I like to consider myself a food connoisseur. As I have gotten older, I have become more daring in trying new food. I love trying food from different regions of the world, but my favorite experience by far was last year when I had kugel for this first time. After ten minute lesson of learning the proper pronunciation (I kept saying “kogel”), Sarah finally let me try her aunt’s specialty, potato kugel. Delicious! Now every time Sarah goes home for the Jewish holidays, I only let her come back if she promises to bring me leftovers. With my new found love for “Jewish food,” I was particularly excited to read Lowenstein’s chapter on Jewish cuisine. Throughout the reading, I came across comments that caught my eye.

First, the statement: “The specific recipes for a holiday dish in a particular area depended on climate, the availability of staples, and local non-Jewish traditions, as well as local Jewish religious customs.  Each group of Jews, being cut off from direct contact with others, naturally assumed that all Jews ate the same ‘Jewish food’ as they did. But this was not at all the case” (Lowenstein, p. 119). What do you mean by this? I thought all Jews ate kugel and matzo ball soup. Wait, bagel and lox aren’t eaten by all Jews? Then why are they called Jewish food? I tried to think of what an outsider would consider typical American food and I remembered one night while I was abroad in Barcelona. I was making dinner with a Spanish friend and her boyfriend, and her boyfriend kept asking me about McDonald’s and how often I ate there. I was so confused, but then I realized he thought all Americans ate at McDonalds. I can’t even tell you the last time I ate a McDonald’s hamburger. Maybe six, seven, eight years ago? Okay, okay, so I realized I was a bit naïve when it came to “typical” Jewish food and expecting all Jews around the world to eat the same thing.

But then I became confused. Lowestein said, “With very few exceptions, such as wine and challah for kiddush and matzo for Passover, the foods of one region were completely foreign in other areas” (p. 119). I was almost positive that Sarah brought home potato kugel, which is associated with Eastern Europe, and a meatball dish that would be associated with Northern Africa. This goes against what Lowenstein just said. Maybe it’s because we are in America and America is the mixing bowl of cultures? Maybe that is the reason for why Jewish food from two different regions of the world is on the same Jewish dinner table, or maybe with the invention of new technology, with the ability to ship food before it goes bad, and with the Internet and cable television, recipes and food are more readily available? Maybe that’s the reason for why the two dishes appear on the Cohen’s dinner table. Then I came across the section in Lowenstein’s chapter “Some Favorite Jewish Dishes in Different Parts of the World,” and my questions were answered. “Not only have migrations brought people with different eating traditions together in the same place, but printed cookbooks, radio, and television have promoted the spread of various culinary traditions far beyond their former territorial limits… Not it is more common to ‘mix and match’ recipes from various parts of the world for family menus” (Lowenstein, p. 131)

I really enjoyed reading about how a Jewish recipe varies depending on the region in which the dish is made. I enjoyed learning about the use of different spices and ingredients. I think it would be really interesting for one of my fieldwork assignment to explore more thoroughly the different foods made on certain holidays at different households. Just like how the dishes made at my household on Christmas and Easter vary from my neighbor’s house. What dishes do my friends with family from Eastern Europe make for their holiday meals compared to my friends with family from the Mediterranean region? Do they serve more dishes from one particular region than the other or is it well balanced? Did they know that some dishes are from a particular region or do they assume that these dishes are consumed by all Jews? But my overall question would be: what do they consider to be Jewish food and why?

Since I grew up a Jewish household, over the years I have attended countless services at our synagogue, Beth Judah. As I have sat in the same seats my family has sat in for as long as I can remember, I participate in the service. I know the majority of the words to most of the prayers (and when I don’t I refer to the English transliteration), the melodies, and the cues indicating when to sit or stand, etc. As I partake in the services, I never really thought much about the music, or where it came from. I always assumed that these were traditional songs, prayers, and melodies that Jews had always sung.
After reading the chapter on music in The Jewish Cultural Tapestry by Steven Lowenstein, I realized two things that I did not know before. First, I learned that I was not alone in my belief that these songs originated in “great antiquity” and that other Jews mistakenly believed that their ancestors traditionally sung these same songs. Who would have thought the ever popular melody for “Sholom Aleichem” was written in New York City less than 100 years ago? In addition, I also discovered that throughout history Jews had borrowed musical elements from other cultures and religions. In turn, this really begs the question, as mentioned by Lowenstein, of what is Jewish music. As a “cultural insider”, I found this question very interesting and also much more difficult to answer after this chapter brought my inaccurate beliefs to light. This question of what is Jewish music parallels the large question of what does it mean to be Jewish, and the answer to both of these questions seems unclear.
Within this practice of borrowing religious musical elements from non-Jewish cultures, I found two instances of this, referred to by Lowenstein, particularly interesting. The first of these cases deals with the song “Eli Zion”, which in the Ashkenazic tradition concludes the dirges sung on Tisha B’av. “Eli Zion” has a similar melody to two Christian hymns, one a Latin Christmas carol, and the other sung by the pilgrims to the shrine of St. James of Compostella in Spain. I find it very interesting that a song associated with the saddest day in the Jewish calendar, is also associated with joyous occasions in the Christian tradition. Furthermore, Lowenstein’s hypothesis that perhaps Jews deliberately choose melodies of Christian hymns associated with happy occasions for such a solemn Jewish holiday reveals a possible implicit tension between the two religions.
In addition to the example mentioned prior, the fact that the opening bars of the Ashkenazic melody for the Hanukkah hymn “Ma’oz Zur” are identical to the opening bars of Martin Luther’s “Nun freut euch lieben Chisteng’mein” surprises me quite a bit. It would appear that either Martin Luther borrowed his opening bars from the opening bars of “Ma’oz Zur”, or vice versa. This is rather perplexing considering that Martin Luther was openly anti-Semitic, writing the book entitled The Jews and Their Lies. It seems strange that any Jew would want to borrow anything from anyone so anti-Semitic, nor does it seem plausible that anyone so overtly anti-Semitic would want to borrow something from a people that he so deeply despises. A coincidence maybe? Possibly, but that does not seem to be the most likely explanation.
After reading Lowenstein’s chapter about Jewish music, I feel that I have learned much more about it than I had previously known. It is somewhat ironic that in my five years of Hebrew School no one ever taught me that most “traditional” Jewish practices and customs, including Jewish religious music, are not really dated back to ancient times, as I had always imagined.

     During the course of our class discussion about what “being Jewish” means, someone put for the traditional thought that someone is only technically Jewish by matrilineal descent. Within this dialogue, it was mentioned that a “Cohen gene” existed, and that a Cohen could actually be identified by genetic testing as long as his or her father is a Cohen. As a Cohen, and the daughter of my Cohen father, this idea fascinated me. I decided to do some research on my own, so I read the section about Appearance and Ancestry in Lowenstein’s book and turned to the internet for more imformation.
     According to Lowenstein, the status of Cohen (Jewish priest) can only be acquired via patrilineal descent. In a study of Y-chromosome DNA, a group of scientist discovered a statistically significant difference between Jewish males who claim the status of Cohen and those who do not. This study revealed that only 1 out of 68 priests, compared to 22 out of 120 non-Cohen Israelites, have a positive YAP gene on the Y-chromosome, which holds true for both Ashkenazic and non-Ashkenazic Jews. Lowenstein asserts that, “If these results are confirmed, they provide graphic confirmation of the validity of traditional family claims to priestly status” (220). After reading this short paragraph on the subject, I wanted to know more. (After flipping to one of the title pages of the book I realized there had to be more information available on the “Cohen gene” since Lowenstein published his book in 2000, almost a decade ago.)
     So many questions began to run through my mind. Could scientists, through genetic testing, really establish that all Cohens are actually the ancestors of Aaron? Could this line really have been maintained since the days at Sinai? If so, exactly how many years has this line continued virtually uninterrupted? How many people self-identify as a member of the Cohanim, but are not actually descendents of Aaron? In order to obtain some answers, I turned to the always trusty Google.
     My internet research provided me with answers to some of my questions. Apparently, with the help of mathematical models, scientists estimate that this last common ancestor of the Cohanim lived between 2,100 and 4,280 years ago! Even more interesting, I came across a relatively recent study conducted by Michael F. Hammer, a population geneticist in the Arizona Research Laboratory’s Division of Biotechnology at the University of Arizona. In their July 2009 edition, Human Genetics released his findings in an article entitled “Extended Y chromosome haplotypes resolve multiple and unique lineages of the Jewish priesthood”. The results of his research indicates that the Cohanim was established by several unrelated male lines rather than a single male lineage dating to ancient Hebrew times. While the thought of all Cohanim sharing one common ancestor is incredible, it is difficult for me to wrap my head around some 2,000-4,000 years later. Despite their anticlimactic nature, Hammer’s findings seem much more plausible.

One of the most interesting aspects of Judaism for me is its fluid definition. Not only the idea that people who are Jewish integrate it into their lives in different ways but that they are also each forming their own individual definitions of being Jewish. I think how other Jewish people perceive Jews with different practices is important when attempting to understand Judaism as a people. From the interviews conducted by myself and other students, I found that community seemed to be a universal theme when discussing what Judaism meant to the interviewees. The Jewish community was defined as a type of haven where everyone was accepted and everyone understood and followed the same values. But what if a certain Jewish community did not consider another community to be legitimately Jewish? I was curious, so I asked those who I interviewed what they thought of those who practiced differently whether they leaned more toward the orthodox or liberal side of the spectrum. While most considered being Jewish as “self-defining”, they all seemed to still have their own criteria in order for Judaism to be  legitimate in their eyes. These criteria differed from having certain knowledge about Jewish text and culture to simply having a Jewish mother. I wondered then, if everyone had different “requirements”, is there really an entire Jewish community? Or perhaps they only exist at the local level.

Lowenstein’s distinction between the great tradition and the little tradition sheds much light on the idea of a possible united Jewish community. He says the great tradition was “written in books and enshrined in the laws of the Jewish religion, [and] was the uniting factor. The great tradition had an advantage that was particularly important for the Jews-it was portable” (Lowenstein 2). The little tradition is basically everything else and is obtained through culture and family, including things like, music, food, and language. This dichotomy between great tradition and little tradition did help to understand how the Jewish community can be united but there are still many complications in these distinctions. For example, Karaite Judaism cannot be fully included within the great tradition since it does not consider the Talmud or the Mishnah as binding or authoritative sources. This demonstrates that there are communities that are not defined by the standard of the great tradition but still consider themselves to be part of the Jewish community even though they main not be considered so among other Jewish societies. So then are they actually Jewish? Pseudo-Jewish? Or should they be categorized as a branch stemming away from the larger Jewish society? I don’t really know how to answer these questions or if answers even exist. I guess it would all come back to the fact that universals rarely exist in a world where people are moving from one place to another, adapting to their surroundings, borrowing and giving ideas to other communities. But since all religions, not only Judaism, change over time, how can one group really claim legitimacy over another?

As I stood in Temple for the past twenty-four hours, I had time to reflect, a common act during this time of the Jewish year. I thought about my relationships with people over the last year, and all the goals I had accomplished, but also about my Jewish identity. This made me think of our class and all the different Jewish experiences that exist. And I came to the conclusion, that at the end of the day, I am one hundred percent a Reform Ashkenazi Jew.

One of my favorite parts of Yom Kippur is the prayer Avinu Malkenu, which is chanted about ten times between both Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. The tune is a very familiar one to me, one I find myself singing during the ten days between the two holidays. The first time the congregation sings it together I always get chills, thinking of all the other congregations that are also singing that same tune. However, how many Jewish congregations/ communities are really singing that same tune? Yes many other communities are saying or chanting that prayer, but would that prayer with a different tune have the same affect on me? Lowenstein discusses the traditional prayers of Yom Kippur and how many, especially the famous Kol Nidre, is part of the Ashkenazi Jewish music tradition.

As I looked at the bimah and heard the cantor chant the special prayers for Yom Kippur, I realized how much of my Jewish experience is influenced by Europe and Christianity. Both my parent’s families are from Europe, however I think it is Reform Judaism that has influenced it more heavily. At the services today there was an organ, responsive English reading, and a sermon by the Rabbi. The Temple had pew-like benches, stain glass windows, and the clergy were on the bimah surrounded by lights. Reform Judaism was created in order for the German Jews to not feel so unique among their Protestant Christian neighbors. Again questions entered my head, would I feel more comfortable in a church than an Orthodox or even Conservative synagogue? Would I feel like a complete stranger in a synagogue in another country that is not influenced by Europe, such as Yemen?

But this does not only apply to me, there are many other Jews who share a similar background with myself. Jews are supposed to share common traditions, rituals, and customs, however has the experience of the European Jew and Yemenite Jew grown too far apart? Have the years experiencing different cultures created two separate religions?

Lowenstein discusses the idea of “great and little traditions.” He believes that the “great traditions” maintain the continuity of the religion, for example all Jews read the Torah. However the “little traditions,” are shaped by the surrounding culture, like the melodies of prayers. But I think the “little traditions” are not that little. The “little traditions” can change a tradition dramatically, making the tradition or ritual a whole new experience and completely different from the same tradition in another place. “Little traditions,” are not an afterthought, but create the character that composes Judaism. The “little tradition” of an Hassidic Jew wearing a black or fur hat characterizes many Jews, especially in the United States. If a Yemenite Jew walked next to a Hassidic Jew in Brooklyn, would other people on the sidewalk know they are both Jews?

“Little Traditions” compose the majority of an individual’s Jewish experiences. They encompass food, music, attire, and many rituals. If anything, the traditions of the Torah and the prayers are less important to many Jews than the cultural aspects, such as food. Judaism is unique because every Jewish experience, even if it is within the same city, is different. This is why I think Lowenstein should not call the cultural traditions, “little traditions,” because they play a much larger role in people’s Jewish identities. The “little traditions” are the traditions that will create the rituals and customs that Jews connect to. In my mind these “little traditions” are the “large traditions” that create the difference between a Yemenite Jew and myself. In the end, I do not think my Yom Kippur would be the same without the European, Ashkenazi tune that I know for Avinu Malkenu.