So there we were – The Wife and I – at the wedding of our daughter-in-law’s brother, speaking English to our son, The Youngest.
All of a sudden, one of his wife’s cousins heard us and blurted out to my son: “You’re American. I can’t believe it. I’m in shock!”
“So am I,” I replied, saying the first thing that came to my mind, though I wasn’t quite sure what I meant. Then I tried to process what had just happened. A cousin of The Youngest’s wife, whom he sees at family events now and then, had no idea that he was the son of Americans, that he speaks English, and that his parents are immigrants.
Truth be told, I wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or flattered.
Why insulted? Because her reaction carried a certain “You’re cool, and you came from greener parents” tone – “greener” being that slightly pejorative Yiddish term for a newcomer. It was as if she were saying: “How could someone who looks, sounds, and acts so quintessentially Israeli have come from a couple who still speak Hebrew with thick American accents?”
Why flattered? Because it meant that we – as immigrants – had blended in so thoroughly that no one would guess that our children grew up in Israel with Goodnight Moon read to them at bedtime, celebrating Thanksgiving, grilling on the Fourth of July, and watching the Super Bowl. The cousin had no idea – proof that we had made it.
Except, of course, that we – The Wife and I – hadn’t really made it the way the kids had. Nobody ever looks at us or hears our accents and says, “What, you’re American? I’m in shock!”
The children, on the other hand, had blended in so fully that even their own relatives by marriage didn’t realize where they came from. And maybe that struck me all the more because I’m the son of an immigrant: I know how deeply that sense of being an outsider clings.
Around the world
My mother was born in Germany and moved to the United States after the Holocaust. She integrated into American life – marrying an American, raising American kids, even learning how to make great tacos and chili – yet small signs lingered.
Her English carried a slight accent, and her writing was always a bit laborious. I may have been more aware of this than she was, but it made me realize that the feeling of being an immigrant lingers, even when one builds a full and productive life in a new country.
That label – immigrant – stays with you always, no matter how long you reside in the country of your choosing.
I’ve lived almost 45 years in Israel. I was a medic in the army, serving for some 15 years in the reserves. I speak Hebrew well enough. I have four Israeli-born children and eight Israeli grandchildren – five of whom have newfangled Israeli names (none of this Avraham, Yitzhak, or Ya’acov stuff for them).
My children are all married to native-born Israelis, and this year, around the Rosh Hashanah table, the lingua franca was Hebrew. Yet, with all that, I still sometimes feel like an outsider. If someone in the neighborhood were to describe me without knowing my name, “American” would certainly be one of the descriptors.
Being an immigrant is a feeling and a designation that lasts forever. But I’ve come to terms with that and don’t think it’s necessarily a bad thing.
Making it in Israel
Some people come to Israel and try to integrate completely, as if they could become Israeli overnight.
Once, at Bar-Ilan University, I had a roommate from Florida who insisted on speaking to me in Hebrew like a Yemenite, with the guttural "het" and "ayin." That was extreme. I thought I was going to go out of my mind and asked to move rooms.
Others come to Israel and live in an immigrant cocoon.
I sought the middle path – come, try to integrate as much as possible, but have realistic expectations. I come from America, with American sensitivities, an American accent, an American-born wife, American habits and tastes. I am not going to pass as native-born overnight, or even after 40 years.
I’ll give you an example. Last week, I scratched my head in bewilderment as this public service ad played in loops on Army Radio:
“Hi, I’m Yossi, from the Israel National Mine Action Authority [INMAA]. Do you want to see how we remove land mines and unexploded ordnance? Thirteen years after the establishment of the INMAA, we invite you on Hol Hamoed Sukkot to visit us at an active removal site on the Golan Heights. Come experience mine removal with new technology and feel a part of a change that saves lives.”
I don’t know – call me out of step – but bundling up the kids for a holiday outing to watch land mines and unexploded ordnance being detonated still strikes me as a bit odd.
When I grew up, my dad would say, “Hey kids, want to take a ride into the mountains?” This ad wants parents to say, “Hey kids, want to go see some land mines get blown up?”
It feels strange, I suspect, because I come from the generation of the wilderness – not thoroughly Israeli and certainly not used to “mine outings.” Some want to leapfrog over that wilderness stage; I’m not sure it’s possible.
But my kids, well, they’re a different story. They are Israelis to the bone. So Israeli that I can easily imagine them excitedly taking their kids to this adventure. Heck, they’re so Israeli that one of my sons – based on his army training – could lead the workshop himself.
More than anything else, that is the point: I may always feel American, but my children are Israelis through and through. And in the vast sweep of Jewish history, that shift – from Diaspora Jew to Sabra – is nothing less than a profound transformation.