Last month, I realized I’d been using a Yiddish word my whole life without realizing it. I was at a Goodwill donation center.

“It’s mostly clothes, but there are some tchotchkes in there, too,” I said to an employee, handing him a garbage bag of stuff.

He paused, his eyebrows knitted together. “What’s…a tchotchke?”

“You know, a tchotchke. It’s a…thing. A decorative thing? Like a little porcelain bird, or umm…a useless bowl…”

He nodded and smiled in confusion as I waved my hands through the air, making a futile attempt to define what’s commonly known as a knick-knack. When I got home and Googled the word, I realized it was Yiddish. And then I felt a pang of guilt.

I didn’t grow up with Yiddish-speaking relatives and I’m not Orthodox, but the language is a huge part of Jewish culture. Why didn’t I know the word’s origins? I’m Jewish, so I should know, right? Granted, I do regularly use other Yiddish words like shtick, schmooze, schlep, nosh, and plotz. But there are plenty I don’t understand. What’s a kvetch? A cholent? Meshuggeneh is super fun to say, but yeah…no idea what it means without Google.

I constantly find myself in this strange place of guilt. A place where, despite my upbringing, I don’t feel “Jewish enough.” Logically, I know this is ridiculous. There’s no litmus test here. But all the same, the guilt nags at me.

That’s why I felt such a strong connection to It’s a Whole Spiel: Love, Latkes, and Other Jewish Stories, a YA anthology of short fiction featuring Jewish teens. Throughout the book, I saw myself reflected on the page. I groaned in sympathy as one character stumbled through telling the story of the Maccabees at a Hanukkah dinner. I clung the book to my heart when I read David Sedaris’ words, “Jewish is tikkun olam, and knowing the world is broken, and wanting to fix it through love and kindness,” a sentiment that has resonated with me since childhood. I laughed at another one of his lines, having said something similar many times: “I can still read Hebrew. As long as there are vowels. As long as you don’t ask me what it means.”

Then I came across stories where I saw no reflection of myself and felt no connection. Like the story of an Orthodox girl nervous about her NYU orientation. Or the story of two best friends at a Jewish convention for teens. I didn’t even know they had those. But as I continued reading, I didn’t feel that familiar pang of guilt.

In fact, it was comforting to immerse myself in the unfamiliarities. Reading variations of the Jewish experience in a condensed format reminded me of how deeply personal and unique Judaism is to each individual (as is any religion or culture). I imagined the book as a glass prism, and each character as a piece of refracted light. The characters and colors were unique, but they were all part of the same, broad spectrum.

It’s okay, I reminded myself. You are who you are, and that is enough. 

Reading this book was validating, but it also left me with questions. Why did I need this kind of validation? Why do I sometimes feel guilty? And why do others feel the same way, as clearly evidenced in parts of the anthology?  I can’t speak for anyone else, but I think it boils down to craving connection. I’m scared that if I’m somehow deficient or come up short, I’ll have a harder time connecting with my Jewish peers.

I often feel alone in my Jewishness. It’s a loneliness I’ve carried since childhood as I was one of two (two!) Jewish kids in my elementary school. The longing to connect with others about my culture and religion has stayed with me as an adult. But there’s good news—this anthology is proof my fears are unfounded. Without spoiling much, none of the characters end up feeling lonely or unworthy (even if they feel that way in the beginning). They all find connection and validation. And yes, they’re fictional, but they’re also realistic. Any Jewish reader can find themselves reflected on the page the same way I did. 

Mayim Bialik sums it up nicely in her forward when she writes, “Jews of all backgrounds need to find a common ground where we all can stand together…there are so many ways to live a Jewish life and feel Jewish.”

I’ll end with a Yiddish word I just Googled: Gevaldik, Mayim. I agree.

Find It: Goodreads | Bookshop | Amazon

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Lindsey Hewett is a high school English teacher and writer of middle grade fiction. In her free time, she enjoys watching movies, cycling, and scrapbooking. She’s also an avid outdoor enthusiast with an insatiable travel bug. She currently lives in Maine with her husband and labrador retriever. You can follow her on Twitter with the handle @LindsEWrites or on her website at lindseyhewett.com.