I Am Not a Jew

My first father
sired three children.
Raised nary a one.

A different mother, the oldest,–
the only one to keep the Jewish surname –
is born-again Christian.
Go figure.

My older brother --
with whom I share
the same adopted Scotch last name
(not only cuz it was our new dad’s ancestry,
but his preferred drink of choice) --
he’s the most observant Jew
I’ve ever met.

Keeps Kosher,
keeps Shabbat,
keeps going to Israel.

Ditto go figure.

Me? I used to say
I’m the most Jewish goy
you’d ever meet.
The highest compliment in college?
I keep forgetting you’re not Jewish.

Now, you ask?
That’s not my path,
not my point
on the odd continuum
of Wasby progeny.

I’m Unitarian Universalist,
with Buddhist tendencies.
Meditation,
more than prayer,
is my schitck.

Though my politics
are nowhere near
middle of the road,
I guess my faith is.
Somewhere between
support for killers of abortionists &
support for walls around Palestinians.
Somewhere between
only one chosen people &
only one Father God.

Still, Pesach –
Passover for your Gentile types –
remains head & shoulders
my favorite religious holiday.
I love the story of liberation,
I love the horseradish.

I love that there are Souls on Fire,
that Judiasm encourages believers
to rail against God.
Given what this world dishes out,
anything else would be farcical.

I love that the red-Commie rabbi,
who oversaw my brother’s conversion,
told him it was okay to be agnostic:
he would be joining a long & proud line
of Jews who question God.

So I guess you could say --
and you wouldn’t be wrong --
though I am not a Jew,

I am Jewish.




(cc) Karen G. Johnston