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Josie Stempel-Jung

"“Wait, you’re Jewish?”

Every time I hear that question, it feels like a doorway opening to a conversation I’ve had a million times before, and each time I tell people the same thing.

My dad is Korean, and my mom is Ashkenazi Jewish. I was raised in a Jewish household, where I celebrate every major Jewish holiday, had a bat mitzvah and spent six years learning Hebrew. Doing all of these things felt natural — what I should be doing as a Jew. Even though others might have their own questions for me based on how I look, I never questioned whether I should have a bat mitzvah or attend synagogue on the High Holy Days.

My Jewish experience has been steeped in family traditions and a Jewish community. My family hosts Passover seders and Yom Kippur break-fasts, surrounded by Jewish friends and family members. My dad’s brother’s family joins us for Passover each year, creating a blend of two distinct cultures. While this tradition brings our families together, my dad and his brother are second generation and don’t speak Korean or celebrate Korean holidays.

Based on how I look — my brown hair, brown almond eyes and tan skin — other people don’t see me as Jewish because it misaligns with how they think a Jewish person should look. The disconnect leads to some sort of cognitive dissonance, where their preconceived stereotypes about identity conflict with what they see. I know they are processing the information when they say, “Wait, you’re Jewish?” but to me it sounds like they are questioning the validity of my identity.

My Judaism is strongly connected to family — especially my mom. But, because I look Korean, it often feels tucked away under the surface. My Judaism is a part of my identity but it doesn’t inform my everyday life. I think because people don’t immediately see me as Jewish, it’s taken a toll on the way I see myself in the Jewish community.

On the other hand, being Korean is largely tied to my appearance. It’s the first thing people notice when they see me — which creates my own cognitive dissonance since I don’t really feel Korean beyond my appearance. I don’t celebrate any Korean holidays, I don’t speak Korean and I don’t have a strong connection to Korean traditions. My Korean experience feels more racial than cultural.

It feels like some sort of imposter syndrome in my own body. I navigate a space where my appearance tells one narrative, while my heritage tells another. Sometimes I feel like I straddle two worlds yet I don’t fully belong to either of them. In a way, I feel like I’m in some sort of cultural limbo.

However, my Korean and Jewish cultures are similar in that they are both heavily centered around family and food. My Korean grandmother — my Halmoni — connects me to my roots, like trying to learn Korean and having a love for Korean food. Similarly, my Jewish culture comes from what my mom and her family have taught me about our family history, and the Jewish traditions they have passed down.

However, despite this, I’ve never felt out of place in my Jewish community or at synagogue until recently.

On Kol Nidre last year, I went to synagogue with my mom and felt a sense of distance and detachment I’d never felt before. I looked around the room and I felt a distinct sense of “I don’t belong here.” I wondered why I noticed a disconnect this past year, rather than when I was a child regularly attending Hebrew lessons or a coming-of-age adult celebrating my bat mitzvah.

It dawned on me that I didn’t see a lot of people who looked like me. This was the first year going to synagogue with just my mom. I usually go with her and my older sister, who is now in college, so I always had someone who shared my identity and experiences. My mom doesn’t look like me, so she was a mirror to a feeling I had never experienced." [CONTINUES]:

https://www.jta.org/2025/04/29/ideas/why-jews-of-color-like-me-need-to-tell-our-stories