Imagine you wake up and there’s no Christmas. You still celebrate the birth of Jesus, but no one else has heard of this funny holiday with its jolly bearded man, piles of presents, and songs about sleigh bells. You have one week to find a suitable pine tree, chop it down, and drag it back to your house. You try to explain mistletoe and you sound like a crazy person.
Welcome to being a Jew in Perth. Jews might be the chosen people, but apparently they were not chosen to live in Western Australia. Where are they hiding? Is hiding the wrong word? WHERE ARE MY PEOPLE AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH THEM?
Passover is fast approaching and I am up for the challenge. There will be a Seder in my house if we have to substitute a Tim Tam for a shank bone. Unlike the Safeway on Taraval Street in San Francisco, our grocery store does not have an ethnic section. I regret my decision to not swallow a condom full of matzah ball soup mix before I boarded the plane to move here.
Last week, a waitress in Perth told me I don’t “look Jewish.” I have been hearing that my whole life. Yes, all you sweet goofballs out there, I know. It’s very complicated. I don’t “look” Jewish. My husband doesn’t “look” black. Our children don’t “look” like sisters. That’s because we are aliens who have come to Earth to enjoy your Woody Allen movies and smoke all of your salmon.
At my daughter’s swim meet last week, I met a Hungarian Jew and we high-fived. She politely inquired if I’m the American who just moved to town. Then she leaned over and asked cautiously, “Aren’t you Jewish too?” I stood up, hooted, and then held up my palm so we could exchange our ancient tribal greeting. A bit much perhaps, but meeting her felt like waving your hand around in the dark and finally locating the light switch.
Evidently there is a sizable community of Jews in Perth. They’re just not in my neighborhood. They live in a suburb called Menora. Swear to god.
