Growing up in Alaska, I always knew that my family was just a little bit different from all of our neighbors. We were still American, still loved beer and baseball on Sundays, but something set us apart. During Christmas time every year, it became more obvious: we were Jewish. As houses along every street lit up with red and green lights, ours stayed dark, save the glimmering menorah candles in the windows. The difference between my family and everyone else’s never felt particularly negative, but it was something that, as I grew up, made me feel slightly disconnected from the rest of my friends. During Christmas and Easter time, I can still clearly remember feeling clearly different. Especially when everyone received a personalized Christmas Ornament as a gift from the teacher, I was given a pen. When everyone came to class with Easter eggs full of delicious surprises, I was left eating matzah to celebrate the holiday of Passover. That isn’t to say my friends weren’t supportive of my Judaism. In fact, the opposite was true—everyone loved to come over during Chanukah and eat latkes or spin the dreidel—but it wasn’t the same as actually being Jewish. One of the reasons this disconnection felt so enduring is that the religion itself reinforces it: there is a belief that the Jewish people are “the Chosen People.” However, it is that belief which helped me reconcile my desire to fit in with the feeling of being an outsider. This being said, I loved (and still do love) being Jewish. I loved the culture and traditions, and loved having something special I could share with my family. Coming to Shanghai, though, has significantly amplified my feeling of being the “odd one out.” When I lived in the U.S., most people knew what Judaism was, and while I often had to explain that no, I do not celebrate Christmas, people still seemed to have a basic understanding of the concept of Judaism. Here in China, though, especially when I first arrived, people would often tell me that they had only vaguely heard of Judaism, or that I was the first Jew they’d ever met. Even so, I didn’t mind people’s curiosity; I welcomed the opportunity to share my knowledge of something that is so important in my life. After all, I was used to educating my friends from home about Judaism. It had just never quite been to the same degree as here in Shanghai. Constantly teaching people on such a large scale felt like a burden at times. It seemed like there was extra pressure to showcase Jews in a positive way, an expectation that I should serve as an archetype of all the Jews of the world. I struggled with these expectations from others, unsure of how to incorporate them into my beliefs and the way I presented myself. Should I become more rigid in my adherence to Jewish law, so as to show the most “correct” form of Judaism? Or should I become more relaxed, to try and make Jews seem likeable? Fortunately, my problem was short-lived. For Yom Kippur, I went to a little orthodox synagogue with another Jewish student at NYU Shanghai, and it was at the synagogue that I realized: I had been trying to change my expressions of faith to fit other people’s expectations, when it should actually have been something inherently personal. All it took was the act of actually attending synagogue to remind me that being Jewish makes me feel connected to the rich cultural history that I had grown up with. Even though I was no longer able to be with my family to practice my faith, I had new friends and a welcoming new Jewish community. It was that night, while listening to the mingling of Hebrew prayers and Yiddish gossip, that I remembered what I love most about being Jewish: no matter where I go, I have a home in the Jewish community. This article was written by Claire Schapira. Send an email to [email protected] to get in touch. Photo Credit: Eliana Benador