Every time I speak to my great-aunt Helen, she says she forgot the sound of my voice because she hasn't spoken to me in years. This comment does not vary based on the length of time between phone calls; she's said it to me in the same mournful tone whether it has been months between contact or merely a day.
Great-Aunt Helen is a world-renowned expert on the guilt trip. How did she develop such a talent, you may wonder? Because she's a Jew. Now, let me preface this diatribe by admitting my limited frame of reference: I have never been anything but a Jew and thus cannot claim brimstone-proof evidence that my religion is the most guilt-inducing of them all. That said, I challenge you to find a tribe of more conscience-stricken people.
As Yom Kippur (the Jewish day of atonement) comes and goes, I'm beginning to realize that we Jews don't really get a respite from our guilt. Sure, we have this day to confess and make amends for our sins, but what does it really get us? As a Reform Jew, I'm told that there is no afterlife or reincarnation, so atoning isn't going to get me court-side seats in heaven. All it really does is relieve my guilt until I sin again. It's actually a pretty clever system because it takes into account that, for Jews, nobody's perfect but everybody feels bad about it.
Yom Kippur exploits Jewish guilt like a pro: First, you admit what a terrible person you are, and then you're told you can be good again only if you don't eat for 24 hours. Yom Kippur, despite ridding me of my guilt, is actually the day when I probably feel it the most -- not because I'm a Jew, but because I'm a bad Jew. For example, this is what Yom Kippur is like in my family:
First, we go to temple, and then we eat our final supper after sundown, which we always feel guilty about, and yet this tradition continues without fail. Next, we all decide we need to brush our teeth and drink water, which we're not actually allowed to do. Now we feel guiltier. Then we start complaining about how we're so hungry, which we feel guilty about because fasting for one day isn't exactly the Jewish Ramadan. Soon after, my Dad considers breaking fast, but then he feels too guilty to do so. Then, he feels still guiltier for being "so fat" (he's not) that he needs to eat after only 12 hours.
Following my father's crisis of faith, my mother decides that she needs her tea or she cannot function. With each sip, she feels guiltier, yet she drinks a full mug. After feeling guilty for the gluttony of my family, I decide that I need to chew gum or I'll break. By the end of the day, I've chewed half a pack of Orbit and feel like the worst sinner there is. Finally, as sundown approaches, someone always breaks fast about 20 minutes before we're officially allowed. This guilty party then decides that not being able to wait those extra few minutes is more blasphemous than if he or she were to have eaten 11 hours ago.
All this self-loathing continues while he or she proceeds to devour a bagel with lox. Finally, everyone breaks fast at the temple-mandated hour and feels only a fleeting sense of pride and accomplishment before feeling disgusting for eating so much in one meal. But Yom Kippur is over and our window for repentance has closed, which means this guilt will hang over our head for another year.
So, seriously, you think you can top that? Be my guest.
And please don't tell my aunt Helen about this article. I feel guilty enough as it is.
Emily is a staff writer for The Mirror. We got an entire goat just for her sins.
