There’s a little green flag sitting on my desk at work; one of those push-pin kinds of things. I’m supposed to write my initials on it and stick it on a map that’s affixed to a bulletin board. I’m supposed to stick it on the country of my heritage, and next week, I am supposed to prepare a dish for a potluck lunch, and that dish is supposed to represent the country under my little green flag.
And I don’t know where to stick my little green flag.
Well, you’re going to just stick the flag on Israel, right? Because you’re Jewish. Is what somebody said to me.
I’m Jewish, not Israeli, I replied.
And not everybody in Israel is Jewish. And the people around me were sticking all sorts of little flags on top of all sorts of countries. But I couldn’t find Jewish, so my flag is still sitting on my desk.
I guess my heritage is Jewish, because being Jewish accounts for a lot of the things I believe and the way I act in certain situations. But my Catholic friend is not looking for Catholic on a map, even though being Catholic accounts for a lot of the things she believes in, and the way she acts in certain situations.
If I was still in Israel and we were having a heritage potluck lunch, I would stick my flag on Canada and bring in maple fudge. But in Canada, I’m not called Canadian. I’m called Jewish.
I’ve also been called, You People, and I can’t find You People on the map either.
It must be next to Jewish.