This short story was originally published in the anthology, I Thought My Father Was God, and Other True Tales from NPR’s National Story Project, edited by Paul Auster. (Henry Holt and Co., 2001)

Jewish Cowboy

By Jennifer Pye (J.P. Gebbie)

I was having one of those moments high-school teachers live for. The class was silent, listening with rapt attention to one of their classmates give his sociology report. The students had chosen to investigate a particular aspect of their cultural heritage, and Bruce had focused on Judaism, the religion to which he had converted at the age of 10. He was demonstrating the rituals of devout prayer to his classmates, something only the most daring teenager could pull off without embarrassment. 

Bruce was a tall, handsome senior. The paragon of cool, his peers listened to him whenever he deigned to speak. Standing before the class, he explained that donning the tefillin was a sacred act and must be performed in complete silence. To my pride and amazement, the entire class sat still, practically holding its collective breath. Bruce prayed and slowly wound the thin black strap around his arm, then deliberately placed the other strap over his forehead. I could never have imagined such complete and reverent respect inside a public school. When he was finished, the students asked questions in subdued tones. Bruce answered with professional patience, then returned to my office to remove the straps in private prayer. I was filled with renewed faith in the American Teenager, and for a week I repeated this story of religious conviction and adolescent self confidence to anyone who would listen. 

The following year, Bruce came back to visit the school just before Thanksgiving break, as many graduates do. I overheard him telling a bunch of admiring kids how he’d deferred going to college for a while and was riding rodeo somewhere in the South instead. He’d developed a distinct drawl and was leaning against the doorway in his blue jeans, a bandanna casually stuck in the back pocket. He talked about riding bulls as if he’d been doing it all his life. When the other students had gone on to class, my curiosity got the better of me and I pulled Bruce aside. 

“Bruce,” I asked, “I just want to know, how do your cowboy buddies react when you leave the rodeo to keep the Sabbath?”
“Oh no, ma’am,” he said. “I gave all that up. I’m born-again now.”