Ivri Anochi

Being Jewish is my primary identity. My whole existence revolves around it. My thought process is based on it. 

It's usually practiced in a supportive environment. I live in a frum area, shop in frum supermarkets (where I don't have to bother to check the hechsher), and my workplace is half frum. 

Han is one of the few frum people in his workplace, and one of them married a few weeks ago. This fellow knows about everything, and Han has asked his advice regarding all manner of topics, so we went as friends of the groom. 

I consciously edited my conversation, making sure to convert any Hebrew or Yiddish terms into English. I also had to refrain from a number of topics that, well, this crowd couldn't relate to, but that other random frummies would have.

I had to fend off the solicitous waiters who begged me to have an hors d'oeuvre, or some champagne. When I declined the alcohol, he counter-offered with apple cider, and when I denied that as well, he asked, scandalized, "But what will you toast the couple with?" Water, my good fellow, water.

The groom had thoughtfully instructed the caterer to have kosher meals for us, but we had to wait for the main course. Han and I watched as the others were served the appetizers, getting a little peckish. At some point we snuck out to the next door drugstore and got a Kind bar and a banana. By the time our kosher meals arrived, we were really, really, looking forward to them. 

Only to realize that the food was from Ben's, which does not have glatt certification. It wasn't even double-wrapped. 

I asked a waiter for a bag, claiming we had to leave for the babysitter, so we could smuggle out our untouched food without the groom noticing. 

Our hunger drove us to leave before the wedding officially ended. As we bid our farewells to the happy couple (both were happily sawing through massive steaks), the groom insisted we take a few bottles of wine that were prepared as a party favor. Then he offered cake. 

We kept demurring, but he couldn't understand how both those items could be problematic, kosher-wise. We took the darn wine, which I ended up passing on to a non-Jewish co-worker (she was very happy). 

By the time we got home, we practically knocked over Eewok (she was babysitting) as we threw ourselves at the fridge. 

As we sat there stuffing our faces on Shabbos leftovers, I still felt accomplished. I was in a surroundings that didn't understand my faith and practices, and we politely stuck to our guns. We proved to everyone and ourselves that we are Jews.

It's not exactly marching into the fires of the auto-da-fé. It was a small, minor happenstance. Matters got mildly awkward, as opposed to literal torture. But I still feel proud.