You turned 14. Your mother, up until that point draconian (if not exactly tigerish) in her insistence that you continue taking piano lessons, allowed you to select another instrument, and you wanted to play drums. You found an excellent teacher, a highly respected local percussionist whose night job was playing in your city’s best Klezmer band—not that you had any idea what Klezmer music was, or what his playing it signified. All you knew was that you wanted to have a shot playing the drums in your church’s worship band, and so you had your new teacher help you learn some of the songs. It was only well over a decade later, having settled into the relative enlightenment of your hard-won atheism, that you put the pieces together, retroactively cringing in embarrassment at what your Jewish percussion instructor must have thought of the bizarrely appropriative Judeo-fetishistic anthems your in-retrospect insane fundamentalist Christian splinter church favored.