Still not sure what it means to be ‘Jewish enough’

We all huddled together in the cold. The fog hung heavily over the field, like a secret. Our breath made disappearing soft clouds as we pulled scarves tighter around our necks and watched our boys kick a soccer ball. The white numbers on their jerseys hovered in the mist. The conversation turned, as always, to October 7. Some parents said their kids covered their Jewish school uniforms on the way to and from school, hiding signs of their identity out of fear.

Mine didn’t wear such uniforms – they attended public schools – but they weren’t untouched by the rising tide of antisemitism. The other mothers shook their heads. Their eyes landed on me. I took in my breath, used to this feeling. Someone wanted to say something that I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear.

“At least you’re lucky,” one woman said. She squeezed my arm and gave me a smile. “This wouldn’t be affecting you so much. You know, not being… you know, not really Jewish.”

It would be great to pretend that I had a clever response ready. Instead, I just stood there, mouth open. She had known me for decades. I grew up in what can be described as an American-Jewish, culturally liberal, left-leaning community, and with many school friends who were like me: mixed-race and from mixed cultures.

And in this privileged environment, having a Japanese mother and a Jewish father, whose family escaped the pogroms in Tsarist Russia, it didn’t warrant much conversation. I was simply me – an Asian Jew. At home, we celebrated the High Holidays and went to Congregation Beth Shalom. My Jewishness then felt solid, not a battleground to defend or a riddle to solve. It was just who I was.