I made my first visit to Ireland more than 30 years ago. When I had married John a few months earlier, I had also wed his Celtic heritage, and was no longer a Goldberg, in name at least. My “Jewishness” became something that it was detected by no one but me. We went to a pub in a fishing village where John’s mother grew up. I couldn’t follow the conversation John was having with his uncles, who spoke with a strong Irish accent. In my otherness, I also felt liberated, a hint of the way Ireland would eventually become a chance for me to redefine myself as a Jew. It would take time, though, before Ireland felt enough like a home.
By my second visit I had become a mother, and the Irishness of my in-laws felt like a threat to my children’s identities as Jews. John’s parents, who had immigrated from Ireland, and their first-generation children wrapped themselves in their culture like a favorite coat, flashing their freckles and wide grins at a hint of anything Irish — a song, a story, a dance. The design of our Jewish family life woven by my parents, who eschewed Yiddish and faith in favor of science and assimilation, could never be as comfortable or warm. Irish or Jewish — which would win the hearts of my three children? Irish meant a large family, a grandmother who baby-sat and sang silly songs. It meant dimples and eyes that sparkled. Jewish meant Hebrew lessons, observance, a grandmother who existed only as a memory held in the name of my elder daughter, Frannie. It meant a scattered family of quiet souls. Creating a Jewish household would be a lonely job for me.
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