I don't like matzo ball soup. I don't like the spices my Grandma Judy puts on her chicken. I would never pick her authentic, colorful Hungarian dishes over my comfortable, dull American food. I was never forced into years of Hebrew school. I don’t know how to speak Hungarian with my Bubbi. Somewhere in the past 16 years, the culture of my identity was lost along the way. 

Sipping on their red wine at the long, wooden table, the adults at one end, the kids on the opposite. It's April, and that means Passover. It's only thirty minutes into the night, and I already feel disconnected from the rest. My great-grandma, Bubbi, is 97. Her daughter, my grandma Judy, is 74. They sit close together, cuddled at the head of the narrow table, in my uncle's cozy apartment on Amsterdam. It's 2018, and my closest-in-age cousin, Truman, found the afikomen that year. He said, “It's ok; I’ll split the 20 bucks with you, Hannah.” I sit with my hands cupped together in my lap, listening to my very Jewish uncle, David, say all the Hebrew words I don't understand in an upbeat sing-songy tune. I await anxiously, yet patiently, for my turn to stutter along the four questions. “Oh shoot, I forgot to look them up before I came,” I mumble under my breath so only I can hear it. I see momma looking at me with wide eyes and a broad smile, waiting for me to prove myself to the side of my family that celebrates every Jewish holiday the “right way.” 

I have a lot of cousins, Uncle David and Aunt Kristen have four kids, all of which grew up in a religious household quite the Jewish childhood. While I was in Central Park South conquering the “big” slide, Eli, Noah, Margot, and Ava, all went to Jewish elementary schools and spent their afternoons sitting through Hebrew school in preparation for their bar and bat mitzvahs. On the other hand, my sister and I were the only two blurring together the words of the bread and wine prayers during those eight nights of Hanukkah. “Amen!” we would say confidently in an effort to fake our knowledge. Aunt Naomi came out of the kitchen with a steaming bowl of yellow chunks and broth. She says happily, “Hannah, do you want some matzo ball soup?” I say sure. I have no clue why I said sure when I knew I wouldn’t eat it. Everyone has slurped down their soup, and sitting in front of me is a full, cold bowl. No matter how hard I tried, I always felt out of place in this environment and robbed of a valuable side of my identity. Thank God Passover is over for the year, but what happens when Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Hanukkah roll around again, just like last year? 

My Bubbi was a Jewish woman living in Hungary all her life until World War II. She was born, raised, educated, and happy there. She had three children there. My Grandma Judy was the youngest of the three. She spent the least time raised in Hungary, especially the pre-war Hungary my Bubbi knew. Judith Krauss was raised in fear by her siblings and mother as a toddler before escaping on the Queen Mary to Long Island. When surrounded by my older relatives, I always caught myself just listening, ears wide open, taking in my surroundings. When my Bubbi passed on at the incredible age of 101, there I was, sitting in my black dress, tears rolling down my chubby cheek, listening. There is so much passed down history in my Grandmother's life. Yet, I can’t even speak her first language. My dad’s name is Sandor, pronounced (shaan-door). He has his name as a part of her history. And I don’t even like her Chicken Paprikash. 

Both sides of my big, loving family are Jewish. My father’s side is Hungarian. My mom’s side is from the Bronx. As you can imagine, the two sides are very different, but a connecting factor will always be our celebration of Jewish customs. I have always found myself curious with a passionate interest in learning about my family’s stories. I downloaded Duolingo, and every day I click on that little green bird icon to take my Hungarian lessons. I joined the Jewish Culture Club at Nightingale just to make myself feel a little more involved in my community. I spent time with my grandma in Battery Park to listen to her unbelievable experiences. I spent two hours with an awkward Hebrew tutor twice a week for my bat mitzvah. I prepared for over a year. I learned how to read the Torah, and I learned about my history. Despite all my attempts to connect with my roots and respect my culture, I continued to only feel Jew “ish.”

 In Hebrew, mitzvah means commandment and bat means daughter. Performing a mitzvah is doing a good deed. Having a celebration of my life as a Jewish woman was a big step for me to connect with my religion. The big day of reciting my Torah portion was always going to be around my birthday, in the blossoming, rainy April of 2020. Although, I never pictured myself talking at a screen. On April 18th, I got in my pink dress, with the Torah in front of me and that Torah in front of the wide screen with my family's happy smiles. I did my service for what seemed like, a counterfeit audience of minds dozing off. Even the most religious day of my life didn't feel authentic. But when I zoom out of that moment, I am grateful that my experience differed from the majority. The way my family celebrates our heritage may not be the norm, but it is close to my heart. I wish I had realized then, standing in front of the laminated Torah, stumbling over the memorized Hebrew words, that every family's traditions are meaningful in their own way. Culture is what you make of it. I am trying to enjoy those yellow chunks of matzo ball soup. But progress has been made, and I can never get enough of my grandma’s nokedli.