Although I grew up as a minority Jew in a small Connecticut town, our local synagogue did not feel like home to me. Yes, I attended Hebrew school on Thursdays, spent many Saturdays there for Shabbat, and was bat mitzvahed on the bima as a rainbow of Sunkist gummies showered me from all directions. And yet, the temple experience — baritone-heavy Hebrew chanting, the staid nature of services, and a distinct sense of restraint — felt more like a motion I was supposed to go through rather than a source of identity.
There were some exceptions. With each Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, I connected with a growing spirituality brewing within me. I appreciated this time of reflection to consider how I could behave better in my life and to feel into a heaviness in my heart that reminded me of the dark side of Jewish history.
