Living in a Village - Turning Tuscan: A Step-by-Step Guide to Going Native - page 46

somewhere along the way. Like many kindred spirits who made their way to California, we
pursued spirituality according to our own lights, finding occasional glimpses of the sacred
in the arts, in psychology, in the experience of wilderness, in the creative process. When
our children were born, the issue of religious affiliation returned. I realized that it was im-
portant to me for our girls to have a sense of their Jewish heritage, and Pam was willing to
humor me. So, setting aside my gripes with tradition and institutions, I decided to follow
the advice of the great contemporary Jewish artist, R.B. Kitaj, in his posthumously pub-
lished Second Diasporist Manifesto , namely, “Be some kind of Jew.” That was the kind of
spiritual injunction I could follow without feeling overly constrained or conflicted.
So, our girls are growing up as Jews in a little Catholic village in Tuscany. Once a month
we head off to Florence to participate in the monthly Sabbath services that are held at the
little Reform congregation of Shir Hadash to which we belong. Occasionally, when I can
wheedle or cajole them into it, we listen to Hebrew language CDs and learn colors, num-
bers and simple phrases. Someday soon we'll be going to Israel for a first visit together.
When they are older, I will teach them about the history of anti-Semitism, about the pre-
cariousness of life for Jews in so many parts of the world today, about the genocidal am-
bitions of the Basiji in Iran and the “resistance” in Gaza. When they are older, I will have
them listen to the videotaped interviews that my mother did for the Spielberg Holocaust
Film Library, but when or how anyone ever becomes old enough to listen to them remains
an open question.
In the meantime our girls participate fully in the communal life of the village, including its
nominally religious festivals. Emma, our younger daughter, played the part of one the three
Wise Men in last year's Epiphany play, while Siena, who has now become one of the big
kids, played the part of the Befana, the witchy old hag who scares the little ones with her
ghastly looks but gives them a large bag of candy—if they are brave enough to come near.
The priest, along with the rest of the villagers, is happy to include our children in these
kinds of events without any expectation that they will start attending Mass.
Every year, under the auspices of the Church, the village organizes at least a couple of
outings to places connected in some way with Christianity. In Italy it's not too hard to
find some religious linkage with almost any destination. Last season everyone went to the
Amalfi Coast. A bus is chartered, 50 to 60 people sign up, everyone chatters away, the
priest takes the microphone and occasionally comments on places of interest that we drive
past. At some point we pull off into a service area along the highway and a public service
announcement informs us that we're stopping for 15 minutes for a coffee, a smoke and a
pee. Back on the bus, sooner or later, the priest starts telling jokes and seems to be able