My Jewish identity is
built of books spines
stolen from inside novels
found in the curve of a pen and stroke of a brush
I am not sure who I am
Or what it means to be
"chosen"
or how to find meaning in Hebrew
or hold my hands open to a heavy God
and say
the prayers every jew should know
I do not know where to face when I pray
or who to face
I am not sure why I become silent in old synagogues
or hold onto my grandmother’s silver chain so tight
I cry sometimes when I hear the stories
feel my spine arch, my insides are weighted
I do not know why I am so drawn
to this side of me I barely know
this side I love with a fierceness I do not understand
I do not know why I find solace in shabbos candles and prayer shawls
I do not know why I hold onto my name so tightly
I do not know why I hold this word or idea or maybe religion
Jewish, Judaism, Jew
why I place these words on my tongue so reverently
so much gratitude, so much respect
that I am part of this something, this culture, this identity
that is spun around the wheel of history
that is weaved in ways I do not understand
I do not understand
who I am
or what it means
so I keep collecting
collecting my identity
through books
and paintings
and dust and stories and songs
through old bibles and old hands
constantly seeking instruction
looking for direction
Hoping to learn the way I must go
Hoping to understand the part of me
that cries out
at the sight of ancient psalms
and old scrolls
hoping to understand what parts of me belong in this gallery
what parts of me are hung on these walls
By Janis Yerington (My Mother-from her Max's Bible exhibition)
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