Hanukah came early this year, and I was unprepared.
I am twenty-three years old, and this is my first Hanukah living on my own. Growing up, and later in college, it seemed everything was mapped out for me. Each December, I would show up when I was told, and would be welcomed by a warm Hanukah celebration. There were always the right number of candles, a beautiful Hanukiah (Hanukah candelabra), homemade potato latkes, and ample presents.
But this year was different. This Hanukah marks the end of my first year living on my own, in an apartment, away from parents and teachers. I’ve learned a great deal this year, but apparently, not much about being prepared for Hanukah.
I have always been a spiritual person. Raised a Reform Jew, I’ve celebrated all the holidays, learned the traditions, and discussed, and debated the ideas about Judaism so I could better understand them.
My eighty-nine-year-old Nana told me that she once changed her name on a job application to sound less Jewish, since the employers back then publicly declared they would never hire a Jew. And my Father converted to Judaism almost thirty years ago, but continues to run into opposition that doesn’t consider him a “Real Jew.” My Jewish identity is not something I take for granted.
And on this Hanukah, I find that my roommate is not Jewish, and my boyfriend is not Jewish, and I live apart from my Jewish family. And as the sun set on the first night of Hanukah, I began to experience genuine panic.
I did not have a Hanukiah. I did not have any candles. I did not have even a single Hanukah cookie to let me know this holiday had begun. For the first time in a long time, I felt really disappointed in myself.
I am proud to be Jewish, and in this wide world where we are in the extreme minority, where I must assert myself, where I must make an effort to avoid having my Jewishness swept away, I stand even prouder.
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