judaism with an open heart, but with a history of my own. The beauty of choosing Judaism is that, regardless of my past, my future will be Jewish.