Every once in a while one of those magazines for learned Jews will publish a symposium with the slightly mysterious title of "What Makes a Jew?" It may contain a dissertation by a leading Jewish sociologist proving that Jews are nothing more than an ethnic group with a common cultural heritage. Another may argue that Jews are indeed a race apart as evidenced by their outstanding intelligence and achievements. A renowned theologian will enunciate his thesis that the belief in one God lies at the root of all Judaism and that a Jew is one who adheres to the Jewish religion. Yet another may argue that religion is irrelevant to Jewishness and that even an atheist can be a Jew if he or she identifies as a Jew.

My father was never one to quibble over such subtle distinctions. He had one invariable standard for determining if someone was a Jew: if you spoke his language, you were a Jew. That was it. No complications.

This was obviously a gross oversimplification, which I knew wouldn't stand the test when confronted with reality. And so I waited for Father's theory to meet a challenge. It looked as if my chance had come one night in the mid-'50s when Harry Belafonte appeared on our TV screen singing "Hava Nagila."

"Howja like dot?" asked my father.

"Not dot," corrected Mother, unperturbed by Father's twenty-year resistance to the niceties of English pronunciation. "Not dot. Dat. T - h - a - t. Dat."

For some inexplicable reason, Mother's tutorial method with a man who had never mastered the alphabet was premised on spelling. I suspected this technique owed its application not so much to Mother's belief in its validity as a teaching tool but to her desire to demonstrate her own superior grasp of the language.

"All right," said Father, in his I-stand-corrected tone. "Dat. Howja like dat?" And, then he said, in astonishment and delight, "Herry Belafonte turns out to be a Jew!"

No amount of refutation from Mother and me had the slightest effect on him. "Herry" Belafonte sang in Hebrew. Who else but a Jew would do that? He was obviously one of those Black Jews, like those from Ethiopia.

Strictly speaking, Hebrew wasn't my father's language. Yiddish was. But Hebrew was the language of the Bible, the other sacred texts and, in recent times, the language of Israel. That was good enough for Dad.

From then on, "Herry" was a favorite in our house. On those notable occasions when he made a TV appearance, the family would gather before the set and sit in hushed and grateful silence. One of our own was on.

Accordingly, it came as no surprise to Father when "Herry" divorced Marguerite, his African American wife, and married Julie Robinson, a young Jewish dancer with the Katherine Dunham dance troupe. "Nu," said Father, with that know-it-all sparkle in his eyes. "What did I tell you? A Jewish fellah. First, he's got to marry a shikse. And then he finds a nice Jewish girl."

The acid test of reality never had a chance with my father. He had the exasperating ability to conform reality to his own vision of it.