For years I have felt like a Jew wannabe. Born a Jew but only practiced at a young age, learned a bit of Hebrew and the Yiddish words often tossed around my grandparents home. But never quite a full fledged Jew. There were complications. My father’s side was Catholic, and if I wanted a wedding, a Catholic I would become. I have never felt at home. The hubs is Methodist, and I would not change him. He would but it would cause chaos. Why bother. I knew my grandparents genes would pass onward to my son. I was happy. He would have the heritage. That’s all I can hope for in my life.

I stare at my Star of David only to take it out and feel like a fraud, if I wear it, but I am not. I should wear it with the pride I feel, not innate knowledge, but pride of a people who suffered and continue to suffer for years to come. My grandmothers friends were holocaust survivors, they played Mahjongg and talked of the good times and the times of terror. They talked to me in mixed languages of their homeland and a Hebrew/Yiddish mix. I loved them.

I will never be a devout or even practicing Jew. But these days of terror reminds me of what my Grandparents always said, “Be proud of who you are, and let no one change you, or let them think you are less than them.” I realized tonight, I let them down, not understanding that I can celebrate my heritage forever to carry-on their memory and the memory of those in my life that have touched me beyond any religion. It is who I am, who I have always been, but was afraid to let it be known, because I was not devout in faith. My star, which I will now proudly wear represents so much more. It is life, struggle, my heritage, and my love for them as they weep from above for their Israel and their adopted United States.