Back to School

With the exceptions of my pre-school warning my mother I wouldn’t be “Catholic school material,” a brief stint spelling my name backwards in kindergarten, and Geometry in general, school has always gone well for me. Figuring out curly hair and driving without crashing into things were stressful endeavors, but not so seminars on symbolism or memorizing dead presidents. Thus, it makes sense that my first Introduction to Judaism class was something I looked forward to with a good deal of anticipation. Once a nerd, always a nerd.

Another exciting aspect of Jewish class? Moses is coming along for the ride! (I thought this might put the kibosh on his trying to trick me into believing fake news about Judaism, but no such luck. Two words: Blood. Libels.)

Before the first class, the rabbi emailed all the participants, so Moses and I tried to guess which of the 30 or so names were Jewish and which belonged to gentiles. We were surprised to see a pretty even split. Like Sherlock and Watson, we also inferred there’d be a variety of ages in the class based on the presence of a few AOL email accounts (Oh, AOL. Kids today will never know what it’s like to have to get off the internet so your mom can call the pharmacy. But I digress.)

The first day of school arrived and I made sure I played it cool enough that I wouldn’t be the first to arrive. But not to cool—I wanted to make sure I got a seat for Moses, who is notoriously running late, and so it made sense to also get seats near the door, but maybe not right next to the rabbi because, well…obviously. Cool as freakin’ cucumber, folks.

Almost right away it became abundantly clear that the class was too big to fit inside the little room we’d crammed into.  We played “make the circle bigger” a few times, but ultimately ran up against some literal walls. Somewhere in the moving of chairs Moses arrived promptly at 7:30, which shocked me to the point that people must have assumed I hadn’t known my significant other had signed up for the course. Finally, everyone grabbed their chair and crossed the foyer to a larger room, where the real fun began.

You know how when you’re doing an orientation-type activity and you’re asked to introduce yourself and say a few words about what brought you to that place in time? The rabbi asked us to do that, expecting a casual introduction that would reference your name and the fact that you wanted to learn more about Judaism. What he got instead were the Jew Class Monologues, and they were really incredible.

To be honest, I was expecting most of the class would be like Moses and me: a supportive Jewish partner paired with a willing, ideally enthusiastic, Jew-to-be.  The stories I heard that night were so much more than that, though. There were people who were already married to Jews who had decided they wanted to share a faith with their children. A handful of women had recently moved from Latin American countries, meaning they weren’t just leaving one religion for another, but entire cultures to find a new community here in Brooklyn. An older couple shared that they’d been members of the congregation for decades, but that they wanted to learn more about their Jewish identity. Most moving of all were the stories from those in search of belonging. A sizable portion of the class had been raised in religions that didn’t accept them for who they were, and who were returning to religion with both hesitation and hope. All I could think during these stories was, I can’t believe I’m sharing something this important with you.

After the last person in the circle had spoken, the rabbi stood, and looking slightly abashed, praised us for our openness. “People usually just say that they want to learn more about Judaism!” he said. But I was so glad our group had over-shared. After just an hour of being in the same room with a few dozen strangers, I was reinvigorated in my commitment to this process. I had approached my conversion as something special to me, but I realized in that moment that I was going to be a part of something bigger. I would be witness the unfolding of other people’s stories. I won’t be forging just a new aspect of my own identity, but creating a community that would play an important role in the lives of others.

I was looking forward to going to school to learn history, prayers, and rituals. I knew that if we were tested, I would pass. Turns out, this class is going to be a lot more in depth than I thought. I left it awed by the humanity of my classmates, and in some cases, the bravery of my fellow human beings. I didn’t feel less special when I compared my stories with others that I heard, only that my experience in the class would be more significant than I’d previously imagined.

I leave you on a lighter note, though. Moses’s introduction and explanation of why he was at class:

“To be honest, I’m pretty confounded as to why I’m here. You think you’re rebelling, that you have a nice shiksa on your hands, you’ve made your mom mad…then, all of a sudden, she’s interested in your religion, she wants to be Jewish, too, and your mom is happy, and instead of a leaving the faith, you’ve added another Jew to the world! It’s crazy!”

And just like that, I realized I was with the class clown. Of course, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Of Heating Pads and Soul Searching

As I write, I am sitting at my desk with an electric heating pad pressed against my lower back. This is awkward, since 30 teenagers are now witness to my decrepitude. I wish I could say the injury was sustained on some marvelous adventure, but this is not the case. Yesterday, I leaned over to tie my shoe and when I stood up...I couldn't. I was stuck. I was also in great pain. I yelled a word you shouldn't say in a school building and waited until I was recovered enough to hobble home. In other words, I'm getting older. But despite the aching back and the anti-wrinkle cream in my bathroom, I feel like I'm just now beginning to sort out who I am.

I didn't do a lot of soul-searching in my 20s. Things were changing too rapidly to sit still and reflect. I moved from college in North Carolina to my first job in Boston, then to Manhattan, and eventually to Brooklyn. I was a new teacher who was trying to survive being the sole adult responsible for a roomful of 10-year-olds during the day, and I was going to graduate school at night and on weekends. Those early days of teaching were rough. I distinctly remember one little girl climbing into a cupboard and refusing to get out, while a little voice inside of me said, "Maybe it'd just be easier if you let her stay in there." And I'll never forget the melody of Rihanna's "Rude Boy," which was the playback song of a student's mother that I called on a regular basis. The only searching I wanted to do at the end of the day was of the inside of my eyelids.

Trying to sum up what happened shortly after I turned 30 is tricky. Maybe it was an existential crisis? A quarter-life crisis? Just a good, old-fashioned freak-out?  The bottom line: never stopping to figure out who you are is a recipe for disaster. For a good amount of time, I was grappling with some pretty big questions about who I was and the expectations I had for my life. Only recently have the fears and doubts that were clanging around my brain like a mariache band started to ease up. 

The first decision I made when I started to feel like myself again was that I wanted to be Jewish. It was the most sure I'd felt about anything in a long time. With the mariache band quieted, the little voice that was telling me, "You should do this!" was finally loud enough to hear. I remembered that I had even purchased some books on converting years before and "hid" them so haphazardly they begged Moses to ask me about them (typical guy, he didn't understand that I wanted him to do so and instead just thought I was bad at hiding things), but the venture had gone no further. This year, in the days leading up to the high holidays, I cracked them open again. As I read, I became convinced that the rituals and community I was reading about could help me become a stronger, more self-accepting version of myself.

I don't expect converting to solve all my problems. It's not a cure all for worries and anxieties, nor will it grade the pile of papers on my desk or go to the gym for me. But I can't dismiss the joy it's brought me thus far, either. It has reminded me of the parts of my identity I'm proud of, like my ability to find and build community, and my love of language and writing.

And at the end of this process, being a Jew will be part of my identity, too. I'm curious as to how far the label will extend into my psyche. The last two things I've "become" are a teacher and a partner. Both changed my life tremendously, but were roles that centered around my relationships with other people. Becoming Jewish is an inward process. So I wonder: will I feel like a different person at the end of the conversion process? Will I be stronger for the soul searching that adopting a new religion will demand? Will I learn enough about myself that the next time the mariache band shows up, I can wave them away without any hesitation?

But now the muscle relaxer I've taken has started to kick in, telling me that I've done enough rambling for one day. Next up on the blog: meeting the rabbi and our first week of Jew class!

In the meantime, what about you? What experience most changed the way you saw yourself and your place in the world? Comment or email me at loveandmatzoballs@gmail.com. 

Challah Back Now, Y'all

"You going to party this weekend, Miss?" my student asked. He laughed like he knew the answer.

"Yup. I'm going to go home and make some challah bread," I replied. The pitying look he gave me embodied the 15 years between our ages.

"Sounds...fun."

So home I went, first to change out of real clothes and into yoga pants, then to the store to buy some instant yeast for my first foray into the world of bread. A wild Friday night indeed.

The first thing I did was choose a recipe, which was easy. My friend Angie over at nwktable just posted one and I knew I could bombard her with a litany of questions as I baked. Hopefully she wasn't planning on partying tonight, either. I also found a fabulous braiding tutorial from Tori Avey, a woman who understands that some of us need step-by-step, illustrated directions.

I'm not going to go through the steps of making the bread here since I've already provided the recipe, but my thoughts on bread making are as follows and are sorted from silly to serious:

Yeast is magical. The only thing I can think to compare it to is those washcloths you'd get as a kid that you could put under hot water and watch transform from small solid blocks to large fluffy face towels.

Kneading bread is no joke. I don't have a fancy Kitchen Aid mixer and bringing the dough together by hand was a real wake up call as to the state of my upper body strength. I must have looked pretty silly, too, since I looked up at one point and Moses was taking a photo of me repeatedly jabbing the dough with a wooden spoon. Maybe I'll make a scrap book of my conversion and we can add the photo to it.

Just kidding about the scrap book.

On a more serious note, it's easy to see how baking bread could be considered a spiritual activity, especially when the end result is so beautiful. I've learned that there are two prayers associated with the bread, one before you begin to braid the challah, and another at the beginning of the Shabbat dinner where it will be served. As for the actual creation of the bread, that process is a lot like life. There's choosing which recipe to follow, and adapting it when things don't come out the way you want them to the first time. Some parts are tough and require you to tap into all your strength, but there are also moments when not much is happening and you have to be patient. You need to weave together its different pieces to make a strong, unified whole. At times you might be in the mood to add a little flavor and spice, other times you might just want to keep it straightforward and simple. And the whole time you're creating something to share with the people you love. I mean, you could eat the whole loaf yourself, but that's not really the point now, is it?

I love how Judaism creates ritual out of the routine. Honoring the details that make up my day with prayers and moments of reflection is a real change of pace for me. Being grateful is hard when the C train is delayed again, you notice the cat just took a big sip out of your freshly poured water glass, or little worries have piled up to the point where they seem about to topple over. I'm looking forward to all the opportunities that await me to give thanks. And for freshly baked challah, because that is just divine.

Where did God go?

I remember believing in God, but only vaguely. I remember saying prayers--some were just wishes, but most were pleas for everyone I loved to be safe and healthy. My prayers extended to anyone I knew that was suffering somewhere in the world, and often they'd go on-and-on. I thought if I could pray hard enough, I could protect everyone.

I was a nervous kid. Like, really nervous. We weren't allowed to have the news on because it made me too anxious (to be fair, it still does). My first grade teacher often asked me if whatever I was worrying about would cause the world to end. Going down the slide? Risky. Riding a bike? Terrifying. Sleeping in my own room alone? Unthinkable. If my parents had known about Xanax, they probably would have mashed some up in my apple sauce and we'd all have been better for it. Alas!

Looking back, I wonder if part of this anxiety came from experiencing the disappearance of a girl named Jenny. She was the daughter of my dad's law partner, and she died before I was even old enough to understand what it meant to be sick in a way that made people go away and never come back. I'm sure I didn't mourn her like the adults around me did. Like I said, I didn't understand. But I remember having an awareness of something awful having happened in the time that proceeded her death. There had been a little girl named Jenny, but she was gone to Heaven, to a better place, but her mommy and daddy were very sad.

Maybe because of this, my prayers were fervent and meant to ward off bad things. I didn't want God to take away anyone I loved, so I tried to be very good. But I worried. I still worry a lot. I'm working on it, but it's like second nature to me. When I was a waitress, the manager said, "If you have time to lean, you have time to clean." I've spent 30 years living in a state of, "If you have too much time to think, into worries you will sink." That last line isn't a real adage, but if you'd like to proliferate it, feel free.

I stopped praying eventually. It hadn't worked. Tragedy was all around us, and if God was punishing us for being sinners, who needed him? Better to think there was no God than a cruel one, right?

For me, one of the most attractive qualities of Judaism is that it seems to make room for questioning. Immersing myself in Jewish texts hasn't provided me with answers yet, but it has made me feel like my own experience with doubt is acceptable.  It was comforting to read Rabbi Harold Kushner's description of his own experience, "that childhood faith did not last. War, crime, serious illnesses affecting those we cared about, the emerging truth about the Holocaust, and the inevitable disappointments of life cost us that simple faith of our childhood..." (Nine Essential Things I've Learned About Life). When I stopped praying, I'd felt the same way.

So now that I'm immersing myself in a faith, I have to grapple with the same doubts that robbed me of any sense of the spiritual in my life. Looking for divinity in a world as chaotic as ours feels like a fool's errand. On the other hand, there's a feeling I can't shake that there's something more than skin and bones holding us all together. I'm not sure yet what that means, but I've never felt more certain that I need to explore it. Maybe that will take a life time and I'll never get closer than this. Maybe I'll write in a month that I've got it all figured out. I know that I'll never revive the simple faith that I had as a kid--that belief that, "Duh, God exists!" and how else did we all get hatched (it was simpler times, like I said). But I'm hoping that any relationship with faith, even if it's a complicated one, I'll still find something to help shoulder some of my worries, and to shine a light into the darkest of storms.

Lies My Boyfriend's Told Me, vol. 1

Disclaimer: The lies in the title refer to lies about Judaism, nothing more salacious. These lies are harmless, unless you take personal offense at his amusement at my gullibility.

Immersing yourself in a new culture can be difficult. You have a lot of new customs, traditions, and vocabulary thrown at you, and trying to make sense of it can be a bit overwhelming. I remember when my parents came to visit me in Italy and my mother repeatedly complimented our host's beautiful, non-existent swimming pool instead of their beautiful kitchen. In these situations, it can be helpful to have someone to translate the foreign and help you make sense of the unknown. For me, this person is my boyfriend, Moses*, who serves as my ambassador to all things Jewish. If only he were reliable.

The other day when riding in the car, the subject of ketubahs came up. Ketubahs are Jewish marriage contracts. While the word contract is about as romantic as the sound a ketchup bottle makes, the ketubah is a gorgeous document that many consider a work of art. Amidst flowering vines or colorful geometric shapes, the responsibilities of the couple is written in Aramaic, Hebrew, or even English, text.  Once upon a time, this served as a way to protect the bride from financial issues, but now couples can personalize them to reflect more modern takes on marriage. To read more about how awesome and feminist ketubahs are, go here.

I commented on how beautiful Moses's sister's ketubah was, and he told me the mohel had done a really nice job. This surprised me. "Aren't mohels the ones who circumcise babies?" I asked (see, I do know some things).

"Right, but most are trained in calligraphy, too," Moses replied. "That way, they can serve in more than one religious capacity."

I ate it up. "That makes sense, seeing as how they need to have pretty stellar hand-eye coordination in both skills," I mused.

Some minutes passed. Finally, Moses said, "You know that's not true, right?" Then he laughed good and hard at the image of me complimenting his sister on the mohel's fine penmanship. I was not pleased.

Seriously, though...you do need strong hand-eye coordination for both of these jobs.

So, if something appears on this blog that seems off, it's not on me. I was probably lied to, and somewhere Moses is laughing at me. Any fact-checking on your part is much appreciated.

*My boyfriend would like henceforth to be called "Moses" since, like Moses leading the Jews out of Egypt, he is leading me to Judaism. Let's just hope he doesn't try and enforce this moniker in all facets of his life.

Convert

If I made a dollar for every time some kid started their English essay with the definition of a word (e.g. fear, ambition, greed), I would have a lot of dollars. I’d also be more excited to read their papers. Coffee money aplenty! So, I couldn’t help but laugh at myself when I realized I was contemplating the same approach to my own writing project. Do as I say, not as I do, kiddos.

CONVERT (v.)
1. to cause change in form character or function
2.  to cause to adopt a different religion (to convert the heathen)

Obviously, the second definition is the more literal process that I'm experiencing. It's slightly magnanimous, however, in that I had no initial religion to begin with. I am the heathen in the example sentence, except with better table manners than the average Neanderthal. My mom grew up very Catholic, my dad was Dutch Reformed. By the time they had kids, both were done with religion. My dad said we were "nothing," and my mom's rosier take on our religious status was that we "followed the golden rule." I went to a good number of masses, mostly because they came part in parcel with sleeping over Catholic friends' houses. I also did a stint at my neighbor's youth group, which ended abruptly when I found myself being asked to pray someone's gay away. By the time I got to college, I was firmly not religious. 

Living in New York City in my 20's only furthered the case for agnosticism. Who needed church when there were bars to frequent on Saturdays and brunch to enjoy on Sunday? Community was the eight-million people who lived in Manhattan, then the hipsters that lounged in Brooklyn’s Prospect Park on sunny weekend afternoons. In the city, I could hear famous authors speak about literature any night of the week, see world-renowned art at the Met, run past gorgeous brownstones, eat food from anywhere in the world, and hear music from bands that weren’t even cool yet. East Coast liberal elitism was as much an organization as I needed.

Which brings us to the first, and maybe more important, definition: change.

Turns out, the things that are important to a 25-year-old aren’t the same things that matter to a 31-year old. And as cliché as it is, I feel like I know a lot less than I used to. What I do know is as follows:

1.      I fell in love with a nice Jewish man.
2.      I ended up falling for his faith, too.
3.      My matzo balls are floaters, not sinkers.

And so begins my journey. Weekly classes, enough Jewish literature to require another new book shelf, meetings with the rabbi, services at the synagogue, new recipes to cook, the history of a people to learn, and, with any luck, a religious community that will become my home.  On the off chance this adventure is a meaningful and entertaining one, I’ll be writing it all down right here.