Am I Jewish Enough?

"We aren't really true Jews," my brother mentioned while eating Chinese takeout. His sudden revelation over lo mein may have felt like an epiphany to him, but to me, it felt like a gut punch. 

From his view, because we didn't do all the ‘typically’ Jewish things: keeping Kosher, going to Synagogue, observing Shabbat on Friday evenings, we therefore didn’t fit the boundaries of what it meant to “be Jewish.” This revelation didn’t sit well with me, and I stewed about the reasons why. 

I certainly didn't feel less Jewish. To a point, he was right. My family identified as Jewish, but generally we practiced the bare minimum. We had a brief stint at a Humanist synagogue—one that after two years my mother declared too fringe. I was “bat mitzvahed”, but it was in a hotel conference room with a traveling ark.

Identity at age 17 is a touchy topic, but a painfully familiar one with that. Egocentrism is said to be typical of teenagers, and it’s easy to understand why. It’s exactly what we all crave: liberation from the past, fully conscious of who we are, and present in the moments we act alone. 

In most religious households, religion can be defined as a cornerstone, an occasionality, or something of immateriality. It holds some of us together through bonds and congregations, and it tears others apart through conflict and prejudice. It sparks debates, defines nations, and lends feelings of both purpose and unworthiness.

Of the world’s population, 84% consists of religiously affiliated children and adults. My home state’s Jewish population is only about 3.9%, but the city I live in has always felt closely connected to its Jewish identity. Down the road from where I live there is a local synagogue, and Jewish-founded bagel shops sprawl across the area. 

My attitude towards my religion has always been closely associated with insecurity. I was too young to understand why my family stopped holding Friday night Shabbat, too young to know why we withdrew from our local temple. As a child, I was yet to obtain the mental capacity to grasp this new, strange feeling of ostracism.

Still, there was one certain thing that set my brother and me apart in perspective: my time as a camper at Camp Louise, an all-girls sleepaway camp in western Maryland.

I associate Louise with memories I’ve collected like quarters — taking naps in the social hall, writing letters home while my feet dangle in the deep end of the pool, playing guitar on a bunk’s porch while my friends listen, and braiding friendship bracelets. It was what one would expect of the typical American summer camp experience, but the true cornerstone of my experience was defined by its emphasis on what it meant to live a Jewish life. 

Friday night services. Some of the most magnificent nights I can remember. The campers and staff would all blur together in a sea of whites—the practice of wearing all white clothing is said to represent reflection and joy. Following an evening of song, prayer, and traditional folk dance in the gymnasium, the older girls would gather in the old dance hall as midnight nears. We would sit in silence, the lamppost by the entrance the lone light source. As the song leader strummed her guitar, singing songs from years past, the whole world caramelized. 

The next morning, we’d sit in the solarium for morning services under a canopy of oak trees, the sunlight scattering on the ground in shapes. “Shavua Tov, Camp Louise,” the Rabbi would say, her graying smile wide. While the camp director discusses the Middah of the week—our ways of measuring kindness in small acts—I’d wonder why I would ever want to shy behind my belief that Judaism is a large part of my identity.

Each summer I would return home with a homemade mezuzah in my luggage. I’d save little prayer slips handed out during weekend services to remember the glorious sun and the way it felt on my skin during those Saturday mornings. Copper enameled pendants in the shape of Hebrew letters dotted the bottom of my backpack. Little pieces of Judaism would come home with me year after year. And though I would return to the same suburban household with a knack for minimal observance, my confidence in what ‘being Jewish’ meant to me improved massively. 

So what does it mean to be a true Jew, as my brother put it? Religion, to him, was seen as a box drawn with strict lines—if you don’t participate in a traditional way, you’re out. 

Not only did Louise redefine my understanding of community, but it reinstalled the trust and belief I was worried I’d lost in Judaism after years of minimal contact. Over my eight summers as a camper, I worked under the wing of Jewish musicians. I swam under the guise of Jewish lifeguards. I’ve danced with Jewish dancers, sang with Jewish singers, and painted with Jewish painters. Camp Louise is a microcosm on a mountain: the people I’ve encountered there also practice Judaism to varying extents, but our faith still connects us. I have found comfort in my identity from such interactions, even when my existence as Jewish woman feels like an inexact science.

Whichever sect of practice one falls under, the extent to which they categorize themselves should not matter. Traditions will always hold multiple connotations in other people’s minds. Louise taught me to see religion as an umbrella — all are welcome underneath, no matter how involved they are. I carry this mentality with me everywhere I go, especially in an increasingly secular world. 

I disagree with my brother. Boxes are inefficient, rules warp into red tape over time, and restrictions often lead to questions about why they exist in the first place. It is much simpler to me now: Judaism is what you make of it. I promise you this—whatever your belief is, and whichever way you practice it or if at all: it is the right one.