In the book of Judges, we meet Samson. The ultimate Jewish man. His long flowing hair provided him with supernatural strength and turned him into a Jewish Superman. And let’s face it, the Jews don’t have many Supermen. My Samson was my father. Everyone’s is. But every Superman has a kryptonite. My kryptonite was shame. And California. I was born between two worlds. All year I lived as a secular kid in Oakland and in the summer I’d fly back to New York to join up with my father in Seagate, the Satmar community he’d adopted. My dad tried his best to imbue me with a love for Judaism, but much more active than that love was my own sense of shame that I wasn’t Jewish enough. Though I wore the costume, I always had the feeling I had a bright neon sign above me flashing, “DOES NOT KNOW YIDDISH!”
Then the unthinkable happened. In February of my twentieth year, my father was diagnosed with cancer. He died in May. My Samson was broken. His hair was gone. My anger was, too. It just seemed useless. A year later, I flew back to Seagate to say kaddish for my father on his yahrzeit. There was one problem. I’d grown my hair out, long. The prospect of going back into synagogue like this sent bolts of fear into my scalp. I melted into a twelve year old again. I ran around the house, frantic, trying to stuff my hair into a comically undersized fedora. Shame was swirling around me a thousand turns a second. I became twelve again, painfully aware that I wasn’t, that I never would be, right.
Then I took a breath.
Realized I wasn’t twelve.
Realized I wasn’t ruled by those demons from my past.
Realized I was a grown-up.
Realized it didn’t matter if they knew I was different.
Hell, I was different.
I took off my hat.
My hair spilled down onto my shoulders like Samson.
I got my strength back.
I knocked down the walls of my past with my bare hands.
I walked to shul.
I became a man.
