Real imitation Jews?

OK, here’s one you don’t hear often…

My coworker told me he is often mistaken for Jewish.  He’s Greek, so I guess it’s all the same neighborhood anyway.

Today he told me about his son, who’s starting college and living in the dorms this year.  He’s apparently following in his father’s footsteps, with somewhat more determination.  He located a Jewish group on campus that’s somewhat of a social club, recruiting agency, and ice cream shop. Don’t ask me what they’re recruiting: I think the answer would make both our heads hurt.

So he stops by for ice cream.  He does nothing to dissuade anyone from the assumption that he’s a Jew.  He makes friends.  He comes back the next day for ice cream.  Makes more friends.  Finds out that there’s a trip to Israel, sponsored by Israel, for non-religious Jews (that would be the majority- more later).  Decides he would like a trip to Israel.

Well, let’s face it.. his parents never made him go to synagogue…. they’re non-practicing.  They wouldn’t know a matzoh if it jumped up and stole their car.  Oy.   Dad has never seen a yamulke (you know, the beanie, just like the pope wears).

I think he qualifies.

Let’s face it - he’s only been a Jew for a few days and he’s already lining up for free food :)

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Now I’m wondering what percentage (if any) of my readers are Jewish.  I’m thinking not too many.

In case you’re wondering, I’m an ex-Jew: I gave it up for Lent.

I have never heard of a person before now who pretended to be Jewish.  It’s just not one of those things that’s even a concept growing up.   In fact, it was sometimes more healthy to not be a Jew growing up.  It wasn’t exactly cool, just like being smart wasn’t cool.  You wouldn’t pretend to be retarded, arab, of the opposite sex, or a carpet.  You might pretend to be a different species, but not a different religion.  Besides, the Christians have more holidays off school and work.

My dad took me into a church once.  I think we were sightseeing and this was a work of art.  I had an idea about Christianity but I was pretty young.  I look up and there’s a larger-than-life(?) Jesus, on a cross, in vivid detail.  I went white and looked Dad, who proceeded to explain the knife wounds and the method of securing the poor fellow to wood.

Gee thanks, Dad.   You almost had to carry me back to the car.

As we know, I don’t learn quickly; I insist on making my own mistakes.  Again and again.  So that’s not the last time I was in a church.  At around thirty I was in a casino band.  The drummer and singer had been together forever and decided to get married, so they hauled everyone up to Outer Mongolia, PA, for some reason known only to them.  The church was very old (what was left of it).  I got the impression that power was a very recent addition.  Since this was my second time in a church, I felt it only fair to warn them what happened when I entered:  I always set the antichrist detector off.  All that whooping and the sirens tended to throw off the entire event, but they made me come along anyway.  Ah, friends.

Years later I had to accompany my wife to her grandfather’s funeral.  We weren’t married yet but we were married `enough’.   No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get out of going.  What made it worse was that this was a Catholic funeral.  I had never been to one before.  I was probably the only person there who had never been to a Catholic funeral before and as such, I had no idea what went on (other than that I was not going to like it).

They started by lining up outside the funeral home.  Lining up seems to be a repeating theme in Catholicism.  I have no idea why.  The Catholics probably don’t either.  As we approached the door, some person was giving cards to everyone who walked in.  `When in Rome,’ I thought, and took the card.   A brief assessment turned up that this must be Jesus on the cards (Jesus of diamonds or Jesus of clubs?).  Lacking any direction (or tact), I turned to my wife and said, “Oh, look… Jesus and Mary trading cards.  Collect the entire set!   Hey - I have Mary.  Trade you!”

Apparently this was not the correct procedure for accepting the card, as evidenced by my wife’s rapid reddening and vain attempts to crawl under the card table or become spontaneously invisible.

I didn’t know it at this point but I was already working on one of my Theories<tm>.  This one stated that if I made enough of an embarrassment of myself, I would never be invited back again.  To this day I cannot figure out why this doesn’t work.  And heaven knows I’ve tried.

After my wife got up from wherever she was attempting to hide, the line started to move.  Good, I thought… get a seat in back and work on my own version of that invisibility thing.  But noooo.  The line moved right past the chairs and headed straight for…..  some lady giving out flowers.  I tried to tell her I was allergic but she would hear nothing of it.

The line at this point was getting dangerously close to the Deceased.  I had never met the gentleman and this did not seems like the opportune moment (although some would claim it would be to his advantage to meet me when he was dead).    People were walking up to the casket, doing Catholic Aerobics (SIT, STAND, KNEEL), talking to the Deceased for a bit, then going out the side door.

If there were any way possible to alter time or place, I would have accomplished it within the next few moments.   Here I was, with my first geniune dead body that I never knew, and totally without a clue as to what to do.  My wife wasn’t exactly forthcoming with the clues at this time.  She probably figured `everybody’ knows what to do at funerals.

If that parade was what was needed for the bereaved to process and get on with things, I say Bravo.  Unfortunately to me is was ghastly.  Barbaric.  Beyond description.  I was so flummoxed that I couldn’t even embarrass myself properly.

Why do we have certain kinds of bizarre fears?  It struck me with great certainty that we get them from making children kiss dead bodies.

Phew… once outside the door, I noticed people lining up on the sidewalk.  I looked from one  end to the other and exclaimed that these people must have all gone to Catholic school.  They were all automatically and instinctively lined up in size order.   Apparently I was correct, judging from the size of the laugh that followed my statement.

Once lined up properly, they proceeded in an orderly fashion (lest the nuns pop out of nowhere and assault the funeral party with rulers) across the street to the church.   I just tried to follow my wife while marveling at the instinctive movement of the entire party, like ants with a distinct purpose.

What the church lacked in antichrist detectors, it more than made up for in some elaborately dressed old dude lobbing smoke to the left and to the right.   I swore he was going to start twirling the thing over his head at any moment while I fought the urge to cough.  I had no idea what he was smoking, so to speak, but I didn’t like it.

Lastly, not growing up Christian tended to confuse me in other ways that the other kids got.  For instance, I kept hearing about the massive Christian burials.  I had no idea what they were, but it didn’t sound like something with which I needed to become familiar so I let it go.  It wasn’t until many years later, while reading an obituary, that I came across the phrase Mass of Christian Burial. Well, if you’ve never seen it written and only heard it spoken, that’s what it sounded like.

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Back to our story, I am constantly amazed that anyone wants to go to Israel.  I’m not demeaning anyone’s religion or heritage - I’m just saying it’s a little dangerous over there.  Every time someone mentions going there, it seems more dangerous than the last time someone mentioned going over there..

Could be worse, though… he could want to explore his Iraqi heritage.   Same area - give him a turban.  He’s already got the facial hair.