Since I moved to San Francisco, I'd say I get asked if I'm Jewish around two or three times a week--it's always other Jews asking me, excited to confirm what they already suspected--yes, I'm Jewish. Being Jewish in San Francisco feels like I'm in a gang. It's like people are coming up to me, asking if I know the secret password or handshake. And when I tell them yes, they give me a serious nod. Right on. Way to be. I've got your back. I set off some serious jewdar for three individuals this week:

1. Pamela. My 38-year-old no longer potential roommate. I'm 24, practically 25. Yes, young. Pamela kept staring at me over her latte and excaliming "You're so little!" She's not the first person to say this to me. In college my nickname was Tiny. That got started because my mother used to leave messages on our answering machine in her thick New York accent, "Tiny Jew. Call your mother!" Also, my friends happen to have a few inches on me (few). But I just didn't like the way Pamela kept saying "You're so little!" I mean, she wasn't so big. She's the kind of person who likes to get right into it--within five minutes of meeting, she was asking if I had a happy childhood. Within ten minutes, "You're Jewish, right?" Oh yeah, obviously.

Then I felt compelled to qualify my Judaism. "I'm kind of a bad jew, but I feel very Jewish, culturally at least. Very into self-deprecating humor." I got a blank stare, an awkward silence, so I kept talking. I told Pam how I had lived next door to a rabbi and a Hebrew school teacher for the past two years--Shalom and Zimra. Yes, the rabbi's name is Shalom. They are one awesome set of Jews. Orthodox, but they definitely like to get racous for Shabbat dinner. My ex-boyfriend (not a jew) had never been to a Rosh Hoshana dinner. We went over to Zimra and Shalom's and they brought in the new year proper with gefilte fish, kugel and cheap vodka in abundance. Next thing I know my boyfriend's yelling "L'Chiam!" whispering to me that we should leave soon because it's a mitzvah to have sex on the Sabbath (didn't want to bring him down with a reminder that we were celebrating Rosh Hoshana). That was the most drunk I ever saw him during our entire two-year relationship. He was too hungover to go to work the next day. Kept mumbling about how Rosh Hoshana was a wild holiday. Zimra and Shalom, rock stars for sure. But Pam didn't seem too pleased with this story. She'd never heard of Orthodox like that. Then she gave me a bit from the Pam Hebrew experience--the rabbi at the temple she went to growing up never understood her, they never connected. I told her I had never felt much of a connection with my rabbi, Rabbi Weinberg either, though he had me convinced when he belted "This is the Torah!" holding the scrolls high above his head with quivering arms. I told her about Rabbi Lustic, who I really wanted to connect with, finer than a chocolate chip macaroon on Pesach. Pam and I, though both "of the tribe" (phrase I picked up at 3 AM in a dive bar) didn't seem to have the connection either.

The apartment hunt continues and the jew in me shines through. Moving on....

2. The other night I was at a party talking to a guy about the high school English class he teaches. So yeah, I totally enjoy getting sangria-faced and discussing the books I read in my high school English classes that floored me (Beloved, Of Mice and Men, The Things They Carried, Welcome to the Monkey House--fuck yeah baby). This guy tells me that he's getting ready to teach his tenth graders Night by, Elie Weisel, and I do some sighing, "Damn. Intensity." He looked up at me, cocked an eyebrow and said, "You're 'brew, right?"

"I'm who?" I asked staring at the now-empty cup I was holding. "Night just really effected me. It's like you can't function as a human being if you're in the middle of reading it. You can't--Oh 'brew!"

He smiled.

"Yeah," I said quietly, "I'm 'brew. Never heard that one before," looking down at my hands. "Been asked if I'm of the Tribe, down with Moses, etc. Interesting."

This guy had his septum pierced and he began absently nudging the small silver hoop and leaning toward me--already a close talker. "I'm 'brew too." (Did he wink?) "Night's such an important book."

Shortly thereafter he went to smoke a cigarette and I got more sangria, unable to stop "'brew too, 'brew too," from taking clumsy laps around my brain.

And then there was BTS.

3. "BTS Translation Services (BTS) provides translation and interpretation services for companies and individuals in any language, at any time and anywhere." Sounds good. Also, notary public. I didn't know about notary public up until a week ago. You see, my purse was stolen when I went to Barcelona in January and some crafty chap started making purchases all over Espana using my ATM card. Sure, I had reported the card as stolen, but somehow this did not put the kibosh on the spending. My bank started sending me these notices of charges in Barcelona (these charges had paragraph long descriptions in Spanish--comprehensive translation is in the works) although I had not actually been in Spain for many months. In fact on the date "Sarah Gurman" incognito person made these charges in Barcelona, the real Sarah Gurman was typing dejectedly at her desk in Animation Magazine's fine Westlake Village, CA office (approx. a 50 min. commute each way from Santa Monica). Fine. The bank said no problem. You didn't make these charges, we won't take the money out of your account, we just need you to sign a form that lists the charges as fraudulent--and you need to get the form notarized. Enter BTS translation Services.

These translation services are housed in an unassuming office--I would say no more than 500 sq. ft. Two women were manning the 6254 Geary Blvd ship that day, both had the impressive ability to project from a seated positon, yelling at each other in Russian from desks at opposite ends of the room. With nests of curly black hair and nearly full body coverage courtesy of animal print lycra, Veronika and Antonina were rocking a fantastic hybrid of Amazon woman and Jewish grandmother--not fucking around. When the bell above the door sounded its bing as I entered, Veronika and Antonina paused for moment, looked up at me and then began yelling at each other again. I knew immediately they were Jewish. In the midst of expertly delivering her counter-argument (amazing how you can hear sarcasm even if you don't understand the language), Veronika directed me with her eyes to the fraying orange chair in front of her desk.

A moment later, Antonina stood up, shook her arms over her head, revealing half-moon stains under each armpit, and stomped out, saying "Lunch" quietly as the door banged behind her.

"So what can I do for you?" Veronka asked.

I launched into my Barcelona purse debacle explanation, told her about the situation with my bank, the need for her fine notary services.

"Sure, sure," she said when I finished, batting her clumpy eyelashes and giving me a concerned look."You are from Russia yes?" she asked as she began stamping the paper work in the appropriate spots and marking x's for my signature.

"Russia. Um, my great grandparents are from there, but--"

"Polish too, no?" she pulled out a cigarette and laid it on her desk, then resumed her vigorous shuffling through the pile of papers. She maintained eye contact as her fingers had memorized the movement.

"Mm hmm. I have some Polish in me as well. So is it ready? Is it ok?" I asked anxiously looking over the forms she had nudged back to me.

"Yes, it's ready. Here's an envelope," she stood up and grabbed a book of matches and her cigarette. "I knew it! Most jews around here are from Poland and Russia."

"Huh." I said. "I'm not very religious I blurted out."

"You're a good girl Sarah--don't lick that envelope. It's dangerous. Use the tape."



Before I moved to San Francisco, I had many encounters with people who picked me out as Jewish as soon as they laid eyes on me. I have written about it in the past, but the sheer volume of people calling me out as Hebrew in San Francisco has started to change the way I look at the whole phenomenon. I used to have a negative reaction when people assumed I was Jewish and asked me about it, feeling judged somehow--thought they were overstepping a boundary. It still catches me off-guard, I suppose because I can't imagine ever saying that to someone I just met ("You 'brew?"), but I'm in such a transitional phase right now: new city, new job, etc.--so much feels uncertain for me. Having this one definite aspect of my identity is comforting in a way. It gives me something to hold on to. Besides, people here seem to have such a positive reaction when I tell them that they're right, I am Jewish.