Goluth

Goluth, the Hebrew term for banishment or exile, is the foundational condition of Jewish existence in the Pale of Settlement as Mary Antin describes it in her memoir. It is not merely a geographical fact but a total state of being, a spiritual and civic disinheritance that colors every aspect of life in Polotzk. The memoir's glossary defines it plainly as "Banishment; exile," but the narrative expands this definition into a lived reality: a people without a country, without a flag to love, without heroes to worship, and without a future in the land of their birth. Goluth is the negative space against which the entire drama of Americanization unfolds, the darkness that makes the light of the New World so radiant.

The Condition of Exile

The state of Goluth is characterized by a profound sense of being cut off from the actual world. Mary Antin explains that the story of the Exodus, the central myth of Jewish deliverance, was not history to her in the way the American Revolution would later become. Instead, it was "more like a glorious myth," a belief that had the effect of linking her to a world of phantoms while cutting her off from the present. The moments of exaltation derived from contemplating the Biblical past, which allowed the Jews to call themselves children of princes, only served to tinge the long humdrum stretches of daily life with a more poignant sense of disinheritance. The conditions of civil life in the Pale did not permit the cultivation of a spirit of nationalism; the grudgingly granted freedom of worship did not include the right to set up openly any ideal of a Hebrew State or any hero other than the Czar. What children picked up of their ancient political history was confused with the miraculous story of Creation and the supernatural legends of Bible lore. Even the prayer that closed the Passover service, "Next year, may we be in Jerusalem," was repeated on childish lips without conscious aspiration, a mere recitation of Hebrew syllables without the hope and longing of their elders.

The Symbols of Bondage

In this state of exile, even the most potent symbols of nationhood were inverted into emblems of oppression. The banner of the House of Romanoff became the emblem of latter-day bondage, a flag that even a child would know how to hate, forced as they were to hoist it above their housetops on pain of severe penalties to celebrate the advent of one of their oppressors. The uniform of the soldier was equally hated, down to the last brass button. On the person of a Gentile, it was the symbol of tyranny; on the person of a Jew, it was the emblem of shame. This hatred was not abstract but was felt "in his own flesh," as Mary Antin puts it, from the spiteful treatment suffered at the hands of the smallest urchin who crossed himself. The very knowledge of being Jews in exile was reinforced daily by such encounters, making the prayer for deliverance a genuine, if often uncomprehending, cry from the heart.

The Narrow World of Polotzk

The condition of Goluth also determined the narrowness of educational and social possibilities, particularly for women. Jewish scholarship was confined to a knowledge of the Hebrew language and literature, and even these limited stores were not equally divided between men and women. A girl was considered "finished" when she could read her prayers in Hebrew, following the meaning with the aid of the Yiddish translation, and if she could sign her name in Russian, do a little figuring, and write a letter in Yiddish, she was called "wohl gelehrent"—well educated. A girl's real schoolroom was her mother's kitchen, where she learned to bake, cook, manage, knit, sew, and embroider, while her mother instructed her in the laws regulating a pious Jewish household and the conduct proper for a Jewish wife. Marriage was a sacrament, and parenthood was the great career, but while men might busy themselves with the study of the Law, woman's only work was motherhood. To be left an old maid was the greatest misfortune that could threaten a girl, and the entire family would strain every nerve to ward off that calamity. This was the world of Goluth, a world where the spirit was cramped and the horizon was bounded by the kitchen and the marriage contract.

The Hunger for a Country

The experience of Goluth created a spiritual hunger that America was uniquely positioned to satisfy. Mary Antin reflects that a little Jewish girl in Polotzk was apt to grow up "hungry-minded and empty-hearted," and if she was set down in a land of outspoken patriotism, she was likely to love her new country with a great love and to embrace its heroes in a great worship. The very lack of a country made the discovery of one an overwhelming emotional event. The first meal in America, with its canned food and the strange, slippery fruit called "banana," was an object lesson in a new kind of abundance. The streets were as bright as a synagogue on a holy day, and light was free. This was the opposite of Goluth, a place where everything was free and the future was open. The hunger for a country, for a flag, for heroes, was finally fed, and the state of exile was replaced by a state of belonging.

The Persistence of Exile in Memory

Yet Goluth did not simply vanish upon arrival in America. It persisted in the form of memory and longing, particularly in the realm of food. Mary Antin writes that she would sooner give up some of her delightful remembered walks than lose her images of suppers eaten on Sabbath evenings. The flavor of Polotzk cheese cake, she insists, cannot be reproduced by any American cook, for "it takes history to make such a cake." The essential ingredients are not in the kitchen cupboard but in the memory of a ravenous child eating in memorable twilights, and in the years of abstinence from the inimitable morsel. The state of exile, it seems, is also a state of longing, and the memory of the old world's flavors becomes a way of holding onto a past that is gone forever. Even as she embraces America, the taste of Polotzk cherries, eaten with the stones in a contest with a cousin's boy, returns to her with a transcendent flavor that no American cherry can match. Goluth, in this sense, is not just a place but a flavor, a memory, a part of the self that cannot be fully assimilated away.

The Meaning of Naturalization

The memoir ultimately redefines the meaning of naturalization in the context of Goluth. For Russian Jews, Mary Antin suggests, naturalization may mean more than the adoption of the immigrant by America; it may mean the adoption of America by the immigrant. The state of exile, which had denied them a country, a flag, and heroes, is overcome by a passionate embrace of the new land. The very emptiness of the heart, created by Goluth, is filled with a great love for America. The hunger for a country is satisfied, and the exile finds a home. The story of Goluth, then, is not merely a tale of suffering but the necessary prelude to the miracle of Americanization, the darkness that makes the light of the New World so brilliant and so beloved.