Religion as Therapy
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A Jew by Any Other Name
By Yael Kohen
Every time I meet someone new, I have to teach them how to say my name properly: Ya-el. Not Elle. Not Gail. Not Yale. Just two syllables: Ya-plus-El. Really, it's not that hard.
Once the person has learned to muffle a word that sounds more or less like my name, it's on to the 20 questions such an ethnic handle inspires: What kind of name is that? Hebrew. What does it mean? Antelope. Are you Israeli? I'm American. Born here? Uh-huh. Are your parents Israeli? My father's from Tel Aviv. Do you still have family there? Some aunts, uncles, and cousins. Where's your mother from? Seattle. Is she Jewish? Yes. And yes, they have Jews in Seattle. Do you speak Hebrew? Not really. What's your last name? Kohen. Ohhh.
By the time the seven-minute introduction is up, this person has concluded that I'm an Orthodox Super-Jew who shops at Loehmann's, wears a frumpy jean skirt that hits below the knee, and is blindly in line with every action the Israeli government takes.
Don't get me wrong — I love my name. It's original, a great conversation starter, and comes with a heroic biblical story: a nomadic woman, Yael, beds a Canaanite general, then drives a tent stake through his head, thus saving the Hebrew people (Book of Judges). I'm also a proud member of the tribe: I was bat mitzvahed; attended Hillel services during the High Holy days when I was in college; light a menorah on Hanukkah; exclaim oy! on a regular basis; and insist on Chinese food and a movie on Christmas Eve with almost religious conviction.
It's just that sometimes I'd rather my Jewishness not be the first thing someone sees. One reason: It can complicate my dating life. With Jewish guys, I tend to overemphasize my yes-I-drive-on-Saturday, pork-eating ways to minimize concern that I'm looking for a man who will bring home the challah for Friday night dinner. As for non-Jews, when I recently told a guy who'd been talking about roasting a pig at a BBQ that I was looking forward to chowing down on it, he looked at me blankly: "But it's not kosher." When I replied, "I love pork," he was confused, then conceded that he'd typecast me. Only then did he see fit to flirt with me.
Then there are the assumptions about my political views. In social settings, I'm often paranoid that my name will trigger a debate about the situation in the Middle East. On a trip to Marbella, Spain, I asked my travel companions to call me Yale, after the school, should we meet some rich Saudis known for vacationing there. Sometimes debate does erupt: Once at a pizza party with a dozen or so political-science majors, one righteous lefty went on the offensive, slamming me with her view that the Jews didn't really need a homeland. Since I can't back down from an argument, I gave it right back to her, and the whole tiff cast a major pall over the rest of the evening.
Funny that so many people should make so much of a label that was given to me by my parents rather than something chosen by me, like my profession or love of action movies. Certainly, my name speaks to where I come from (even then it's only one-tenth of the story), but it doesn't say so much about where I am now or where I am going. For that, you would actually have to get to know me.
Once when I told my secular mother about an awkward conversation I'd had with a stranger about being Jewish, she asked me why I have a need to talk about it. I looked at her, dumbfounded: "Mom! You named me Yael Kohen!"
"Oh. I hadn't thought of that," she said. "I just thought the name was pretty."
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