Nevertheless, during my early teenage years, my arrogance grew. I considered myself smarter and more sophisticated than the clueless adults who, I thought, filled the synagogue “like sheep.” I considered religion irrational, a crutch for those unable to reason or face reality. Still, I continued to self-identify as a Jew; my Jewish bonds with home, family, and the holidays were strong.

In 1971, when I was in my early 20s, I went to live on an Israeli kibbutz. The experience was unexpectedly positive and liberating. I discovered that one could be completely Jewish without being observant—and without wearing a kippah. The masculine, sunlit, kibbutznik culture suited my Midwestern American upbringing and values. I was finally comfortable in my Jewish body. I lost any residual guilt I had felt for not wearing my kippah.

At the same time, when I visited Jerusalem, I saw men wearing kippot in a wide variety of colors, fabrics, styles, and sizes. That was OK, too, I thought; just not me.

I returned to the United States and eventually found a position at a university in the rural West, far away from Jewish population centers. When I traveled, especially to the East Coast, I would sometimes see men on the street wearing kippahs, and I would feel a yearning for Jewish life. Despite my disbelief, something bothered me. Something was missing.

In my 40s, I wrote down a story that my mother had told me about her earlier years. It was the late 1930s, and she was riding a bus in New York City. A man sat down next to her and struck up a conversation, which eventually led to his rant against Jews, including how glad he was that Hitler was “finally giving them what they deserve.” While he was speaking, my mother gently drew out the silver Magen David that she wore around her neck, inside her blouse. She didn’t look at the man but rather at the pendant, turning it over in her hands, as if examining it. The fellow looked into her eyes to observe her reaction to his words. Then his gaze followed her gaze to her hands. He fell silent and soon left his seat.

At the beginning of the Second Intifada in 2000, like many other Jews, I became aware of the Jew hatred that had been unleashed and encouraged in the United States, including increasingly biased media coverage of Israel. I decided to wear a kippah in public in protest. I thought that would be a way to encourage other Jews and supporters and to say to the haters, “You may not like us, but we’re here, and we won’t be intimidated.”

I lasted one day.

During that day, I experienced two negative internal reactions: The first was that wearing a kippah felt inauthentic. The second was that in wearing a kippah, I was misleading people. I was signaling that I was observant, had an unambivalent belief in God, and was devout.

Still, I was uncomfortable without it. Where had my commitment gone? Had it just been bravado?

As the Second Intifada continued, my English department colleagues showed themselves to be antagonistic toward Israel. Or maybe it was that I became more aware of their attitudes. They were indifferent, at best, when Israeli academics were discriminated against as a group, barred from certain academic associations, editorial staffs, and boards of journals. Academic freedom—which I had naively thought my colleagues held sacred—had been directly violated. No one blinked. No one protested. No one even agreed to sign a letter of protest. After 30 years, I no longer felt part of the English department.

In July 2014, Hamas rocket attacks against Israel triggered another war in Gaza. Meanwhile, I read about the increase in antisemitic acts in Europe, recalled the recent murder of Jews in a kosher supermarket in Paris, and learned how Malmö, Sweden, had become a “no-go zone” for Jews. Something changed again. I became aware that, besides fulfilling a commandment, wearing a kippah in public meant what it always had meant: a willingness to claim one’s Judaism and Jewish identity while at the risk of being a target. My colleagues soon saw me wearing my kippah every day.

This time, I was able to cross the line I had wanted to cross before but couldn’t. I recognized that my youthful desire to be completely free had been misplaced. To have unlimited freedom was not to be free at all, but to be adrift, with no basis for choices and commitments. The question was not how to be unfettered; the question was which “fetters” to wear.

My earlier objections to the kippah faded. If wearing a kippah “just wasn’t me,” I could change. And if someone mistook me for an Orthodox Jew, was that really so bad? If that someone was another Jew, we could talk, and both of us would learn something. And if my interlocutor was not Jewish but curious, I could tell them that I was acting in solidarity with visibly recognizable Jews who had always accepted being vulnerable targets on the front lines, so to speak. Since I’ve returned to wearing my kippah, both kinds of encounters, with Jews and gentiles, have happened. But neither would have taken place had I not been wearing my kippah.

On Oct. 7, the stakes of being Jewish in public increased exponentially. Today’s conditions were unforeseeable to most of us a few years ago, although my kippah chronicle suggests a steady escalation that led to the present situation. It has been suggested that we no longer wear our kippot and Magen Davids in public. It has also been recommended that we make a point of wearing them. I chose the latter course.

When I first started wearing my kippah again, my goal was to teach others what I thought they should know. There was still an echo of my youthful arrogance in that attitude. As time passed, my kippah taught me what I should know; it deepened my understanding of my behavior and its significance. Wearing my kippah in public, I now represent the Jewish people and Judaism in a way I didn’t before. How I act may affect other people’s perceptions of Jews. Will I be courteous or thoughtless, generous or selfish, supportive or sullen, helpful or too busy to help? Wearing my small, blue, flower-embroidered kippah on the street reminds me that everything I do matters. And that I’m part of a bigger, stronger tribe.