Blewish

Why are you here?

Timna was leaving the country the next day. At her going away party I met Tal, and of course, like a good Israeli, he says, “There must be an exotic story about why you are here.” I was thinking about how I was just writing a lyric essay about this (“exotic” = Orientalism), instead—after avoiding the question skillfully a few times—I say, “What do you want to know?” “Well, either you were following someone, or there’s a man, or you were searching for something.” “Can I check the ‘all of the above’ box?”

“Why did you come here?” I have been asked that question more times than I could count. You could take Baldwin’s chapter “A Question of Identity,” trade each mention of “Paris” for “Jerusalem,” and you would have nearly the entire story, more precise than I could ever tell it:

[W]e find that [her] motives for coming to [Jerusalem] are anything but clear. One is forced to suppose that it was nothing more than the legend of [Jerusalem], not infrequently at its most vulgar and superficial level…and, in any case, since [she] is [herself] without a tradition, [she] is ill-equipped to deal with the traditions of other people. (Baldwin 126)

Andie is a short woman with short, cropped hair and bedecked with cartoonish tattoos that stand out on her pale skin when she is not wearing long sleeves. I am an average height for an American, tall in Israel, with locks down my back, though usually tossed in a careless bun, a nose ring and decorated with lots of jewelry at all times. I’ve never asked her exact age, but based on the dated stories she tells, she’s probably about ten years my senior, though she doesn’t look it. Whenever we meet on campus, we always complement each other’s vintage style dresses, and the similarity of our 60s-70s style frames—hers black, mine red. We are both writers: she writes creative non-fiction, I write poetry. She always wears a cross; I always wear my Tryzub. We are like negative images of each other. I listen to her stories with captivation; it’s as if she’s lived ten lifetimes. I’m always telling her to write down things she says to me; each chat is epic. “I haven’t lived a linear life,” she said once; I told her to write that down. The pivotal moment in our relationship was when we realized the similarities of our stories: we had both planned on living in Paris, then fell in love with and married a man that keeps us here. From then on, she called me her doppelgänger.

Tinny is a Danish dancer whose accent reminded me of Maïté, a Québécois. I just met her at Timna’s party last night, but she felt familiar. She’s leaving the country soon. I asked her if she’s coming back, she looks at Tal, smiles when he touches her shoulder, and says, “I have to come back now.” Timna is coming back for Effy; Maïté keeps coming even though they aren’t together; Emmy came because of her ex-boyfriend, she’s getting citizenship, because she can but she’s not sure why. I met Timna through Emmy and she’s heard of Maïté. Timna and I are both thinking of this when I say, “We should start a club for women brought here to Israel”—I pause and look at Tinny who came for the Vertigo program but met Tal here—”or kept in Israel by men.” “The Kept Women,” Timna laughs. Underneath the jests there is the inkling that we share a secret knowledge.

Lies: Jerusalem, the kingdom of consciousness, why I came to Israel, “I do” (the first time), Black, the national myth, narratives, fiction, non-fiction, poetry, the Boogeyman, Narnia, motherhood, the Promised Land, America, Israel, assimilation.

What is your eda?

What I forgot to tell Marcia is that I don’t have the luxury of knowing who I am. She had come to Israel on a research trip for her book, Mixed Race 3.0 on the “mixed mindset,” and we were connected through a mutual friend who had participated in my documentary on stereotypes in Israel called Stranger. The constant encounters with how wildly wrongly I am constantly perceived—filtered through the prism of American media on Israeli screens—prompted me to make the film. “There’s something about U.S. society that makes you choose,” my mother had said, remnants of the one-drop rule that refuse to die—a rule of Jim Crow segregation defining an individual with any known ancestry as black, a form of hypodescent. She also told me I do not get to choose to be black, exclaimed that I am American, and called my contributing essay for Marcia’s book “poppycock.” She has never been asked, “What is your eda?” (loosely translated as “ethnicity” in Hebrew) and known the answer. I’ve tried answering African-American. It is not the correct answer.

Eda is not where you are from. The first time I was asked what my eda is, I tried to answer “American.” But it is not your nationality. “No, before,” Israelis ask. “African-American.” “No, before that,” they insist. It is a specifically Jewish question. A part of the cultural game, known as Jewish geography. Mizrachi or Ashkenazi? Moroccan or Yemenite? Falasha or Persian? What they are really asking is, “What type of Jew are you?”

I called my grandmother once to ask her if we have whites in the family. She said yes. “What kind of white?” She did not know. “What kind of Black?” She did not know. She could not trace back to a place of origin. But it was the knowing that caused the painful feeling arising from the consciousness of something dishonorable, improper, or ridiculous. After she told me that her father was the child of a half-Cherokee grandmother and a white man, she said, “But don’t tell anybody.”

The mere existence of an American living outside of the American context creates a multicultural experience. Israelis often try to define me based on local identity categories. My existence here is confusing. They tend to assume that (a) anyone not a tourist or a student who would come to live in Israel must be Jewish, (b) Ethiopian Jews are the only black Jews, and therefore, (c) based on my complexion, I must be a convert or half-Jewish. Almost no American would mistake me for multiracial. Aside from the assumption of my half-Jewishness, I am mistaken for various other mixed-race combinations and nationalities—anything from Jamaican or Brazilian to Indian or French—which would never happen in America.

In Israel I’m told that I am Ashkenazi because I am American. I can’t tell you how many times someone has spoken to me in Hebrew, initially assumed I was something else and then when I say I’m American, “ooooh!” Their tone is lighter, a light appears in their eyes. It is the witnessing of a sudden elevated social status. A privilege switch going off that never ceases to disappoint me. Then of course I am left wondering, how had they seen me before my social currency?

In high school, I stopped saying the Pledge of Allegiance to the flag. I always knew I’d live far away—just not here. I’m proud when my Israeli friends say, “you aren’t really American” while we make fun of the loud, drunk JAPs in Zion Square.

“Are you Jewish?”
“No.”
“So, are you Christian?”
“No.”
“So, what are you? What were you born as? What were your parents?”
“My parents weren’t religious.”

Sometimes, I’m tempted to say, “I am nothing.”

What’s even more wild is this question that I hate, after living here for years, I catch myself wondering it about other people. Needing to know whether people are Jewish or not rubs off on you. It is a familiar practice actually. Like when watching a movie, we whip out a metaphorical magnifying glass trying to figure out whether the actress with the light complexion, curly hair, a questionable nose is really Black. Actually, she might be Jewish. Or both. We are always looking for our people with tweezers.

Before the last Independence Day, the first one for us as car owners, Mr. bought two flags for the car. I eyed at the blue and white flags with aversion. The Stars of David eyed me back with obstinacy. “Not until they give me my citizenship,” I said; deep down I knew it wasn’t true; I still wouldn’t want them there. One of them, he gave to the youngest to play with and by Independence Day, she’d lost it; the other disappeared.

On (not) being a goy

“Goy just means nation,” they’d say. And I would reply, “Yes, I know. Even god said to Abraham that I will make you a great goy, but you don’t see any Israelis calling themselves goy today.”

“Cushi just means Black,” they’d say. And I would reply, “Actually, no, cushi is a person from the land of Cush, which, according to Biblical maps, is in east Africa. If anything, this would be accurate for the Ethiopians, though they don’t appreciate the epithet either.” When you watch some ghetto American movie where “Black” and “nigger” are used “Black” is translated as shachor (literally the color Black) and “nigger” is translated as cushi.

“Secret cigarette meeting?” reads the SMS. It was Emmy, on Shabbat (Friday night). Since she moved, she lives five minutes away. I meet her with half a bottle of wine and one wooden goblet from the Knights Festival. “I had two, but Mr. thought the other one was for him,” I apologize. “I’m a hippy,” she says. While we are in the middle of our heart-to-heart and lighting another cigarette, an Orthodox man walks by and pauses. He asks us if we are from here. Emmy says “No.” (Emmy has been living here for over a year; I’ve been here for almost 15 years). He asks if we speak Hebrew, in English. “What do you need?” I answer him in Hebrew. He fumbles about looking for someone not Jewish, there’s something he needs help with in his house. “Apparently, it’s not us,” Emmy answers. I know what he wants; I can’t tell whether Emmy does or not. “Can’t help you,” I add. He walks away aimlessly, as if he was lost. “Wow,” I sigh, “I haven’t been asked to be a goy Shabbat since I lived in Ramat Beit Shemesh.”

And what about Emmy with an Israeli father and non-Jewish mother? Her full name is Emet, “truth.” What about Geula whose father converted, but was never accepted? She is Jewish—her mother is—but she always feels tense when people say “goy.” Her name means “redemption.” What about Tinny and Maïté? What about all those people who have no business being here, hanging around Jews and Israelis, but are? What about me? What about me and Whitman and our universalism?

What was your name before Shoshana?

In the States I was the only one with the name Shoshana. I always had to spell it and used to get teased for it. In Israel, I never have to spell it. But it’s a grandma name. No Israeli my age is called Shoshana. Only aunties and Anglo Jews. Because it’s weird, my peers try to give me nicknames, but I can’t stand any of them. No, you can’t call me Shoshi or Shosh or Shoske. There is the rare person I won’t correct because I like them so much, whose renaming doesn’t immediately make me cringe. I love the way a woman once explained to me when I couldn’t pronounce her name and tried to shorten it: “No. You’re cutting off the spirit of my name.”

My mother named me Shoshana after her best friend in high school; my father named me Sarah after his favorite sister who died young. I learned how to write my name in Hebrew in elementary school from the teacher with the black hair and blue eyes—I didn’t even know what a Jew was then—I wrote it down so many times until I had it memorized.

Sometimes I wonder if I should try to find her, the Shoshana I was named after. My mother thinks her last name was something like Rosenbusch, that her full name meant “Rose Rosebush.” But she probably got married or maybe she changed it to a Hebraized version when making Aaliyah. Or maybe she came to Israel and went back. Or maybe we live down the street from each other. We were in line together at the makolet. She smiled at one of my babies on the bus. What would she say about her namesake who left for Israel just like she did around the same age? Can you really imprint a path upon a person, just like that? Just by naming them?

Shoshana means “rose.” Or so I thought until I learned it actually means “lily”—or both, or more. Even the scholars aren’t sure. Of course. Mistranslated, it is the only thing that is mine.

I chose my children’s names carefully:
(1) “beauty”/“splendor”/“glory,”
(2) “teacher”/“preacher”/“collector of songs,”
(3) “people of god”/“a high place,”
(4) “from the East”/“ancient.”

Each time I was renaming myself.

On having a Jewish soul

I used to argue with my ex-husband about Niddah. He wouldn’t let me touch anything, even the refrigerator, and wanted me to sit and sleep separately. That was when I started my mission to read the Bible in its entirety. I won that argument. Even before we came to Israel, we had been living a Jewish lifestyle—well, that was what I was telling people. I don’t know what you would call it. We kept Shabbat (in our own way), fasted for Yom Kippur, kept Kosher (in our own way), built a Sukkah and even slept in it, religiously. But we believed in the New Testament too; it was our dirty little secret when speaking to Jews.

Why do people tell me I have a Jewish soul? Does it just mean that they like me? Is it a compliment? Is it that their fondness for me makes me one of them? It’s kind of like when Black people tell someone of another race that they are really Black or invited to the cookout. Or when white people tell a Black person they really aren’t Black—but no, that one’s different, I think.

There is a Christian concept of being “born again.” It reminds me of what I was told about the new Jewish soul of a convert; it sounded as if one has no soul until conversion. I tried converting three times. That’s a mystical number. The first time, in all honesty, was in hopes that I could get citizenship even though I didn’t have legal status. It was with Natori Karter, the only group that would do it since they didn’t recognize the authority of the government. That fell through when they wanted my ex-husband to cut his locks under the pretense that it’s hatzitza for the mikve. But women get exceptions for the mikve all the time, like fake nails before the wedding. Pick your rabbi.

The second was with the Conservative Movement, after I already had status, but I just thought it would be good for the family. I left for two reasons: 1. I couldn’t stomach the brown nosing of the other women in the class. When the teacher asked, “What did you think of the story of Ruth?” they all answered, “I want to be like her.” I thought, Ruth didn’t have to go through all this bullshit; she said, “your people are my people, your god is my god,” and that was the end of it. 2. I found out that I was pregnant with my youngest; I wasn’t divorced yet; I didn’t feel like explaining. That’s not kosher, I thought. Later, someone told me I should’ve told them and stayed. They would have converted me faster so that my daughter would be born Jewish.

The last time, I met a Reform rabbi. This time, I did it for community, to belong. She said that Reform is just as serious as the others, and it was a commitment, and I should think about it. I never went back. Later, I thought of the fabled “turn away three times” of Judaism to test if a convert is serious. The Jewish concept of the new soul of a convert reminds me of a Freudian slip I once made: “Langston Hughes, in ‘The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain,’ was saying you have to respect jues (jazz and blues).”

On “not” being Black

My earliest school memories, in an elementary school in Brewton, Alabama, in a relatively racially mixed school, are of the boy who made fun of my “BB buckshots” and the “pots and pans in my kitchen.” These were references to the texture of my hair. This boy was Black.

High school in Baltimore, MD in the 1990s, and in a predominantly Black school I was told I didn’t have rhythm and was teased for my unfashionable hairstyles, with nappy hair not straightened properly in the back. I listened more to alternative music, defined by my classmates as “white music,” and less to “Black music” like R&B. I was called out for that as well. It was once said of me: “Shoshana doesn’t drink Kool-Aid, she drinks Perrier. She doesn’t eat Oodles of Noodles, she eats Fettuccine Alfredo.” Guilty as charged.

When I went natural with my hair in 11th grade, I was called a wannabe Erykah Badu. I did not change my hair because I was becoming Afrocentric. I did it because I realized that the only reason I’d straightened my hair in the first place was because I had been teased into it. The first time I gazed at myself in the mirror in nothing but tiny dark brown curls dashed with auburn, I stroked the waves and whispered to myself, “this is so nice.”

In Israel, I have literally been serenaded Bob Marley songs on the streets. I have locks simply because they are beautiful and easy—no, I don’t like reggae music. Really." (Except for “Redemption Song.” I’m not completely a barbarian.)

My mother went to Ghana when she was in college. She told me about how she tried to eat the native food and got sick, how the people didn’t see her as an African, but just a rich American. I think of this while I’m reading one of Maya Angelou’s autobiographies, the one where she lives in different countries in Africa as she visits different tribes. They cry over her; she looks like one who has been lost. And while I think of my mother’s story and Angelou’s story, I recall how—though I burn with wanderlust—I have no desire to visit Africa. I keep thinking about the man—I can’t remember where he was from, but I think he was Nigerian—who, after taking the trouble of detailing his lineage, felt the need to point out to me: “you are a descendant of slaves.”

Walt, I want to believe you
My atoms assume the freedom from narrow restrictions.
I am large too.
I contain multitudes when my brightness is in true proportion.
As untranslatable as you,
you could’ve been my daddy, and I your Dido Elizabeth Belle
And yet—
Kinsman of the Shelf,
You will not have a single person slighted or left away,
you bring me water,
you are under my boot-soles,
more soul than soil
—except for where the grass doesn’t grow.

That is why I don’t want to go to Africa with you.
No one else is waiting to take me home—I want to go with you.

There is something very judgmental about the stereotypical African-American in Israel. They have no qualms about telling you you’ve gained weight or making fun of your clothes or telling you that you think you’re better than them because you’ve got degrees. The ones my age who were raised here, dress and act like the Black people from music videos and movies. Their parents brought them here to give them a new culture, an identity different from African-American. And yet they have become imitations of themselves. There is always the longing to reach back for what has been discarded.

Every day, I can be myself—until I see them; suddenly, I am aware that I am Black. We become elephants in each other’s rooms. There is an irony in this: my own reminds me that I am other.

On being gumbo (beyond Blewish)

Wafa says she’s had a question about me rolling around in her mind for a long time. “I never understood what it was you were looking for in Judaism that you couldn’t find somewhere else. Why have you never taken anything from African culture?

I asked Daddy, “Do you believe in God?”
He said, “It’s not something you speak of, but something you do; everything you did from daycare was holy. When your mother left, she was separating from the godliness that I had. God is what direction you take; it doesn’t matter, there are many directions, you just choose one. God is in every one of those groups of people I’ve been with.”
“I’m not religious anymore.”
“It doesn’t matter what you are not, you are there, so that’s what you is. Gumbo soup: it’s got everything in it; it’s gumbo. That’s why I have so many seasonings; she’s got everything and let her work it out.”
“So, you’re calling me gumbo?”
“I used to go to every church there and was involved with all people. There was nowhere I didn’t go. I’d go to church, even though I was reading the Holy Koran. They still send me Urban Christian Ministries pamphlets, the Italians I used to live with.”

I asked Wafa why she fasts for Ramadan since she is not religious in any other aspect. I wondered if it was similar to the atheist Jew who will fast for Yom Kippur. She tells me that she believes there are good principles to learn from Ramadan, such as delayed gratification and the charity one is supposed to give towards the last ten days.

Ukrainian Togolese, African-American Israeli; the Ethiopian Israeli and Palestinian American whose friends told them they act white (it’s not just the States!); the secular Muslim Moroccan who passes for a Moroccan Mizrachi Jew or an Arab Israeli; the Russian Israelis who “pass” for native Israeli because they are olive skinned with brown curly hair; the half-Jews, the half-Israelis.

On Novy God, my friend Ivanka teases that I have been converted into the Russian-speaking community. I say, “I must have been Russian in a past life.” At Putin, the Russian pub in Jerusalem, Yuliya leans in while we are dancing to yell in my ear above the music, “Do you know what I like about you? You can fit in anywhere.”

All I want to do is look outside of my skin, instead of at it.

Everyone I have ever loved is a half-breed, an immigrant, a nomad, a black sheep, neither here nor there, a straddler of worlds, belonging nowhere and everywhere. We adopt each other, we find home in the other’s eyes.

A boy from a lost tribe is looking for his people who have all been scattered,
swallowed up by other nations.
I am that boy, and I found you.

Shoshana Sarah is in an “it’s complicated” relationship with Jerusalem. She created Poets of Babel, a multilingual poetry club, because she refused to choose a single language. She loves maps, clocks, compasses, lampposts, and the Tower of Babel while simultaneously having issues with time, directions, and “Jerusalem Syndrome.” Her works appear in The Ilanot Review, מרחב الفضاء  Space, Duende, Identity Theory, Mixed Race 3.0, בקול רם!  (Bekol Ram, the Poetry Slam Israel anthology), Therefore for Thee: Celebrating Walt Whitman in Israel, and more. Her manuscript Not on the Map: A Hybrid Lyric Memoir, was recognized as a Dzanc Books longlist honoree. She is a podcast producer, narrator, and teaches spoken word and lyric essay. In her spare time, she dances and plays the zills to Gnawa music, sings in a choir of Mediterranean folk songs, and loves camping in the forest and the desert.