Jewish language is a funny thing. I never learned Yiddish, nor did my parents or grandparents speak the language. The last people in my family who spoke Yiddish were my great grandparents, who would use it mostly to talk privately without their children understanding; my grandmother was raised purposefully speaking only English, and not the language from “old country.” Yet it was not until recently that I realized how much Yiddish has crept into my personal vernacular.

A recent example is the word kugel. Although I always knew that this referred to a particularly Jewish dish, I figured it was similar to bagels; a food that’s known to be Jewish, yet everyone seems to eat. I once heard someone explain that kugel is Yiddish for casserole, but I realized that I do not even really know what a casserole is—I know the definition, but I have no idea if food that I have eaten could be called a casserole, or perhaps I’ve just known it by a different name. I think this shows the influence of my Ashkenazi background; as gentiles may not really be able to picture kugel, I cannot picture what is considered as the secular equivalent.

I also remember my discovery that keppe (head) is not English. I suppose if I thought about it, I could have guessed that it stems from Jewish vernacular, but I was astonished when I used the word with a gentile friend, and he didn’t know what I meant. I subsequently did a quick survey, and non of my non-Jewish friends knew the word. I also had a similar experience with the word nudnik (a pestering or irritating person): I came across the word in a book about Jewish humor, and I realized (and then confirmed with my mom) that this too is Yiddish.

I think these realizations are especially interesting for me, because one would think that growing up Jewish, it is reasonable that certain words and phrases would be used by the community continuously, thus making them seem commonplace in my everyday language. But I did not grow up in a tight-knit Jewish community. In fact, my sister and I were two of the three practicing Jews in our zoned high school. Yet these Yiddish words became incredibly regular to me. In class much we have learned has been about the influence of surrounding cultures in shaping Jewish identities, which is clearly seen in my life through practically every aspect—my language, dress, activities. Everything, even my Jewish aspects, is undeniably American, yet there is still very much a feeling, whether ethnographically true or not, that there is something that naturally unifies Jews.

In class last week, we discussed Jewish culture, foods, and music, and what makes something Jewish. Having grown up non-Jewish and with a very limited idea about what is actually Jewish, I had the stereotypical idea of what made something Jewish. In my mind, bagels were (somewhat) Jewish, Latkes were definitely Jewish, and Yamakas were Jewish, but much outside of that, I was clueless.

The real question isn’t what objects, are Jewish, but rather what determines their “Jewishness”? Is it the creator of the object that makes it Jewish? Is it who owns it? Is it the object’s purpose? Along those lines, what determines whether or not a food is Jewish? When I think of Jewish foods, I think of latkes, bagels, challah, gefilte fish, and matzah ball soup, which are all delicious, but who determined they were Jewish? I realized during class that bagels actually aren’t Jewish at all. Bagels are not known in all parts of the world, yet somehow wound up with a Jewish connotation. How did that happen? When thinking about Jewish music, I think of a voice that sings in an entirely different style from that of American and European singers. It has a more earthy and religious feel to it than other types of music. Every thing that is Jewish has a very distinct flavor. Jewish objects, such as the amulets are all completely unique. Jewish foods have distinct tastes, and traditional Jewish music has an interesting and intricate melodies.

Judaism is a unique religion in and of itself. As I discussed in my previous blog, Judaism does not require a belief in God. It solely requires that one follow Jewish practices. There is not one other religion which does not mandate the belief in God. In Islam and Christianity, one has to believe in God as well as celebrate certain holidays during the year (Christmas and Ramadan) and pray during certain times in the day or go to church. Judaism also appears to be the most accepting of religions in terms of differences among individuals. These aspects of Judaism always intrigued me and drew me in to learn more.

In this class, a large portion of our discussion surrounding cultural boundaries is in relation to how Jews created boundaries between themselves and other cultures. We have spent some time talking about the differences between movements in Judaism and among individuals, but we have not really referred to these differences as boundaries. I wonder if this language is rarely used to discuss interactions among Jews, because it is uncomfortable to recognize that Jews are actively working to separate themselves from each other, as well as other populations. Borrowing, rejecting, and dividing are concepts that are most certainly not exclusive to Jews’ relations with non-Jews. It would be nearly impossible to acknowledge all of the ways in which this happens within Judaism. Because of this, I would like to explore how I have begun to recognize my own borrowing and rejecting processes within Judaism and how these processes have shaped my own cultural boundaries.

I recently attended a very untraditional Rosh Hashanah(Jewish New Year) service in a neighborhood park. I do not think of myself as particularly traditional, Jewish or otherwise, but I think that in experiencing something so untraditional, I was made much more aware of my traditional tendencies. Some of the Jewish cultural boundaries we discussed in class relate to food, costume, music, and religious practices. Costume is an example of a boundary I used to separate myself from fellow Jews in the park on Rosh Hashanah. Because we were in a park, many people there wore jeans and other casual attire. As appealing as wearing jeans sounded to me, I could not bring myself to wear them. Something felt funny to me about dressing so casually for one of the most important days on the Jewish calendar. I chose to wear a skirt. This boundary is not only a visible boundary to others, but also a personal time boundary. I believe that part of my inability to dress casually came out of the desire to create an internal boundary between my everyday life and the time of the High Holy Days. This can arguably be done through means besides clothing, but perhaps my use of clothing reflects my borrowing of more traditional ideas. My clothing that day created more than one boundary. I arrived in a jacket covering my shoulders that I later removed after spending some time in the sun. Uncovering my shoulders would always be seen as unacceptable in an Orthodox setting, and it would have been equally inappropriate during a High Holy Day service in my Conservative synagogue.  By rejecting this notion of modesty I made a second boundary. This time it was not between a more liberal Jewish population and me, but rather a more conservative one.

This specific costume choice is only one small example of boundary making in my own life and lives of other Jews. Of course, my experience is not representative of all Jews, it is not meant to be generalized. However, I feel that my borrowing, rejecting, and boundary creating is particularly reflective of my experience as a Conservative Jew.  I find the desire or need to create boundaries to be very interesting. This Jewish desire for separation starts on a large scale with separation from other cultures, continues into divisions in the form of movements in Judaism, and still proves necessary in the lives of individuals. Sometimes we experience and internalize boundaries without even realizing, but it is especially fascinating to step back and examine their existence and influence in our lives.