We may be indistinguishable, but we aren’t interchangeable

I’ve been doing a lot of learning in the past week or so. Not because I’ve finally figured… I’ve been doing a lot of learning in the past week or so. Not because I’ve finally figured out how to stay awake in class, or have even started going to class for that matter — I’m just as clueless about the struggles of Turkish immigrants in France and how to write in German, in the subjunctive tense, I as I was last month. What I’ve learned, like most of what is actually important, was waiting for me in that nebulous space known as the real world.

In hanging out with my 15-year-old brother, who spent the weekend here, I’ve figured out more about my family than I had in the past 18 years. The four of us are no Brady Bunch, but I’d say we get along remarkably well. Maybe it has taken some time away from home for me to realize this, or maybe it has only become clear with my brother’s ascent out of childhood, but now I know why — we’re all the same person.

Never before have I noticed how often my brother borrows phrases and gestures from my dad. He got his sense of humor from my mom, from whom I have taken most of my methods of dealing with people. Seeing as how plenty of our family’s elderly folk accidentally call me Arlene and marvel at how young I look, that isn’t all I’ve gotten from her. Aside from unquenchable loves for dessert and people-watching, it’s tougher to pinpoint what I have of my father’s, but I know it’s there, in spades.

I can hear some of my own attitudes and philosophies when my brother talks. Even though he’s younger, I’m willing to bet I’ve absorbed some of his personal disregard for authority figures. Truth be told, this is definitely a trait he got from my dad — and a trait he is now using against my authority-figure father.

It’s doubtful that I would recognize this so clearly if I hadn’t had the chance to watch another family in action Monday night. On this first night of Passover, I found myself in a friend’s home participating in a Seder that was both very different from and very similar to any Seder I have ever been to.

I was surrounded by cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents, and while I was related to none of them, there is a reason stereotypes exist. Multiple people made sure I had more than enough to eat and drink, asked the same questions concerning school and, overall, treated me like a member of the family. Perhaps more to the point, they treated each other in ways strikingly like my own extended family does. There were a few extra cousins, and everyone was a little taller, but all of the necessary ingredients were present.

While this host family provided me with a wonderful Passover, and while it bears a striking resemblance to my own family, I’m not about to ask them to adopt me. An important difference was brought to my attention that night.

There may be no way for an old lady to identify the lone Phish-head in a crowd of emo kids. It is presumably as tough for a non-Jew to tell a reform and conservative service apart as it is for me to highlight the differences between various denominations of Christianity or Islam. To someone who doesn’t speak Japanese or Chinese, the two may sound essentially the same.

We — Jews, families, college students, whatever — are pretty much indistinguishable to the outside eye. We are not, however, interchangeable. Jewish Mother X will never be my Jewish mother, no matter how similar they may seem at first. Nor will I ever be my mother, or brother, or father, even if we sort of share a personality.

Sitting amidst books full of philosophy and economic theory as I may be, it’s the little things that seem like the biggest revelations. As awfully Sesame Street as I know it is, we’re all special — and gosh darn it, I like it that way.

Emily Kaufman has unfortunately rediscovered her love for chocolate-covered macaroons, thereby damning her attempts at calorie-cutting. E-mail her at edk3@pitt.edu