Imposter Syndrome of the Jewish Kind
by Maureen Sherbondy
Blood marks the post on my front door,
but when the neighbor’s red-green lights
reflect too brightly, my mezuzah vanishes
like the sporadic dots that spark across
my vision before a migraine.
My orthodox grandpa suffered this same disorder.
Opa woke throughout the night much as I do now.
My sleep is broken over anxiety
over whether I’m really part of the Tribe.
His hours eroded by Holocaust survivor’s guilt.
Most of our family died.
Opa ate hamburgers minus
the cheese. No bacon ever stepped
hooves inside our meat tray at home.
Hebrew words rise from my throat
while I’m stuck in traffic, as if my body
has stored up too many prayers.
Like wild vines, words escape up
the ancient walls of my throat. The trope
of my ancestors chants during caged dreams.
A rabbi once told my mother her children
had to convert because her mother
was not Jewish even though she’d converted
before my birth. Confusion ricocheted
through the halls of my childhood.
Before my bat-mitzvah, Mom
whispered, Don’t tell the rabbi
you’re not really Jewish.
My older brothers teased
that the mikveh pool
was where our parents planned
to drown me. I refused to go in.
Sometimes in the ocean
I sink beneath waves and sing
a Hebrew prayer just in case
the ritual really matters.
Maureen Sherbondy's forthcoming book is The Body Remembers. Her work has appeared in European Judaism, Calyx, Southern Humanities Review, and other journals. Maureen lives in Durham, NC.
