It’s a commonplace experience of a Diaspora Jew visiting Israel to realize that suddenly, this thing that made you different is actually the least remarkable thing about you.

The character Alexander Portnoy speaks to this in Philip Roth’s novel Portnoy’s Complaint—but I’ve also just lived it when visiting Tel Aviv or Rehovot or wherever. Whether you experience it as being Othered in a bad way or as a point of pride and what makes you special, you get to Israel and lo and behold, no one is surprised that your family doesn’t celebrate Christmas or whatever. Streets are named after Jewish figures, businesses are closed on Jewish holidays, Jewishness is assumed, so distinctiveness requires other sources. Being Jewish isn’t associated with being this way or that—not with being neurotic or good with money—because Jews are everywhere you look. The bimbos and himbos are Jewish, too.

So it took me by surprise, visiting my hometown of New York City over the holiday break, to feel a bit, well, Israel-visit-ish while there. It’s not that everyone is Jewish (nor, for that matter, is everybody Jewish in Israel), but rather that there’s just some crucial difference in population and culture such that it is not a whole thing to be Jewish in post-Oct. 7 New York, not in the way it is in Toronto. Goodness knows that relative to plenty of places, Toronto’s got Jews. But it is, at most, a city with some Jewish areas. We’re Canadian, sure, but one of the city’s many Others.

The streets........

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