J and I have been invited to dinner by J’s brother M, and M’s wife, N. This is, J has told me, because they cannot come to our engagement party. I have a jumbled understanding of why this is so - having something to do with M being a teacher or Rabbi. He has to obey certain rules of the Jewish Orthodox religion, which require Jews not to enter into the houses of worship of other religions.
I am converting to Reform Judaism. This form of Judaism is not recognised by the Orthodox. As a consequence, despite my year-long conversion, I will technically remain a non-Jew in the eyes of the Orthodox. M will therefore be attending the marriage of “reform Jews” – a religion he cannot recognise.
M’s decision not to come to our wedding leaves me with a feeling of being judged. I feel “worth less” - a feeling of somehow not “making the grade”. Ironically, I have the sense of being persecuted based on my religion – a feeling Jewish people can closely identify with.
I want to be angry with M for not coming to our engagement or wedding, but the problem is, I really like him. M gestures and intonates like J. A powerful potion – being the mirror of the man I love. The stories M tells are stories of a man concerned with morality, and I believe this is a rare find in today’s world.
First impressions are powerful, and the heady combination of my first meeting with M, as he made the greatest effort to get to know me while he playfully teased his older brother, left me fond of a very “good” person.
I also want to respect the tenuous relationship that J still holds with his brother. As tempting as it is to tear strips off M for his behaviour towards me (us), I know M’s decision to lead a religious life, and J’s decision not to, has distanced the once close brothers. I am conscious that the situation does not need additional strain.
Also the dinner is a gesture on M’s behalf, and apart from liking M, this gesture has softened me.
As we arrive for the dinner, I know not to touch M as a greeting, and I know it is acceptable to hug N. This is a gesture I would extend to anyone I would dine with – in my world – but I don’t know N at all, and I am a bit nervous. I have bought a really big bunch of flowers on the way to the dinner, and so I nervously thrust these in N’s direction, and prattle on about long stems and finding the most appropriate vase.
I am up beat to begin with. But after no congratulations, no talk of the wedding or plans for the wedding I am beginning to take offence. Wedding planning is not my idea of a stimulating topic of conversation, but I am searching for some sign that the two of them are happy for J and I. None is forthcoming.
I am also finding it difficult to have my voice heard. I am sensitive to the gendered action of men silencing woman’s voices in social settings, and with all my preconceived notions of Orthodox Judaism, this has the distinct overtones of discrimination. I have climbed onto my moral high ground, and here I will sit in silent protest.
In my silence, I glance around their flat. There is no TV and no radio. The walls are covered with photos of Rabbi’s and prayers written in Hebrew. The place is functional, and every surface is covered with photos of the 1 year-old child they lost. The quick canvass of their flat reminds me of their “different world”. The moral high ground is beginning to look shaky, as I contemplate thoughts of tolerance and I begin to make a number of excuses for the non-mention of our wedding.
As we drive home that night I am frustrated and confused. Because everything is intimated in this world, and nothing is explicitly said, I am left with that familiar feeling of frustration. It’s a frustration that arises from not being sure whether my feelings of not being good enough stem from my own insecurities, my own notions of how Jewish people perceive non-Jews marrying into the faith or whether they are just my very “real” feelings of being hurt in this situation. My thoughts are interrupted as J and I begin a conversation about religion as a basis for compatibility in a relationship.
Just before we drift off to sleep that night, J says: “When I look at other couples, I realise how important compatibility is. You know, we’re really lucky to have that”. I reply, “I am really lucky to have you”, and his last words before slumber are, “And I you, darling”.
I wake up that same night of the “engagement dinner”. I run my hands through J’s shaven head and move closer to him. My hands brush past his, and as a reflex, in his sleep, J twines his fingers through mine. Something he does so often. I cannot comprehend how much I love this man, who sleeps next to me.
I am angry that M didn’t say congratulations, furious, that J’s own brother cannot see how in love we are. And I keep turning the same thought over in my mind: “Why does religion and sameness feel so arbitrary to people who are in love, and so important to those not?”
Monday, May 7, 2007
Friday, May 4, 2007
Is it scary?
Yes. Converting to Judaism is terrifying. I am afraid of losing a sense of myself. I am afraid of being alienated from my family. I am wracked by what people may think of me. I’m scared of persecution, and petrified of living the rest of my life as an “outsider” - not being a Christian, and by virtue of being a converted Jew, not being “really Jewish” either.
J through his birth has an automatic acceptance at all orthodox Jewish social engagements. I do not have this privilege, and in the Jewish-northern-suburbs- Johannesburg-world, an exclusive social group even for Orthodox Jews, my background and convert status is going to prove tricky.
This feeling of alienation is omnipresent, and its sense heightened at Orthodox Jewish engagements. It is at these social events I find myself clinging tenuously to the notion of doing everything “right”. The death of J’s friend David’s mom is just one example:
David’s mom died at 3am on a Friday morning. At 10am that same morning J called to tell me the news. She was to be buried at 2pm that afternoon.
In the Jewish religion, I was to discover, the dead must be buried within 24 hours. In David’s mom’s case, this time period was shortened by some 12 hours, as sundown would mark the beginning of the Sabbath. During the Sabbath, no burials may take place. The Sabbath is observed strictly as a day of rest. In very orthodox circles, even menial tasks such as switching a light on and off will not be performed in observance of the rest day.
J’s call to tell me the news catches me in jeans and a t-shirt. Friday is casual day at our office. I am very fond of David, and would like to show my support. I tell J I want to join him at the funeral. After putting down the phone, and conducting a quick assessment of the situation I spiral into panic mode:
I have never been to a Jewish funeral before;
I am wearing jeans, a t-shirt and takkis (probably very inappropriate for the occasion);
It’s too late to go home and change, and still get to the funeral on time; and
Everyone is going to look at my inappropriate attire, and know that I am Christian and that I got it all wrong, and this is why Jews like J should never “marry-out” of the faith.
I call on my Orthodox Jewish friend and colleague for assistance. She advises on a dress for the occasion and tips me off on the colour scheme. I hop into my car, dash across the road to the shopping mall, and drop an obscene amount of money on a new outfit from head to toe, including a pair of rather high-heeled black boots.
We arrive at the Jewish section of the cemetery. We are slightly late, so we have missed the short prayer service conducted in doors. The funeral party has begun the procession to the gravesite. At the gravesite prayers are said, and one by one, I see Dave’s male friends and family pick up the spade from the ground, scoop soil up, and toss it into the grave. I watch J pick up the spade from the ground, and in the action of tossing soil into Dave’s mom’s grave, I think about J as a man, as a part of a community that literally helps to bury their dead. As part of a religion, that uses symbolic actions to make sense of hard experiences. A religion that uses the spade and soil, to say to the love one’s left behind, “here, I’ll help you bury the one you love, you can rely on me because I am still around”.
J’s friend Gordon, talks me through the service, explaining the different symbolic actions. I am deeply moved. So much so, that when we begin the return walk, I have forgotten my outsider status. Only the discomfort of the black high-heels sinking into the soft ground serves as a reminder that at the next Jewish funeral I attend, I will wear “practical shoes”.
Half way back, a little old man, walks over to J. I can see he is looking me up and down. I panic. I just know I have worn something inappropriate that has been deeply insulting to the Jewish community, and in everyone’s grief, they must not have had the opportunity to tell me. I feel that cold sensation run through my lungs, as the man takes hold of J’s arm. Looking at me he says, “Young lady, next time you come to the cemetery you must not wear those shoes,” I knew it, I think, I am trampling on the souls of dead people with my inappropriate black high-heels. The old man continues: “the ground is very soft, you may fall over and hurt yourself.”
Somewhere in the distance, I hear J strike up a conversation with the man, after I have mumbled a feeble “thank you”. I am so relieved, I want to laugh out loud, but the knowledge of how awkward I felt, how uncertain I think I will always feel at such occasions sobers my relief.
I return to the thought I like to torment myself with: will converting to Judaism ever make me feel part of this community?
J through his birth has an automatic acceptance at all orthodox Jewish social engagements. I do not have this privilege, and in the Jewish-northern-suburbs- Johannesburg-world, an exclusive social group even for Orthodox Jews, my background and convert status is going to prove tricky.
This feeling of alienation is omnipresent, and its sense heightened at Orthodox Jewish engagements. It is at these social events I find myself clinging tenuously to the notion of doing everything “right”. The death of J’s friend David’s mom is just one example:
David’s mom died at 3am on a Friday morning. At 10am that same morning J called to tell me the news. She was to be buried at 2pm that afternoon.
In the Jewish religion, I was to discover, the dead must be buried within 24 hours. In David’s mom’s case, this time period was shortened by some 12 hours, as sundown would mark the beginning of the Sabbath. During the Sabbath, no burials may take place. The Sabbath is observed strictly as a day of rest. In very orthodox circles, even menial tasks such as switching a light on and off will not be performed in observance of the rest day.
J’s call to tell me the news catches me in jeans and a t-shirt. Friday is casual day at our office. I am very fond of David, and would like to show my support. I tell J I want to join him at the funeral. After putting down the phone, and conducting a quick assessment of the situation I spiral into panic mode:
I have never been to a Jewish funeral before;
I am wearing jeans, a t-shirt and takkis (probably very inappropriate for the occasion);
It’s too late to go home and change, and still get to the funeral on time; and
Everyone is going to look at my inappropriate attire, and know that I am Christian and that I got it all wrong, and this is why Jews like J should never “marry-out” of the faith.
I call on my Orthodox Jewish friend and colleague for assistance. She advises on a dress for the occasion and tips me off on the colour scheme. I hop into my car, dash across the road to the shopping mall, and drop an obscene amount of money on a new outfit from head to toe, including a pair of rather high-heeled black boots.
We arrive at the Jewish section of the cemetery. We are slightly late, so we have missed the short prayer service conducted in doors. The funeral party has begun the procession to the gravesite. At the gravesite prayers are said, and one by one, I see Dave’s male friends and family pick up the spade from the ground, scoop soil up, and toss it into the grave. I watch J pick up the spade from the ground, and in the action of tossing soil into Dave’s mom’s grave, I think about J as a man, as a part of a community that literally helps to bury their dead. As part of a religion, that uses symbolic actions to make sense of hard experiences. A religion that uses the spade and soil, to say to the love one’s left behind, “here, I’ll help you bury the one you love, you can rely on me because I am still around”.
J’s friend Gordon, talks me through the service, explaining the different symbolic actions. I am deeply moved. So much so, that when we begin the return walk, I have forgotten my outsider status. Only the discomfort of the black high-heels sinking into the soft ground serves as a reminder that at the next Jewish funeral I attend, I will wear “practical shoes”.
Half way back, a little old man, walks over to J. I can see he is looking me up and down. I panic. I just know I have worn something inappropriate that has been deeply insulting to the Jewish community, and in everyone’s grief, they must not have had the opportunity to tell me. I feel that cold sensation run through my lungs, as the man takes hold of J’s arm. Looking at me he says, “Young lady, next time you come to the cemetery you must not wear those shoes,” I knew it, I think, I am trampling on the souls of dead people with my inappropriate black high-heels. The old man continues: “the ground is very soft, you may fall over and hurt yourself.”
Somewhere in the distance, I hear J strike up a conversation with the man, after I have mumbled a feeble “thank you”. I am so relieved, I want to laugh out loud, but the knowledge of how awkward I felt, how uncertain I think I will always feel at such occasions sobers my relief.
I return to the thought I like to torment myself with: will converting to Judaism ever make me feel part of this community?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)