By Emily Abrams

                I summoned the courage to join into the loud conversation of the boys around me, and at twelve years old, this was no easy feat. I listened intently and searched for an opening. My heart sank when I realized that I was already involved in the conversation, as the topic of interest. My friends, my family, and my identity were the punchline of this cruel joke.

            It was in middle school when it first became apparent to me that my religion set me apart from my vastly-Christian class. The typical adolescent discomforts of assigned seating became daily dread, as the surrounding chatter often became a continuous, unprovoked analysis of the part of me I felt most connected to: my Judaism. I was uneasy, but unsure if the pointed conversations were malicious or just miscalculated, and I wish I had read between the lines sooner. The uncomfortable fixation turned from talk to action: swastikas drawn on desks and on colored-pencil characters' foreheads, wild dances and cackles with pretend kippot, sweetly-asked questions regarding gas chambers and lost family, and pennies tossed my way on the school bus ride.

              My teachers, while sympathetic, were deeply unhelpful, and the attacks on my heritage and identity had a profound effect on my life. Where I had once felt a strong sense of proud community and intergenerational bond, I was filled with bitterness and confusion, and I shrank from my faith, afraid of the way it made me different and "other." I felt alienated from my peers, and developed a new sense of spite toward the community that had once felt like my home. The prayers I was learning in preparation for my bat mitzvah, the monumental experience that would mark the start of my Jewish adulthood, seemed less important and less special. The faith in which I had once felt most authentically myself had been tainted by extrinsic hatred and animosity.

           As I entered high school, my hostility towards Judaism left me painfully incomplete and searching for a way back into the community I desperately missed. This new determination for belonging led me to another major turning point: the day I met the group of young Jewish women that would change my life. Upon my introduction to the B'nai B'rith Girls, I had no idea of the impact it would have on my world outlook and perspective. However, I attribute some of my greatest joys and proudest moments to my membership: embarking on transformative months of summer leadership training with brilliant and compassionate Jewish people from around the world, throwing myself into chapter Executive Board as the head of Jewish programming and social action, developing a love of social and political activism, and finally reconnecting with the part of myself that had been taken away from me.

        It is a funny paradox- the experience I consider to be one of the worst in my life led me to some of the best. I think that without surviving these antisemitic attacks at school, I never would have found BBG and transformed into the politically-active, proudly-Jewish person I am today. This is truly a uniquely-Jewish struggle: we are faced with hardship and hate, our faith is tested, and then we prevail with an even stronger sense of self. Our interconnection and community are feats that span generations; Jewishness has again and again thrived where outside animosity threatens us. It is this determination and steadfastness in the face of hatred that defines us as and connects us both to our turbulent past and our hopes for the future.

         When I look back on my own Jewish life, amidst the shame and loss, I have learned to appreciate how the darker moments catalyzed such positive changes in my life. It surprises me to admit, even to myself, but if I could go back and prevent the hate I went through, I would not: I have learned to thank my younger self, because her endurance and willingness to open herself up to her community again have allowed me the opportunity to experience all the wonders that Jewish adulthood and community have to offer. My Jewishness is both this struggle and this reconnection, both this march away from feeling ashamed of my faith and toward feeling a much more impactful link to my heritage and identity. For that reason, this is the moment that I feel most defines my Jewish experience, and the Jewish experience as a whole: I had to lose my faith to find it, and together, we had to be challenged to walk away stronger.