Storytelling

Heeb‘s critically acclaimed Storytelling series presents Jewish stories from an ever-changing crew of performers across the country. We now give you Heeb _Storytelling in its online incarnation. Check back here each Thursday for a new story. The first installment is “You’re Jewish, Right” by Eric D. Weingrad._

“You’re Jewish, right” is something I’ve gotten most of my life. And every time those words are muttered out of someone’s mouth, I can’t help but feel awkward and embarrassed. Are they so sure of my heritage because of the size of my nose? Or maybe it’s my olive-esque skin and dark eyes? Or is it because they recognize Jewish people by their rugged good looks? (It’s probably the former and not the latter.) Regardless of the reason, the question remains, should I be offended by their assumption—even though it’s correct?

I recently moved to a new apartment in West Hollywood with my girlfriend, who happens to be… well, let’s just say she never gets that question. We looked at a bunch of places and nothing was standing out until this one place we visited. It was beautiful—hardwood floors, brand new kitchen, down the street from In ‘N Out. Exactly what we were looking for in an apartment. The landlord was a little late and showed up after my better half and I had already toured the place. We were sold on it. When the landlord showed up, she looked at my girlfriend and smugly shook her hand and said nothing. When her eyes fixated on me, she promptly asked, “You’re Jewish, right?” I had judged her silently myself and made the quick assumption that she was Jewish too based on the Mr. T jewelry and Liberace rings, so I told her, “Of course! Would a nose like this lie?” She laughed. We got the apartment.

I want to believe that we were approved because of our flawless credit, our stability at our jobs and the fact that we generally seemed like a nice, young couple who wouldn’t take a crap in the common area and throw parties until 4 am on a school night. What I really believe is that we got the place because I’m a Jew.

A few years back, I was at a beach party where I didn’t really know anyone at the party. I was a friend of a friend of an acquaintance. I was “that guy”. Either way, I was working my way through the partygoers and having a pretty good time, when I was introduced to a circle of people as a guy’s “buddy who produces TV”. Not a bad introduction. To my amusement, I watched a wannabe actress’s eyes light up with delight as the word “producer” rolled off his tongue. After the obligatory handshakes ended, I started up some small talk with the aforementioned thespian. Before we even got to the part of the conversation where I say, “So who do you know here,” she asked, “You’re Jewish, right?” Just like the landlord, I had sized up this girl the second I met her, and based on the five-inch crucifix hanging between her cleavage, I made the quick assumption that she was definitely not a Jew.

At this point, I had a decision to make. Do I call out this shiksa on her rude assumption based off my profile, my beard and my ultra-stereotypically Jewish occupation? Or do I ignore the uncouth wonderment, work the industry-guy angle and suck sandy face for a night? I wish my scruples had had a say in my decision, but apparently my penis loves crosses. We made out.

More recently, I had entered a poker tournament from which a good portion of the proceeds were to go to a good cause. Something about saving orphaned whales with dyslexia… I don’t know. I was in it because I love poker, I love competition and more importantly, I love poker. The tournament started with about 16 tables and dwindled down to three and I was still going strong. It’s pretty commonplace for people to run their mouth at events like this because the endorphins are pumping and that glimmer of a nice little pay day in the distance inspires illusions of grandeur. There were about six people at my table and every move demanded a comment from the peanut gallery. On one particular hand, the betting got pretty steep. I and two other guys were calling each other through the turn card. When the river card dropped (that’s the final card to be dealt, for you poker neophytes), I made a hefty bet of “All in” as I pushed my chips into the center of the table. I hit a straight to the King on the river and figured I had the best hand. The next guy folded. The third guy seemed pissed. He looked over his ridiculous sunglasses and said to me, “You’re Jewish, right?” What the hell did that mean? Did my Judaism somehow tip off this guy know as to whether I was bluffing or not?

Needless to say, I was floored by the bold question, but was able to get in a verbal punch: “Only when I role-play with your wife.” _Zing!_ He didn’t like that very much—his face flushed and he let his anger do the betting. He pushed all in as well and showed his straight to the Queen. I won. Five hands later, I was eliminated, but I walked away a winner because I won the one hand that, in the end, mattered the most to me.

Now these were three different people with three different ways of looking at the world, but one question bound them for eternity. My landlady saw my religion as a good thing, but when she asked me that question I was embarrassed that my non-Jewish girlfriend saw the ugly inner workings of Jewish favoritism. The beach girl saw it as something strange and cool, but when she spoke those words I felt ashamed because I was supporting the stereotype that Jews will do anything to end up on top (pardon the obvious pun). And the poker guy saw my Judaism as a threat and when he voiced his assumption, so I could only stoop down to his level and send something equally appalling his way.

It’s not easy to say definitively if the question in itself is or isn’t rude. But the facts are that because of my Jewish appearance, I booted a moron out of a poker tournament, I live in a beautiful place, and I get hit on by sexy, dumb actresses. Thank God I’m Jewish.

What do you think?