Something Lost, Something Gained
By Hannah Rome
If you’d asked me about community before visiting Amherst last month, my answer might have been different. Growing up, Judaism was my primary vehicle for community. I was Bat Mitzvahed and active in youth group. Most of my friends were Jewish. We were secular Jews; Seinfeld Jews. When my family made our yearly cameo at Yom Kippur to atone with the hangry masses, I hid in the preschool, hoarding the Goldfish. My community saw me through childhood, college and the great post-grad migration to Brooklyn, but I’ve drifted since. I live amongst the gentiles. I’m indifferent toward tradition. My values have evolved, and our community doesn’t always echo that. Like many American Jews, I struggle with my identity, enraged by the war on Gaza and the propaganda I was fed about Israel. In the Old World, Judaism would have been the keystone of my life-- dictating my diet, routine, where I could menstruate without defiling my husband. But, the Old World barely survived the Holocaust, Diaspora, and assimilation. With all my modern ambivalence, I simply opted out.
My family’s link to our history is particularly attenuated. After my mom’s parents and elders all died before old age, we were left with a patina of the past, an approximation of our heritage. My mom remembers a few pieces of family lore from growing up, one being that our ancestors owned a publishing house, Rome Publishing (after our last name, Rome) in Latvia. Despite countless genealogical efforts (Henry Louis Gates Jr. still hasn’t returned our email), we never could confirm the story. It was a myth, a hunch, and we preferred to believe it as a longshot than know it as a lie.
When I first toured colleges ten years ago, my mom was battling metastatic breast cancer. She stayed home, debilitated by chemo, while my Dad and I planned an uncertain future. Our trip to Amherst last month was a celebration, a chance to reclaim lost time with her strong and healthy by my side. While the trip focused on my graduate education, my mom made one request that we stop by the Yiddish Book Center on the Hampshire campus. She called ahead to inquire about Rome Publishing while I hopped in the shower, due to my talent for missing watershed moments. A bibliography fellow answered, cracking our family mythology wide open. Romm Publishing (pronounced Rome) was the largest publisher of Jewish and Yiddish books in Europe, preserving up to 90% of literature in the region before its destruction in the Pogroms. At the Center, the fellow deepened our family lore with stories about the Romms. Together we roamed the petrichor-scented library stacks, surrounded by remnants of our nearly lost history.
Authenticating this part of our past illuminated my connection to it. I’m not just part of a Jewish legacy, but a literary one. I didn’t have to rediscover my Judaism or adopt antiquated customs (even my Rabbi sneaks an occasional cheesesteak). Instead, my predecessors found me exactly as I am-- a writer, first and foremost. Now, I’ve recontextualized my heritage in their image: championing literature, art, history and ideas. Emerging from my rejection of it, my new Jewish identity is about resilience-- finding what’s been lost and carrying it on. I could never help bringing Judaism into my writing. Now I know why.