The first time I heard, “You’re Jewish? I’ve never met a Jew before!” I experienced a very real culture shock. It was the fifth grade, and I had never met anyone who didn’t know a Jew. I went, “Really?!” I was warned of this: My parents told me that I would meet people who wouldn’t know any Jewish people, but it’s different to hear warnings about something than truly encountering it. 

I had just moved to Dallas, Texas to be closer to my family, and was shocked to find how much smaller the Jewish population was in comparison to New York, where I had lived for the first ten years of my life. I felt different from my peers, and soon enough, I felt separated from a community I had been raised in. Growing up in Queens, I was surrounded by Jews and was constantly learning more about my Jewish identity and faith. For the first time in my life, I knew what it was like to be part of a minority, instead of the majority.

In New York, having Jewish people around me gave me a sense of community and belonging. Though when I started at my new elementary school in Dallas, where I was one of only two Jewish kids in my grade, I felt at a crossroads. I could either embrace my heritage or avoid talking about who I was to protect myself from what I feared I might face.

Learning to accept the fact that I would be the only Jewish person in some spaces felt daunting. I didn’t want to be someone different. I told others about what it’s like to be Jewish, saying things like, “I’ll be out of school for a few days in the next month, for the High Holidays.” I would get asked if I was sick, and would have to explain what the High Holidays were, why Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur were so important that I had to miss school. It was easier to tell people what being a Jew looked like in practice. I knew how important these holidays were, and I would say why. But what I didn’t understand was why they felt so important to me. My answers to my new peers made me feel like I was giving them an inauthentic version of myself. I wanted to fit in, so I just kept to myself. Judaism was no longer me, but simply a part of me that only came out when it was relevant to others. 

In New York, I was raised in a space where being Jewish was a way of life. It meant being with friends, family, and following Jewish values that were taught in Hebrew School. I didn’t like going to services or going on Shabbos unless I would see friends. My spirituality was based on what I learned at shul and from my community. In a new school, it was hard to change the way I viewed my Jewish community and my connection to spirituality.

As time went on in Dallas, I found myself embracing who I was, but it came at a cost. Every new person I met would ask the same questions: “What’s a synagogue?” and “Do you read the Bible?” I found myself coming up with answers I had never needed before, like “It’s a Jewish church!” and “No, but we read the Old Testament.” Before moving, I had never had to come up with answers like that. I had to think of answers on the spot, and it grew the chasm of disconnect between who I was becoming and who I was raised to be: a proud Jewish woman. 

In Queens, I went to Sunday school and learned with kids whom I’d known since I was born. But moving to Texas, once you reached a certain age, Jewish kids not only left Sunday school, but they also joined BBYO. 

BBYO, or the B’nai Brith Youth Organization, is a Jewish youth group for students of varying ages. I was reluctant to start BBYO, but my mother paid for me to go. At my first event, I felt a major divide from everyone there. I went to a small school, hadn’t started any extracurriculars, and I only knew one person. We were both scared of not fitting in. I wasn’t used to the ways these Jewish kids interacted with each other. They threw parties and had crazy events, like a giant “Galentines” party. I was used to talking to kids at shul and learning about them there. I never had to meet “new” kids, and if I did, we didn’t talk about what school we went to or what we did outside of school. I had been to youth groups where we learned about Judaism, its values, and what certain holidays were. But BBYO gave me a sense of what it meant to be a Jewish teen, rather than a Jewish child, and that also changed the way I viewed my Jewish identity. Being a Jewish teen meant delving into Judaism through Torah studies and long discussions that made you think. As a Jewish child, it meant playing games to learn about the story of Pesach. 

I thought being a Jewish person in Texas meant that my spirituality would be stronger, and the Jews I would connect with would share my struggles. Instead, I roamed an almost-empty Tom Thumb grocery store and watched someone from my BBYO chapter buy a cake that would ultimately be smashed in the parking lot for entertainment, rather than discussing our Jewish identities. 

From what I saw, the BBYO chapter members didn’t connect to spirituality in any way, that is, until we went on a retreat for two days at a park. During a Shabbos dinner, we all participated in activities that connected us to our faith. We sat in a large circle and talked about how we practice Judaism, we had a nice Havdala service, and played some games that were Shabbos-friendly, like relay races. I hadn’t experienced havdalah like this. We sat together and sang songs, and had fun with it. It wasn’t like being at shul, but it wasn’t like the youth group I was used to. I felt I had a deeper connection with my Jewish identity as some of my friends and I talked about our friends who didn’t understand what it meant to be Jewish. I felt like I finally had people who understood what it felt like to be a Jewish teen in Texas, especially when you’re different from the rest.

But the moment we got back from the retreat, we were back to throwing parties, connecting with Judaism in a surface-level way. Yet again, I felt severed from my spirituality. 

What I came to learn was that Jewish identity can be fluid, and that anyone can practice, however they want. The girls in my chapter showed me this at the retreat. Some people used their phones on Shabbos, others didn't. Some of them skipped school for the High Holidays, and some didn’t. Some people went to an Orthodox shul, others Reform. After living in Texas for almost eight years, I’ve learned what it means to be a Jew in my own special way.  I realized that I don’t have to be like everyone else. I go to shul when I want, and keep up with my Jewish friends, especially the ones I don’t see often. I still struggle with some things, like kids still asking where I went on Rosh Hashanah, and if I had a bat mitzvah like in the Disney Channel shows they watched. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I am different, and that instead of trying to be like everyone else, I learned to be fluid not only in my spirituality, but also in my Jewish identity, and I’ve come to understand what that means to me.