This week was Jewish Night at the Reds game—and honestly? It felt more like Anatevka than Great American Ball Park.
My friend went just to hang out with her shul crew, and it did not disappoint. Underneath the tarp, the stadium turned into the marketplace of Fiddler on the Roof—except instead of sacks of potatoes, it was hot dogs, foam fingers, and endless rounds of “Wait—don’t you know her cousin?” You get the full rundown: who’s getting married, who got into which college, who’s moving to Amberley. A few innings of baseball and a whole lot of gossip.
That’s when it really hit me: Cincinnati isn’t just a Jewish community. It’s the shtetl. You know—those isolated, slightly crumbling towns in Eastern Europe where everyone you met was Jewish, and even when they weren’t Jewish, they basically were? No muddy streets, no roaming goats (unless there’s a petting zoo at the JCC I don’t know about), but all the tightly woven, lovingly nosy connections you’d expect.
I’m a transplant here, which makes it even more apparent to me. Cincinnati’s Jewish community isn’t as big as the one I grew up in. Compared to New York, Miami, or LA, it can seem like a ghost town—barely any kosher food, no klezmer bands (that I know of—please tell me I’m wrong), and definitely not a Michael Solomonov restaurant coming soon (please, Michael). But even with all that missing, Cincinnati’s Jewish community feels so interconnected, it makes up for the rest.
My husband grew up here, and after COVID, we decided to move back. I was excited. His family basically has its own seating section at shul—it was like being handed a community membership card on day one, complete with unlimited gossip rights and access to all the Shabbat dinner invites. And once you’re in, you’re in.
At any given Shabbat dinner, you can count on the conversation drifting into shared memories of BBYO, GUCI, or Rockwern Academy. If you’re invited to something like the Rockwern Pre-K graduation, expect a grandparent to squint at your kid, hear their last name, and say something like, “Wait… is this the same group of kids from school 30 years ago? The names haven’t changed.” And no, they haven’t.
We even have a second-generation babysitter. Her mom babysat my husband when he was a toddler, and now her daughter babysits our kids. To get the job, she didn’t need a resume—she needed to provide a family tree. I don’t know if it’s genetic, but her daughter knew the bedtime routines, the favorite stuffed animals, and which snacks are considered contraband. And the best part? Our kids love her. It’s just one of those things that makes Cincinnati feel so shtetl-like.
Cincinnati is the ideal city to play Jewish Geography. You know, the game Jews play when they meet someone new and try to identify people they know in common. There’s no official scoreboard, but it gets competitive. When I meet someone, I ask what year they graduated. Then I start triangulating: Did they go to camp with my husband’s cousin? Were they in youth group with my brother-in-law? It works about 90% of the time. The other 10%, I pivot to one of the moms from my kids’ school. I have yet to lose.
And the shtetl doesn’t stop at shul or school—it follows you right into date night.
Last night, we attended A Beautiful Noise, the new Neil Diamond musical, at the Aronoff Center. The shtetl vibes kicked in before we even got to the theater. The restaurant called earlier in the week—not to confirm the reservation, but to make sure we hadn’t double-booked. Apparently, my husband’s uncle had made a reservation for the same time. Only in Cincinnati would a hostess have to play Jewish Geography with the guest list.
Upon arrival, it took us ten minutes just to reach our table, stopping to greet familiar faces and exchange pleasantries. The pre-show schmoozing set the tone for the night.
The show itself had more Jewish flavor than a bowl of matzah ball soup. Tiffany-style lamp shades hung over the set, giving it that cozy, bubbie’s-living-room glow. The dialogue was sprinkled with Yiddish, which felt less like a theatrical choice and more like sitting around the family table
As the lights dimmed and the familiar strains of “Sweet Caroline” filled the Aronoff, the whole place felt like one big family gathering where everyone shares stories, inside jokes, and knows exactly who’s related to whom. It was cozy, familiar, and just the right amount of nosy—kind of like a scene straight out of Fiddler on the Roof, minus the goats.
Apparently, Gen Z has a word for this kind of living: Shtetlcore. And honestly? I’m here for it. I want to barter babysitting hours for babka. I want to trade challah recipes in exchange for Shabbat candles from someone’s Israel trip. I want a WhatsApp group where someone is trying to pawn off their kid’s old shmata in exchange for my kid’s hand-me-down dancing Mickey that never quite shuts off. I want the doorbell ring from a neighbor bringing copious amounts of food when you just had a baby. I want the kids to think of everyone as family.
Sometimes I think about how natural Jewish life feels in Israel. It’s in the rhythm of the year, the music on the radio, the school calendar, the produce at the shuk. Jewish identity isn’t something you have to explain—it just is. It’s baked in.
Thinking about it sometimes makes me jealous because here, it takes more work. But maybe that’s what makes Cincinnati’s shtetl vibes so precious.
We live in a time when so many people feel rootless. Disconnected. Like they don’t belong anywhere. When you grow up without a strong community, you start to question your worthiness to be part of one. You wonder if you’re too late, or not enough.
But here, the community wraps around you like a well-worn tallis—sometimes a little frayed, maybe carrying a faint scent of last year’s brisket, but always warm, comforting, and ready to catch you when life trips you up. It’s a crazy, beautiful web of connections so tight, even your bubbie would be kvell.
Some Rosh Hashanahs, when the carrot cake is already half-eaten, the matzo ball soup mysteriously lacks salt (classic family thing), and the kids are running around the house in footie pajamas like it’s a tiny demolition derby, I look around at 50-plus family members spanning three generations packed into one house in one town and think—this is it. This is the dream. This is the shtetl that lives.
