By Andrew Adler
Community Editor
Spoiler Alert: The following is intended both in the spirit of parody (the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge certainly exist, but — as far as I can tell — there’s no such institution as the University of East Oxbridge) and a further demonstration of artificial intelligence at work.
In short, fed the prompt, “Write about 700 words in iambic pentameter about asserting Jewish identity” — the AI bot ChatGTP generated the above verses. Time spent: approximately three seconds.
A consortium of scholars from the University of East Oxbridge recently announced it had uncovered a hitherto unknown poem by Shakespeare, tucked away in a forgotten corner of the Bodleian Library, ruminating on the subject of Jewish identity. Made public for the first time, it is reproduced below:
My Own Name
I speak my name, though sometimes soft with fear,
For names like mine have burned in books and streets.
Yet still I say it, whisper, hold it near—
A syllable that carries ancient beats.
I learned as child to notice when to hide,
To tuck the star inside a winter coat.
The world could turn with fury, quick and wide,
And silence was the safest song to note.
But silence never fit the way I prayed.
The words would rise, they pressed against my lips.
In secret I would hum the tunes they made,
Each melody a ship on storm-tossed ships.
My grandmother would light her Friday flame,
Her hands a trembling shelter round the glow.
She never missed a week, she never claimed
That fear could make her let tradition go.
I watched the shadows gather in her face,
The stories folded deep behind her eyes.
She knew the weight of exile and disgrace,
Yet lit the fire beneath the watching skies.
I think of her when others tell me now:
“Be quiet, do not mark yourself apart.”
Their counsel sounds like safety, I allow,
But costs the deepest chamber of my heart.
For I am not a secret, not a shade,
Not something better hidden, locked, concealed.
My very breath was sanctified, was made
To speak the covenant my soul revealed.
Sometimes I walk with caution through the square,
My shoulders tense, my ears alert for threat.
But even then I feel the need to bear
The signs of who I am and won’t forget.
To wear a kippah even for one day,
To hum a Hebrew blessing on the street,
To answer “yes” when asked if I still pray,
These things make every heartbeat feel complete.
I will not say that courage comes with ease.
At times I shrink, pretend I do not care.
At times my hands grow restless, knees grow weak,
And doubt unthreads the tallit that I wear.
Yet then I hear the chanting of the psalm,
The words my father taught me line by line.
They wash me over, fill me up with calm,
And anchor me in something still divine.
To be a Jew is not to shout alone;
It is to hold the quiet of a flame,
To know each stone in exile still is home,
To carve identity from loss and name.
My friends may never grasp the weight I hold,
The way my calendar turns strange and new,
The laws that shape my meals, my grief, my gold,
The thread that binds my many selves into.
And yet I do not ask them to believe.
I only ask to stand in open sight.
For faith that hides will wither as it grieves,
But faith declared can blossom into light.
So here I am: a Jew in word and deed.
I do not claim perfection in my ways.
I stumble, doubt, grow weary, yet I need
To lift my soul in honest, steady praise.
The world is wide; it tells me to belong
By shaving down the edges of my skin.
But all I’ve learned is strength in keeping strong,
In saying “Yes, this faith is where I’ve been.”
My grandmother is gone. Her flame is mine.
It burns within my living, trembling hand.
I guard it not in silence, but in time,
And let its glow declare: I choose to stand.
Andrew Adler is Managing Editor of Community.