my heritage is a car crash

[kierkegarden]

the first time i heard the word ‘mish'pahhah’ was on an online forum
i was seeking guidance, gentle warming of a long-cold ambition
i thought my heritage was a loving surgery
i thought all i needed was stitches and time

reassimilation is a table full of strangers
singing strange songs in strange languages
warming cold hands by long-dead fires, trying
reassimilation is a story
reassimilation is a funny word for disbelonging 

my mom’s mom lives next door to my dad’s mom
one goes to synagogue, the other sleeps in late on saturday
it’s easy to see who came over after the revolution
they’re both in their nineties, scrambling for comfort
in dwindling hours, they are bickering about G-d
in fading hours, they are setting places at different tables

i want to be angry at someone but they’ve all closed up shop
and i want to shake my fist at Stalin or Hashem
but they aren’t answering the door
i press my nose against the glass and i watch them

inside is a softly glowing light for someone
inside is a table full of strangers
singing strange songs in strange languages
while i’m sounding out the Russian, 
they’ve begun to speak in Hebrew

and i’m clawing for an answer
and i’m straddling the interstate

my heritage is a car crash
my heritage is a severance

you said you were sad to see me pack my bags
heading out to see a cathedral for the masses
with it’s cold stained glass windows and
soft glowing lights

you were sad to see me go
but you were never happy to see me sitting, guessing
wayward, at the table. 
instead, you were staring past me

i envy the shtetl, because at least they had each other
and i envy the mir, because at least they had each other
and i envy the soviet, because at least they had each other
and we will never be Russian or American or Jewish or Catholic
and we will never belong at that table
i want some solid footing, i wish we could stop being liminal
i feel my faith cascading as the cars zoom by

when the floodgates opened and milk and honey didn’t flow out
and instead a devastation of wayward Russian-speaking Jews
when the floodgates opened, we were greeted with disdain
my faith is crisis after crisis after hard-earned crisis
i can’t bear to part with this suffering, it is inherent to me

my faith is not my heritage, my faith is not a car crash
my faith glows softly but it never dwindles
it is a reflection on a stained glass window
a fingertip grazing a loaf of challah
sounding out the words by syllable
never learning the language