My Big Fat Irish Bar Mitzvah

One Family Found Judaism Between Celtic Tales and Hora

An Irish-Jewish Fugue: The author’s children, Nadia and Max Hannan at their bat and bar mitzvah, which they celebrated in Ireland in 2005.
courtesy of Judith Hannan
An Irish-Jewish Fugue: The author’s children, Nadia and Max Hannan at their bat and bar mitzvah, which they celebrated in Ireland in 2005.

By Judith Hannan

Published March 16, 2015, issue of March 27, 2015.

I made my first visit to Ireland more than 30 years ago. When I had married John a few months earlier, I had also wed his Celtic heritage, and was no longer a Goldberg, in name at least. My “Jewishness” became something that it was detected by no one but me. We went to a pub in a fishing village where John’s mother grew up. I couldn’t follow the conversation John was having with his uncles, who spoke with a strong Irish accent. In my otherness, I also felt liberated, a hint of the way Ireland would eventually become a chance for me to redefine myself as a Jew. It would take time, though, before Ireland felt enough like a home.

By my second visit I had become a mother, and the Irishness of my in-laws felt like a threat to my children’s identities as Jews. John’s parents, who had immigrated from Ireland, and their first-generation children wrapped themselves in their culture like a favorite coat, flashing their freckles and wide grins at a hint of anything Irish — a song, a story, a dance. The design of our Jewish family life woven by my parents, who eschewed Yiddish and faith in favor of science and assimilation, could never be as comfortable or warm. Irish or Jewish — which would win the hearts of my three children? Irish meant a large family, a grandmother who baby-sat and sang silly songs. It meant dimples and eyes that sparkled. Jewish meant Hebrew lessons, observance, a grandmother who existed only as a memory held in the name of my elder daughter, Frannie. It meant a scattered family of quiet souls. Creating a Jewish household would be a lonely job for me.

I had always been an insecure Jew. Despite her own lack of observance, my mother sent my sister and me to religious school two afternoons a week. But we had no context for what we were learning either at home or in our public school in the town of Lexington, Massachusetts, where there were no seats for kids with olive skin and big noses at the cool-kids’ table in the cafeteria. The synagogue became important to me for my social life, not for my spiritual one. I threw myself into the songs and dances of Yisrael, but I could barely lip sync my way through the rituals of faith.

A Jewish-Irish Fairy Tale: Luttrellstown Castle near Dublin, Ireland, where the author wove together the two identities of her family.
Courtesy of Luttrellstown Castle
A Jewish-Irish Fairy Tale: Luttrellstown Castle near Dublin, Ireland, where the author wove together the two identities of her family.

By my third visit to Ireland, I had become seduced. My parents raised me to love the forest, sea and song, so I was in thrall to the lunar landscape of Connemara, the vertical cliff faces and thrashing seas, and the wind-blown spaces that moaned with memories. Ireland’s myths and legends captivated me; they were the antidote to the logic of my father and the pragmatism of my mother. When I was a child, my mother told me that you went in the ground when you died and that was it. Ireland had its legend of Tir na Nog, where a beautiful woman on a white horse can bring you to the land of Eternal Youth, and the romantic and tragic myths of the selkie — half seal, half woman — who sheds her skin on land. If a man steals it she can never return to the sea.

Even though my mother-in-law once confessed to my sister’s husband that she feared my unbaptized children would go to hell, I never wavered in my wish to raise our children Jewish — I just wasn’t sure how. John had grown up with faith but was severing his ties to Catholicism, so he went along with my efforts at a home-based observance. This meant 10-minute rituals for Sabbath dinners and Passover Seders, the latter of which I saw as my annual opportunity to convey every Jewish lesson I could remember. I requested a few synagogue applications but stumbled on questions about our past affiliations. Could we be deemed not Jewish enough? A tutor and an independent rabbi were my children’s teachers and, by osmosis, my own.



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