Brookwrite

I'm not Jewish

I don't eat lox.

Need more proof than that? That alone is often enough to make people take their bagel and go home.

***

While on staff at a synagogue in Pittsburgh, numerous people questioned whether I was really Jewish. After all, I wouldn't eat herring, kugel, kichel, kreplach, rugelach, blintzes, tuna of the land, or chicken of the sea. No tsimmes or burekas, no schmaltz or tagaleh. I called chopped liver chopped liver. I like gefilte fish, but only from the jar -- without horseradish.

On Chanukah, I won't go near a jelly doughnut. On Purim, I find hamantashen pointless. On Rosh Hashanah, I won't even put honey on my apple. On Shabbat, I find raisins inchallahrable. On Yom Kippur, I fast a little slower.

However, by virtue of teaching all of their b'nai mitzvah, and doing all the Torah reading -- four days a week, plus holidays -- they continued to debate the question.

Still think I'm Jewish? Others have been buying me a slice with pepperoni by now.

***

I'm from Alabama. Living in California, the only thing more inconceivable to many Californians than someone from Alabama is someone Jewish from Alabama.

Still suspect I'm a Member of the Tribe? What, you weren't in enough of a minority already?

***

The parents of a child I was tutoring gave me four tickets to a Pirates game when the Mets were in town. (Ignore that I taught her for her bat mitzvah -- it undermines our topic sentence.)

Of the very few sports fans in my house, even fewer liked baseball. So I told my girlfriend to bring two of her sorority sisters. So, on a Friday night, I'm at a ballgame with a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead.

All three amused themselves creating stories about me sneaking to ballgames all the time. After several denials, we hear someone shout my name. We can't find the source. We hear it again, eventually realizing it was the beer vendor about ten rows away.

The girls laughed for the next two innings.

A few innings later, he's back, doing it again, this time closer. He says, "you have no idea who I am, do you?" I didn't.

The next morning, while Torah reading, I'm pointing to the start of the aliyah, and the guy does nothing. After a few seconds, I see he's just looking at me, smiling, waiting for me to do the math.

For the rest of the day, and many a Saturday thereafter, I was the leyner who was at a ballgame on a Friday night with a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead.

By the way, the blonde's last name was Stine (no, not spelled the right way).

Still not convinced by that hat trick? This might do the trick...

***

My name couldn't sound less Jewish without a well-placed "Chris."

Case in point, when I was looking to pledge AEPi, there was some question about whether I was actually Jewish. One of the more Orthodox brothers actually, subtly (so he thought) quizzed me before giving his okay.

Ironically, a year later our first non-Jewish member had a very Jewish-sounding name, bringing balance to The Schwartz. And a month later I started a two-year stint as house president.

Are there still fifty people who think I'm Jewish? Thirty? Even ten? If so, this should take care of it...

***

I show up at the start of services. I understand the Torah reading and pay attention during the sermon. I hold the unofficial world record for synagogue attendance without ever serving on a synagogue board.

How many Jews can you say any of that about?

***

So, am I Jewish? That question wasn't rhetorical; the answer is crucial. I'm signed on to Torah read every Saturday morning for the next few weeks but, if I'm not Jewish, I guess I can sleep late.

Doug Brook is a writer in Silicon Valley whose Genesis satire, Original Synergy, just premiered at Theatre Chevruta, in Los Gatos, California. For past columns, other writings, and more, visit http://brookwrite.com/. For exclusive online content, follow facebook.com/the.beholders.eye.