Good Shabbos from a Small City in the PNW
March 26, 2025
I was warned that my new hometown in the Pacific Northwest is not very Jewish. This was not just in comparison to New York City or Israel or southern Florida, the very Jewish places where I have lived, but in comparison to northern Virginia, where I also lived, which is not very Jewish.
On the first day of school, just weeks after we moved from Israel to Virginia, I introduced myself to the mothers at the bus stop, as my daughters shyly looked at their potential new friends. Upon hearing that we moved from Israel, one woman pointed to another mother and daughters coming towards us and said, “Look, there’s Leslie, she’s Jewish, too!” Which was a welcome, and a warning that things would be different from what I was used to.
Growing up Jewish in Queens in the ‘60s and ‘70s was to feel like any other group; we were in enough numbers to be an integral part of the city, and there were enough bagel places and delis to back that up! Our holidays were school holidays. New York was (is?) a salad bowl, but prepared by someone who doesn’t like their vegetables to touch, yet each of the different veggies were needed to make it delicious.
In Virginia, I understood what it meant to be a minority during the December “Holiday” party in the high school where I taught. There were years that I didn’t go, not wanting to be a Debbie Downer with my sour expression at the Christmas stuff, abundantly aware that this is not my holiday. Other years I went, following up the festivities with an email to the principal protesting the “our Lord was born” song that the school choir sang beautifully. Some years I let the dreidel song appease me. Not that anyone did anything wrong; it was an annual unable-to-ignore acknowledgement of what it feels like to be a minority.
When my daughters were in high school, I had to argue against their fear of missing a day of school and my insistence that honoring our holidays (Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur!) was more important. (Even teachers understand priorities.)
Which all goes to say that it’s not easy being a minority, and that a person who is a minority, but doesn’t necessarily look it, continually perceives how much she is or wants to be separate or integrated into the larger society. At this point in my personal history (where I see myself as a woman who is Jewish, American, and Israeli) and history itself with the rise in antisemitism, I have no intention of hiding my identity or only being it in my home or specific public spaces, like my synagogue or at multi-faith meetings in churches, or my writers’ group where I always talk about the latest Jewish-themed blog post I’m writing.
Since October 7th, the feeling of being fully accepted and part of this country has been severely damaged. There is no way to watch what Jewish students are facing on their campuses and the excuses that are made for the violators, and not know this. It is heart-wrenching. It motivates me. It is to realize some responsibility for them and their plight, and to want to help them fight what has been wrought by previous generations, including my own.
On a recent Thursday afternoon, I was in the local pharmacy, wearing my new Jewish star (made by an artisan in Israel). The clerk said to me, “Good Shabbos.” I instinctively reached to touch my necklace, my statement, and looked at him and saw his name plate said Jonah. Jewish? I wondered. I said, “Thank you. Shabbat Shalom to you.” At that moment, I realized that, while this is not a very Jewish town, there are enough Jews around to not feel alone. It also made me realize that wearing my necklace was not just to proclaim my Jewish identity and pride, but to show other Jewish people that they are not alone. We are here.
In a grocery store the next day, I saw a man wearing a kippah (yarmulke). “Chag Sameach” (Happy Holiday) I said to him since it was Purim (a Jewish holiday). He looked at me, nodded, and said “Chag Sameach.” Another simple exchange. I am not alone.
Since October 7th, when I wear either a Jewish star or Chai (חי) necklace, people often say that they like my necklace. To me this is code: I’m Jewish too. Or, I see you, you are not alone in the negative whirlwind that has descended.
But there is also this.
Before I brought my laptop for service last week, I pulled off the Jewish & Proud sticker that I got at the recent BBYO convention. A small part of me feared that an antisemite would be assigned to repair my computer, and, seeing the sticker, would infect it with a virus. I’m not pleased with myself, but I don’t know if I would do anything different going forward. I put it back on my laptop as soon as I got home—and it is here, back on my laptop. This, too, is what it means to be part of the Jewish minority, especially since October 7th.
Perhaps the take-away point is that we are part of the continuum of Jewish history, not separate from it—there is never separate from it—this is how it has always been, unfortunately. This perspective may help each of us figure out what that means to us, and how we can ensure that our history continues (or help it to continue if you are not Jewish), still hoping, though, for shorter downturns and decreasing in intensity.
Naivete is no longer an option. Neither is ignorance.
What does it mean to be Jewish? This is the question. How has this changed and how will I change going forward?