Sometimes when you’re born Christian, and even though you convert, you’re still not “Jewish” enough…

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?”