The Yid on Campus

In the fall of 1992 I enrolled at a prestigious school that happened to have a large Jewish population. I did not know this until I visited the school as a senior in high school, and it was one of the deciding factors in choosing it over another school in Atlanta, Georgia. I actually remember thinking that having so many Jews, and classes on Judaism in the religion department, was a good thing. "Hey, maybe I will even meet a Jewish girl," I thought to myself as I prepared to leave for college.

While this may seem like a normal thought, for me, even now, it is surprising. My parents had never told me to date only Jewish women, and I had never dated a Jewish woman. My reasoning at the time had nothing to do with having Jewish children, because no one had ever told me that I had to marry a Jewish woman to have Jewish children. To me it was simple: I don't want a Christmas tree in my home. In my 18-year-old mind, the way to accomplish that was to marry a Jew.

The Jews on this campus were like the Jews I had met at camp: rich, from the Northeast, and with "Jewish culture." I had none of those traits, nor any knowledge of what "Jewish culture" consisted of. It was almost a foregone conclusion that I would not get along with my fellow co-religionists. As a matter of fact, the only friends I made that year were the Black sophomore advisor on my hall and three non-Jews on my hall.

The campus had a Hillel, which provided services and educational and other support for the Jewish students. The first service of the year was another moment in my Jewish life that bears recalling. After introductions and singing, we began the prayer service. In the middle of the service the rabbi said, "Now it is time for the Mourner's Kaddish. Those of you who have recently lost a loved one, please stand, and we will begin the Mourner's Kaddish, a prayer that Jews have been saying for thousands of years."

At this point I began to cry. It hit me that no one had said anything like this for my grandfather, and I had no idea how to say it. It was just too much. I ran out of the room and did not return to services my entire freshman year.

Back on my hall, I ran into other problems regarding the nature of my Jewishness. I never celebrated any of the holidays of the faith except Hanukkah, and I honestly believe we celebrated that one because my brother and I were both born in December. I used to go to school on the Jewish holidays. As a child I didn't even know the day was a Jewish holiday, except when a non-Jew would come up to me and ask, "What are you doing in school?"

I would reply, "Shouldn't I be in school?"

"Don't you know what day it is?"

"Thursday," would be my reply.

"No, (naming the other Jewish children) are not in school, it's a Jewish holiday. Man, you are crazy to be in school."

So when these holidays came around in college, again I was confronted, this time by my fellow co-religionists. "Why are you eating? Don't you know what day it is?"

"Tuesday?"

"It's Yom Kippur, you moron, the holiest day in our calendar. What the hell is wrong with you? Are you even Jewish? Why don't you just convert to Christianity?"

I tried to ignore these comments, and after a while the Jews on my hall left me alone.

I spent one year at that school. I fell in love with Atlanta and transferred to Oglethorpe University. At Oglethorpe I felt right at home. I was one of the few Jews on campus, and all my close friends were somehow different from the white Christian majority. I did well in school and dated non-Jews. Life was good my sophomore year.

As usual, without any effort on my part, Judaism and its ideas were introduced into my life. Since I was not a science major, I did not have to take a lab, but I did have to take a science course. The only one that fit my required curriculum was Cosmology: The Study of the Universe Without Numbers. Or, as the science majors put it, science for poets. The course was quite interesting. It was really a history course covering how man has thought about the universe over time.

The first thing we read in the class was Genesis. I still remember reading those opening passages for the first time in my adult life. When I got to the part where it is written, "Let us make man in our image," I flipped out. Who was this "us"? Us? I thought Judaism was a monotheistic religion! My God, maybe this is what Christians mean when they say "the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost." Maybe Christianity is right!

I was so upset that I remember crying over this idea and writing my mother a long letter about my crisis of faith.