Category Archives: Jewish identity

July 15, 2013 · 8:59 am

Blue Nails on the Subway

by Mel Glenn (Brooklyn, NY)

Blue nails,
Hebrew prayer book,
Nike running shoes.
What question would I ask, I wonder?
How, my child of Israel,
do you reconcile your two worlds?
I shudder to think you go partying
at hot spots in the city Friday nights,
or run half-marathons Saturday mornings.
I watch you as you hold your book
up to your face after reading, as if
you were memorizing the wisdom therein.
There is no doubt God’s tent
is large enough to shelter you
no matter which corner you inhabit.
You get off at DeKalb Avenue,

confident of stepping surely in both worlds.

The author of twelve books for young adults, Mel Glenn has lived nearly all his life in Brooklyn, NY, where he taught English at A. Lincoln High School for thirty-one years.  Lately, he’s been writing poetry, and you can find his most recent poems in a new YA anthology, This Family Is Driving Me Crazy,  edited by M. Jerry Weiss.

If you’d like to learn more about his work, visit: http://www.melglenn.com/

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April 1, 2013 · 8:38 am

Teenagers and Interfaith Dating

by Amy Krakovitz (Charlotte, NC)

Here’s my guilt and my joy: my husband isn’t Jewish. And yet we’ve made a wonderful life together for 35 years. We have two grown sons, and I love him more today than I did 35 years ago. But ask me what I want for my own children: I want them both to find partners who are Jewish or who have some Jewish ancestry. I want grandchildren who will identify as Jewish and who will love Israel, Hebrew, and Judaism the same way that I do.

So when I asked my 8th and 9th graders at the Consolidated High School for Jewish Studies in Charlotte, NC to write an essay on how they felt about interfaith dating, I didn’t want to influence their opinions. I can imagine how their parents feel about it, whether they are the children of two Jewish parents or one, whether their parents were born Jewish or are Jewish by choice.

Every one of these teenagers goes to a school in North Carolina where they are in a tiny minority; in some cases a student might even be the only Jew in the entire school. So the desire to date and have a relationship with someone is profoundly impacted by their exposure to a Christian majority. Most of their peers are not Jewish. It’s likely that most of their friends are not Jewish. This reality is evident in their essays. One hundred percent of the essays that I received approved of interfaith dating, at least for now while they are young.

They’ve exposed themselves in a very visceral and sometimes humorous way. I am truly proud of what they have produced.

As a class, we will continue to write about Jewish subjects and I hope these teens will continue to be as honest and forthright as they have been here.

Writing prompt: DATE ONLY JEWS OR PLAY THE FIELD?

Responses from 8th Graders:

As far as I know, Harrisburg, North Carolina, isn’t exactly known for its Jewish community. The only Jews who I’ve ever met in North Carolina are from the Charlotte JCC, which happens to be a half hour away. I don’t have the money, time, or license to ship myself to Charlotte every day (or even every other day) to see my Jewish friends. So how can I be expected to hold a committed, romantic relationship with one of them?

Exclusively dating Jews is not an option for me, nor has it been for most members of my family. My mother married an atheist, my aunt a Christian, and there have certainly been no special Jewish boys or girls in my own or any of my siblings’ lives. For the time being, I don’t foresee my siblings or myself with a Jewish counterpart. But that is not to say I wouldn’t date a Jew, for I certainly would. I’ll date whom I love regardless of gender, race, or religion. – Leah Kwiatskowski

* * *

I am only 13 years old and I have not been in a serious relationship yet. For now, I would play the field for it does not really matter whom you date now or if you do not date at all. For now, religion is not a factor in whom you date. Religion does matter as you get older and develop more serious relationships because if you believe you have found your wife and you are planning on having a child with her, deciding the religion of the baby will be a lot easier if you are both Jewish. For boys, when you first see an attractive girl, your first question is rarely about what religion she practices. It does not play a key role in choosing relationships when you are 13 years old or maybe even an older teenager. So for me, instead of sticking to just Jewish girls, I would play the field. – Isaac Turtletaub

* * *

Being a 14-year-old boy, I have not had any long-term, serious relationships. However, I have been on “little” dates and, honestly, most have been with non-Jews. Dating is a way to get to know new people and experience new things. Limiting whom you can date based on their religion seems a little ignorant to me. As people grow up, they begin to date more frequently. Dating only people who share your views could set you up for problems later. The old saying can often hold true: “Opposites attract.”

On the other hand, dating only Jews could have its advantages. Let’s say you dated and eventually married a woman who was not Jewish. You had a child who is now entering school and you don’t know whether to enroll that child in public, Jewish-based, or another type of religious school. How do you decide who gets the final say? Sometimes difficult situations can be avoided years before they occur. But what if you don’t meet someone amazing because of your religious standards?

In the end, your relationships shouldn’t be dependent on someone else’s religion. Everyone should have the opportunity to be with others. Limiting whom you date based on their religion is inconsiderate. Everyone should be able to date anyone. – Sam Friedman

* * *

Dating only Jews is an interesting topic to talk about. From a teenage perspective, I would say playing the field and dating girls of other religions is okay. In today’s world, it’s possible that the person you are dating now is not always going to be the person you marry when you get older. As teenagers, we are going through mood changes and changing our minds all the time. Just because someone “likes” a girl one day doesn’t mean that he will still like her months later. Most relationships among my peers last around a month. If you’re Jewish and you want to date a Christian girl at a young age, why not?

Teenager’s relationships are normally not that strong. The dating couple might see one another in school and occasionally on a weekend. It’s not the same as living with someone and seeing each other every day. We want to enjoy life as teenagers, not regret it.

Even for adults, it’s a personal decision. I would prefer to have a Jewish wife. But if I am in love with a Christian girl, I am going to marry that Christian girl and try to raise a Jewish family. – Jason Garfinkle

Responses from 9th graders:

As my favorite Beatle once said: “All you need is love.” Now what did he mean by that? Any love? Specific love from certain people? Love from your religion? Others? No. John didn’t mean that. Any love is worth attention, affection, and time. No matter a person’s religion.

My family would not agree. They say the same thing over and over. “Date Jewish, tatala! The shiksa goddess is not for you, tatala! Oy! I will match you up with a real Jewish lady!” (sigh) If they could leave me alone, life could be better.

I love girls. Christian and Jewish. It has nothing to do with how they look, how they talk, it just doesn’t! People have not looked at this the way they should: loving the person. Relationships are not about people’s backgrounds.

You love a girl for the girl she is. Her personality. Her sense of humor. And how she loves you. You can’t let religion affect it. Most people who date outside their religion do it because they love their partner. If someone denies their love or feelings for someone just because of religion, they’re absurd!

I’d like to ask any married couple: Name everything you love about your spouse. Every little single detail. Now top it off by saying they’re a different religion. If that can change your love for this person, then you aren’t really in love.

I encourage my friends to date outside their Judaism. Relationships are about loving someone. I really don’t care about their beliefs. These are two separate things: your love for a person and your thoughts about his or her religion. Whether you let one thing affect another is your prerogative. Just remember that you can hate a religion, but love a person. Love is love, no matter whether you accept or deny it. It’s love. – Sam Cohen

* * *

Half of my family is Jewish. They moved from Poland just before the Holocaust claimed their lives. My grandfather started a trucking company in New Jersey where my dad grew up until he was a teenager. My grandparents were fairly traditional Jews, with my grandfather serving as a part-time rabbi, and my grandmother studying Hebrew for her Bat Mitzvah when she was 65. Yet, they’ve never forced on me the idea of dating only inside the faith. In fact, I don’t even know what they feel about the subject because my mother converted to Judaism before she met my dad.

Personally, I believe it’s fine to date outside the faith. Your partner doesn’t have to change your faith or your idea of faith, and you don’t even have to talk about faith. If you talk about religion, you may learn something about someone else’s religion, and maybe even some new ideas that will serve to help you grow. Dating someone of a different faith should be considered a learning experience, not a break in religious observance. If you are talking about marriage or moving in together, you should definitely talk about your faith and how you want to raise your children, and possible religious conflicts.

Choosing whom to date is like choosing your career. You should make your own decision but be aware of the consequences. Dating outside the faith should be a personal choice on what you believe is right or wrong. Faith does not have to be a big part of a small relationship, although it can make for interesting conversations.

My parents were the first generation of my family to intermarry. Though my mother converted before they were married, her sister remains a devout Christian. I am aware of the differences in our religions, but I want to appreciate them rather than fight them.

I think the choice of dating outside your faith should be yours alone. You should not let peer pressure or family influence get in the way of your happiness, but you should be aware of the consequences. – Isabelle Katz

* * *

When people meet and fall in love, it happens naturally. We shouldn’t need to over-examine another person’s characteristics right from the start. This is why I believe that people should be free to date whomever they choose. In my experience, I’ve never been involved with someone of Jewish ancestry. Though someone may not pray to God in the same way that I do, or attend the same house of worship, he or she may still be a good person. In my perspective, beliefs are not the key factors in relationships. Values are. Truly good people are those who find ways to apply their beliefs to their lives and aspire to live a life by the right values.

Though the various religions across the globe may vary from one another, many of their values are universal. As long as two people share similar values in life and are able to maintain mutual respect for each other’s beliefs, there shouldn’t be anything holding them back from being together. God may want two people to come together. By limiting ourselves to one group of people, we may be denying ourselves someone who could make us truly happy. – Olivia Weidner

_____

 Amy Krakovit, an instructor in “Writing for Good” at the Consolidated High School for Jewish Studies, Charlotte, NC, worked with her 8th and 9th grade students to prepare these essays for publication. They are reprinted here with the permission of the students and their parents.

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March 25, 2013 · 6:11 am

Passover Reminiscence

by Janice L. Booker (Malibu, CA)

We bought spring clothes for Passover and fall clothes for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, the high holidays.  The weather seemed always too cold for the new Passover clothes and too hot for the new fall clothes.  It took a long time and a lot of explanation for me to understand that the dates of the holidays didn’t change but the relationship between the Gregorian calendar and the Hebrew calendar did.

Holidays punctuated the sameness of days, the continuing emphasis on getting things done, going to school, shopping, playing; in general, our daily routine.  Preparation for the holiday of Passover was frenzied.

I don’t know how our grandmothers and mothers did it.   No dishwashers, no prepared foods, certainly no outside help – and yet, somehow it got done.  I hope it wasn’t the holiday that contributed to a shortened life span for that generation of women.   Yet, the expectation of repetition of the preparations, and the ceremony of the seder, were comforting in their continuity.  Before so many contemporary creative Haggadahs  with their inventive writings and improvisations were popular, we used the old Maxwell House Haggadah, a text familiar to me since early childhood.  Maybe the company’s distribution of these brand name Haggadahs was to give the subtle suggestion that Maxwell House coffee was kosher.  When my grandfather was alive, my parents, little brother and I went to their house on Wharton Street for the ritual meal.  I can still see my grandfather, imposing in a white kimono-like caftan, leaning on pillows as prescribed in the Haggadah, intoning the familiar story of the exodus.  My brother was too young to participate in the ceremony, but I, a Hebrew school student, asked the centuries- old Four Questions.

We learned to say them in Hebrew School in two languages, Hebrew and Yiddish, and I dutifully asked them in both languages, intoning the singsong liturgy learned in Hebrew School.  I remember being given sips of the sweet Passover wine, feeling indoctrinated in a world of grownups.  I also felt very important, with all attention focused on me; also, nervous, fearful I would make a mistake.  I didn’t realize that family indulgence was part of the game and all would smile gently if I slipped up.  Passover was  celebrated for its full eight days with ritual foods.  On the eighth day I was sent to the nearest bakery to buy the first bread.  My mother always grumbled that the bakery opened too soon which elicited a discussion of whether the holiday was over before lunch or before dinner, an argument still unresolved.  When we children came home for lunch in elementary school and junior high, Passover foods awaited us.

We all had two Seders on two successive nights and spent the next part of the holiday eating fried matzoh, gefilte fish and the special holiday dishes which, for some unexplained reason, certainly not sacred, we never prepared the rest of the year.  Nuts were a part of the Passover table, walnuts and almonds and particularly filberts.  These were the perfect shape for marbles, and we could be seen, in our new Passover clothes,  kneeling on the sidewalk using those  nuts for a game of marbles

Janice L. Booker is the author of The Jewish American Princess and Other Myths, Philly Firsts, and Across from the Alley Next Door to the Pool Room, from which this reminiscence is excerpted with permission of the author. For more information about her work, visit: http://www.amazon.com/Janice-L.-Booker/e/B001KCCS8E

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March 4, 2013 · 9:17 am

Jewish Identity: A Round-Trip Journey

by Donna Swarthout (Bozeman, MT)

A life-long discomfort with institutionalized Judaism is hard to shed once you reach the mid-life years. Sure, it’s great to keep an open mind, but there’s also the sense of not wanting to waste time on pursuits unlikely to enrich one’s life. Some of us narrow our options as we get older in a bargain to reduce the odds of having regrets.

Years of involvement with synagogue life had left me without a strong Jewish identity. This could be my own fault for not making a large enough personal investment, at least that’s what our rabbi and congregation president hinted at when we recently decided not to renew our annual membership. What was it that held us back? Years of trying to fit in, find meaning in the services, and carve out time and money for the responsibilities of membership had left us feeling….well, unfulfilled.

But something shifted when we moved to Germany in July of 2010. The vague contours of my Jewish identity gradually took on a clear shape. This was not a transformation of faith, but rather a return to the embrace of German Jewish culture, to the memories of my childhood when I was surrounded by relatives who all spoke with the same New York German Jewish accent and whose lives were a story from a faraway place that I could only imagine.

In a place where Jewish life had been all but extinguished, our family took part in building a new Jewish presence on German soil. A void was filled as I attended services in Berlin among people who shared my ancestry and my determination to revive a part of what had been lost. The sense of connection to Jewish traditions and rituals was present for me in a way that it had never been in the States, at least not since I had left the East Coast at the age of eight to become a California transplant.

Back in the States we were part of the melting pot of Jewish America. Despite all the benefits that come from our diversity, there was also something missing that I had never before been able to put my finger on. In Germany I realized that the missing element was a common cultural heritage that connects us.

As assimilated Americans, we have Jewish identity issues that German Jews don’t have. We come together to share Jewish rituals, but the feeling does not always or often run very deep. We remind ourselves that we come from a long historical tradition that must be kept alive, but we may not feel this in our bones. We worry about things like building funds and membership growth, but how do such pressures help build our Jewish identities?

It was the return to the States that cast a sharper light on the questions that I had struggled with for so long. The journey back to my roots had helped me to find the core of my Jewish identity, but the old doubts about how to lead a meaningful Jewish life resurfaced upon my return to Montana.

One of the first discussions I had with our rabbi after our return was about my daughter’s bat mitzvah. Olivia had been struggling for quite some time to decide if her coming of age ritual would be a bat mitzvah or something outside the Jewish faith. As I listened to the rabbi recite the long list of official guidelines, I was stunned to hear that she would be required to keep a punch card to mark her attendance at services. She would need to have ten punches on the card during the year leading up to her bat mitzvah, with no free coffee or hot chocolate to reward her at the end!

I’m troubled by the image of my daughter holding up her punch card to the rabbi after Friday night services. Would my daughter really be more Jewish when the card was full? If she learned her Torah portion and the requisite prayers, why couldn’t she carve her own path to her bat mitzvah and Jewish adulthood? Wouldn’t a single profound experience at services be worth more than half a dozen boring ones? Judaism in America feels formulaic at times and the punch card rule symbolized a structure within which I often feel more constrained than inspired.

The end of a journey can bring emotions that range from elation to relief, from fulfillment to exhaustion. I returned from Berlin enriched by my involvement in one of the smallest, but fastest growing Jewish communities in the world. But I also had renewed feelings of ambivalence and doubt about my connection to American Judaism. Now I must weave these two strands of my Jewish self into a single thread of my identity. And I must not abandon the effort to find community amidst the melting pot of Jews in America.

Donna Swarthout lived in Berlin, Germany from 2010 – 2012. You can read more about her experiences on her blog Full Circle. Her work has appeared on The Jewish Writing Project, AVIVA-berlin.de, Tikkun Daily, and in Tablet. This piece first appeared on Jewesses with Attitude (http://jwa.org/blog) and is reprinted here with the kind permission of The Jewish Women’s Archive.

 

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February 18, 2013 · 7:35 am

Crosses on the Wall

by Mel Glenn (Brooklyn, NY)

My father sent me to Hebrew school,
where mournful prayers kept me a prisoner,
preventing me from playing first base
for my beloved Little League team.
On the High Holidays, I dreaded wearing
my wool suit which made me scratch.
I looked all around the synagogue, bored,
counting the number of lights on the memorial wall.
I kept sneaking looks at how many pages remained.
Liberated at 13, I ran free, but was slowed by guilt.
Years later, I am a speaker of literature
at a conference at a small Catholic college.
Two nuns sit in on my workshop,
and on the wall floats a giant cross.
“So boychik, my ancestors seem to be saying.
“How are you feeling these days?
See how your lack of Jewish education has cost you?
Are you now playing first base for the other side?”

The author of twelve books for young adults, Mel Glenn has lived nearly all his life in Brooklyn, NY, where he taught English at A. Lincoln High School for thirty-one years.  Lately, he’s been writing poetry, and you can find his most recent poems in a new YA anthology, This Family Is Driving Me Crazy,  edited by M. Jerry Weiss.

If you’d like to learn more about his work, visit: http://www.melglenn.com/

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February 11, 2013 · 9:03 am

Shabbat in the House on Saturn Street

by  Bonnie Widerman (Irvine, CA)

When I was very young, my parents would drop me off on a Friday night at my Auntie Ann’s house in the heart of the very Jewish Pico-Robertson area of Los Angeles and go off to the movies. Auntie Ann was a petite, gray-haired woman in her 60s who was not my aunt at all — she was my father’s second cousin by marriage. But for all practical purposes, this strong-minded woman, poet, and Orthodox Jew was my West Coast grandmother. And in her home, I had my first exposure to observant Judaism.

Auntie Ann lived in a yellow stucco house on Saturn Street with her beloved terrier, Penny. It was a fascinating house for a young child, with rounded ceilings and doorways thick with mint green textured plaster that made me feel as if I was stepping inside a birthday cake. “Come, let’s bench,” she’d say as the sun began to set. I’d stand beside her in the muted dining room as she lit two thick, white candles in a simple, multi-branched candelabra and recited a blessing over them. The flames made shadows dance on the walls and I remember feeling safe and peaceful there.

Auntie Ann and I would eat Shabbat dinner together in her spacious kitchen where the sink was always full of plants, the oven doubled as a breadbox, and the light bulb in the refrigerator was loosened to avoid turning on a light on Shabbat. When it was bedtime, I’d crawl under the crisp white sheets of a pull-out bed in the brown warmth of her study.

In the morning, we’d walk to Mrs. Van Gelder’s house for “Shabbos Group.”Peeking over the edge of the serving table, I’d marvel at plates loaded with pickles and sweets and other delicious-looking foods I’d have to wait for while the women talked in the living room. I’m not sure what they talked about–the week’s Torah portion or the Vietnam War or Israel–but I will always remember the way my Auntie Ann spoke. Although she had emigrated from Russia to Philadelphia when she was a toddler and spoke English like any other American, her speech was peppered with enough “Jewish” (Yiddish) that it sounded like secret code to me.

Late in the afternoon, we’d walk back to Auntie Ann’s house, where she’d doze in her yellow arm chair with Penny curled up in her lap as the sun began to set. When Shabbat was nearly over, we’d sit in darkness until her timer clicked loudly and turned on the lamp. Later, we’d turn on the TV news to catch up on what had happened in the world until my parents came to pick me up.

On Friday nights at home, my family also had a special Shabbat dinner together and lit candles. But it was different. Being Jewish was very important to us, even though we were not very observant. But it didn’t quite permeate every moment of our lives the way it did in my Auntie Ann’s home. And although Auntie Ann is gone now and so is the house on Saturn Street, the memory of the way being Jewish wrapped around us in that house has stayed with me over the years and has inspired my own Jewish observance in so many ways.

Bonnie Widerman has been a corporate writer and communications manager for more than 20 years. She also writes stories and poetry and has had poems for children published in Ladybug magazine and Fandangle. Bonnie is currently seeking publication for her book-length manuscript chronicling the year she spent saying Kaddish for her mother, who passed away in 2008 from ALS.

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February 4, 2013 · 6:58 am

Going Through the Motions

by Janet Ruth Falon (Elkins Park, PA)

When you stand, I stand
When you sit, I sit
When you bow, I bend a tiny little bit
When you lift yourselves up to kadosh, kadosh, kadosh
I watch
and when you stretch out your arm
into the aisle
to touch the Torah
and kiss the book in between
I go through the motions
And today
the motion that matters most to me
is staying
still
of not following my self out the door
because nothing is meaning much
and my faith, today,
is only hope
that one moment will matter,
that I’ll connect, once,
to why I’m here
like chaotic shards of metal waiting to be magnetized
and formed into shape, like Wooly Willie’s beard.
I’m dying to connect, once.
So I wait
for I’m not sure what
going through the motions
and staying, still,
as you stand
and sit
and rock
and bow down low
I wait, still,
going through the motions
even though, in truth,
I’m afraid I’ve gone.

Janet Ruth Falon, the author of The Jewish Journaling Book (Jewish Lights, 2004), teaches a variety of writing classes — including journaling and creative expression — at many places, including the University of Pennsylvania. She leads a non-fiction writing group and works with individual students, and is continuing to write Jewish-themed readings for what she hopes will become a book, In the Spirit of the Holidays.

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January 21, 2013 · 7:29 am

Touched

by Bracha Mirsky (Jerusalem, Israel)

In Memory of Itka Rochel bas Shmuel z”l (1930-1974)

I’m a proud third-generation Canadian. I grew up in Ottawa the capital of Canada; the winters were long and cold. I remember the snow banks were higher than I was. Although my father was born and raised in Ottawa, by the time I was growing up most of my dad’s family had left the city. My mother was from Montreal where she had a large close-knit family she left to raise a family in Ottawa. We would visit and embrace the warmth of our family in Montreal as often as possible, but in Ottawa my mother was as isolated and lonely as if every day was winter.

I remember my grandparents’ towering gray stone house in Montreal. Even now, I can see through the eyes of a child and feel the warm wonder of the sights, smells and sounds of Pesach:  sweet gefilte fish, chicken soup, matzoh, grape juice, spilling the drops from our cup …to lessen our joy at the memory of the suffering of our enemies. I have fond memories of my grandfather, uncles, father and brothers at the head of the table singing. I looked forward to examining the drama of Pesach in pictures in a small, brightly colored Haggadah. My mother was a quiet woman; her attention was always focused on her children, ready with a kind word and a hug. She would help my grandmother prepare and serve the meal.

I’m nine-years-old.  I shyly ask my bubby, “Can I help too?”

“Of course,” my bubby replies. “What a big girl you are now. A shayna maideleh!”  I would help serve the gefilte fish and collect and wash the cutlery. I would bask in the glow of my mother’s pride in me.

My mother loved us so much! She was the emotional core of our family, yet we had no idea that in her quiet way she was instilling so much in us. She was a stay-at-home mom, with six children — that was no easy task! Dad worked hard but it was always difficult to make ends meet. There was no money for Hebrew school and so I went to the local public school.

As a child the world was puzzling to me. I could not connect the dots that others seemed to have no problem with; the world did not make sense.

“Dad, no one likes me, they won’t play with me, they’re mean and always try to get me in trouble.”  His only reply was, “Make yourself a small target.”

“Mom why do they call me a ‘Christ-killer’?”

“Just ignore them; they don’t know what they’re talking about.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was hard to ignore them while the boys were beating me up after school as the girls watched. Canada, 1968, I was 11-years-old.

“Where are you going Mom?”

“There is a protest to free the Soviet Jews.” My mother never missed a rally or any event to try and win the freedom of a fellow Jew. This woman who loved children and her people so much, who would not hurt a fly, always put a heavy wrench in her purse before each rally. Just in case the KGB tried to break it up, she intended to take a good swing at one!

I can still see Mom lighting Shabbos candles and the whole world seemed to glow in that soft light. With my mother at my side, the world was at peace.

Shul — a place to sing! Awesome! Reading the stories of the Bible, imagining what it would be like to have such faith. I already knew that God was everywhere and I could talk to him whenever I wanted. Talking to God was easy, understanding God was the hard part.

“Mom, are you not feeling well again?”

“No dear, don’t worry I’m OK.”  But she wasn’t. Visiting the hospital, not understanding, “When will Mom get better?”

“Soon dear, soon.”

It seemed so gradual, I didn’t even notice it. Mom could do less and less and I did more and more. I’m 16, my two older brothers are away at university leaving me, now the eldest at home, to look after and cook for my father and three younger siblings. My youngest brother is only six- years-old.

I visit Mom in the hospital every evening with my dad but she looks worse and worse, no one says anything. A wall of silence, we didn’t know…how could we not know? She kept the truth from us, it was cancer.

Waking up erev Rosh Hashanah, I can hear my dad talking on the phone “…last night…” I stiffen in my bed, my body rigid, waiting, but no one comes. I get up and go down to breakfast; Dad acts normally and sends us off to school.

It’s erev Rosh Hashanah.

I sit at the back of the school assembly hall right up against a wall. In that big darkened room with only the stage lit up I’m in a tiny corner all alone, feeling with every part of my being that my whole world has come crashing down and no one else notices it, their world hasn’t changed at all. Yet I still try to deny it, I repeat to myself, “I must have been mistaken, Dad would have told me if anything happened, therefore nothing happened,” I say this to myself over and over again. Surrounded by a sea of people, I’m all alone in the dark.

That afternoon I begin my slow walk home from school with a heavy heart, thinking to myself, “It’s erev Rosh Hashanah.”

I’m about half-way home, alone as usual, when something softly brushes my cheek. I stop and stand still. My hair is tied back in a ponytail, there is nothing near me. Again, something softly brushes my cheek. My heart leaps out — NO! It can’t be! It’s not you, you’re not dead! It must be the wind!  I turn to face the opposite direction. The same soft touch brushes the same cheek. Then I knew…she was gone.

Stunned, I sit on a nearby rock, I don’t know for how long. Now numb and beyond pain, I accepted the truth. Then I began to wonder at the strength of my mother, to come to me and give me this gift. To reach out and touch me to say goodbye.

It’s erev Rosh Hashanah.

My mother taught me many things. She taught me about family, to be a proud Jew and to never stop caring. In her last moments on earth she taught me that God is real and that nothing can stop love, not even death.

* * *

I look after my father and siblings for three years until I’m 19 and then it’s my turn to go away to college. I become a nurse and meet my husband. We are married in a lovely ceremony in an Orthodox shul. I miss my mom, but I believe she is happy for me. I could not have anticipated the surprises that were in store for me.

I married at 23, and two years later I give birth to triplets, two boys and a girl. Oh! How my mom would have loved this! Never have I missed her so much as then. For the first time since her passing, I can see her in my mind’s eye, holding her grandchildren, and the joy from her face is blinding!

Public health services provide a really sweet woman to help out for the first few months, but after that initial period I am on my own. I am told by the supervisor, “No one can manage on their own with triplets; you’ll have to hire some help.”

“Really?” I say, “We’ll see…”

God, fill our hands with your blessings. In this, I am truly my mother’s daughter. Five years later I give birth to twin boys. Life is busier and happier than ever!

They grow, the years pass and they develop as proud Jews who know their God, and they are very proud of their people and love every one of them. I know exactly who they got that from. All the Bible stories are real to them, they love going to shul, singing and giving me joy.

And their mother tells them stories of a special soul, the bubby they never knew.

Mom, pray for them.

Bracha Mirsky is a mother of triplets and twins, Registered Nurse, Labour Coach, Certified Parent and Infant Consultant and Diabetes Educator. She has worked as a member of the St. Elizabeth Nurses Maternal and Infant Care Team as a specialist and with her local Family and Child services, assisting families with parenting issues. Bracha is a guide to parents through classes, as an advice columnist and as an author. Her book, What Makes Kids Tick? Giving parents the tools to shape child behaviour, is based on the counseling she has given parents and her own parenting journey, filled with stories of the challenges and rewards of raising multiple children and the insights the adventure has given her. Bracha can be reached at www.whatmakeskidstick.com. She has recently made aliya.

This story was reprinted with permission from Living Legacies: A Collection of Writing by Contemporary Canadian Jewish Women, Volume III, edited by Liz Pearl. For more information about the book, visit:  http://at.yorku.ca/pk/ll3.htm

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January 14, 2013 · 9:06 am

Embracing Pluralism

by Emily Goldberg (New York, NY)

Here I am, sitting silently amongst the tension. I watch in awe, somewhere in the middle or off center-left, as my new friends defend their various Jewish backgrounds on a casual Saturday night in Tzfat, Israel.

“My father, an Orthodox rabbi, would never officiate at a wedding for an intermarried couple, unless, of course, the spouse had converted. Halacha, or Jewish law, must always come first,” says a modern Orthodox girl on my left.

“But my mother, a Catholic, never converted,” argues a liberal Reform Jew to my right. “In my Reform community, I am still considered Jewish despite the intermarriage between my parents! In fact, without an intermarriage, I would not even be here today.”

Just six months ago, I never would have imagined that I’d somehow be struggling with the question of interfaith and its impact on Judaism with all different kinds of Jews surrounding me. In a pluralistic setting that we, twenty-six American Jewish teenagers, had created over the summer in Israel, it suddenly felt acceptable to cross the sensitive boundaries that divided us in our individual walks of faith. Will we allow our separate denominations, I wonder, to expunge our newly formed friendships? Will our different community affiliations destroy the sacred space we’ve created for spiritual growth?

One year earlier, the world of Jewish pluralism had barely entered my realm of thinking. Growing up in a sheltered Conservative Jewish bubble through both synagogue and Camp Ramah, I never considered the idea that the “other” Jews who existed around the world particularly cared about what I believed. I simply believed, like many American Jews today, that sects of Judaism were structured into a scale with Orthodoxy titled as the “most religious” and Reform as the “least Jewish” of them all, for reasons that I can no longer understand today. For years, I secured my place on this scale of American Judaism with the ignorant awareness that some denominations were placed at higher and lower levels, but I refused to ever explore these other communities. Besides, if non-Conservative Jews distanced themselves from my lifestyle, then what could I possibly learn from them?

It was during my last summer at Camp Ramah Darom in Clayton, GA, when I learned about the Bronfman Youth Fellowships in Israel, a Jewish high school program that would later open my eyes to the perspectives of other Jewish denominations and shape my pluralistic view of Judaism. In early June 2011, a friend in my age group had drowned while we were rafting down the Ocoee River in Southern Tennessee. He was rushed to a local hospital where he passed away that afternoon, leaving my entire camp and community in shock and utter grief.

This tragedy inspired me to question theology and Conservative ideologies beyond the mandatory lectures throughout the week. Unsettled by the limited opportunities for spiritual introspection during the day, I attempted to explore my faith at night alongside my friends, who, understandably, wanted no involvement. It seemed sensible that, after overcoming a ten-day mourning period at camp, my friends did not need to hear phrases such as “How could God let this happen?” or “the Conservative movement has struggled with death and dying for years” anymore. My curiosity toward Judaism, text studying, and spiritual growth only burgeoned as the summer continued, but my social circle was taking a faith break. As a result, I was nicknamed “little rabbi” and “super Jew,” names that seemed to justify my constant desire to debate God’s omniscience with the first person I saw. I wondered if I would ever be fortunate enough to find a community of Jewish seekers with whom I could explore my own Jewish path. Throughout the emotional whirlwind of a summer, I simply wanted to unravel the rudiments of my Judaism and analyze their every aspect.

During my last week of camp, a counselor pulled me aside and provided me with information that marked a new direction to my post-Ramah junior year. She simply looked at me and said, “There are people out there who are like you. They’re applying to a program called the Bronfman Youth Fellowship, a five-week program in Israel next summer. You really should check it out.”

Weeks later, the Bronfman website became my most frequently visited computer page. Unfamiliar terms such as “Jewish pluralism,” “Ma’aseh,” and “Edgar Bronfman” entered my daily realm of thinking. As the days progressed, I continued to learn more about this once nebulous yet intriguing Jewish program. This organization could somehow amalgamate twenty-six high school students from across the Jewish spectrum to learn together? Five weeks in Israel will be spent learning from some non-Conservative teachers? Fascinated by the idea of exploring Judaism through new perspectives, I felt motivated to expand my sheltered Jewish bubble. Three months into my academic year, I opened the summer application, realizing that I had found my future community.

Seven months, five essays, and two interviews later, I packed my suitcase and joined the twenty-sixth Bronfman class for five life-changing weeks in Israel. Would these random people be interested in starting vehement theological discussions at any hour of the night? Will any of them enjoy being challenged and passionate about their beliefs this summer? I anxiously (and perhaps creepily, too) eyed the circle of unique thinkers from across the country. Little did I know, these twenty-five other individuals would inspire nights of deep, endless conversations, reconstruct my view of Jewish denominationalism, and sharpen my faith with the experiences of their own.

While I had traveled to Israel with Jewish groups in the past, this journey was unique in infinite ways. I never imagined that I would find the opportunity to debate God’s omniscience while overlooking Jerusalem’s Old City, learn Torah from acclaimed professors and rabbis while wearing Bedouin pants and a T-shirt, and become more comfortable with the idea of pluralism, a phrase that I had begun introducing to my Jewish vocabulary—all within the first week there. Once the first Shabbat as a community approached, I couldn’t help wondering if there was any scientific force on earth that could even attempt to drag me down back to reality.

As the weeks progressed, however, I faced some of the religious issues that our faculty had warned us to expect. Shabbat observances, levels of kashrut, and forms of modesty were tense topics that inspired hours of heated debate. A term like “more religious,” originally so common in my pre-Bronfman life, suddenly made me cringe when it was used to categorize the twenty-six of us rather than unite us. We defended our separate denominations in an attempt to secure the only Judaism we each knew, rather than looking at the incredible Jewish influences that surrounded us: each other. Striving to create a pluralistic community, we, in a sense, embodied both the strengths and flaws of our own denominations, allowing these titles to box us into different categories. Ultimately, that is how most Jews identify themselves today—through the offered boxes left for us to “check.” I learned over the course of five weeks in Israel, however, that the boxes themselves have become the issue in American Judaism today.

Unlike the radical thinkers who endorse the concept of post-denominational Judaism or “Judaism with no prefix,” I have come to value different Jewish denominations, the communities that ensue from them, and the traditions that make each one unique. Since post-denominational Judaism has evolved into a denomination of its own, I believe in the idea of “experimental” Judaism instead, a Judaism that encourages others to explore all denominations and integrate themselves into different communities.  People, myself once included, have the tendency to commit to one community both physically and mentally, almost entirely for security. This association, however, prevents us from exploring and experimenting with our individual walks of Jewish life and ultimately creating pluralism. This summer, our pluralism was not a reflection of our agreements and shared conclusions, but rather our willingness to grow from every perspective and opinion we encountered. Our pluralism was defined by our ability to unite, talk, struggle, and laugh together despite our different walks of life that separate Jewish communities on a daily basis. Most importantly, however, our pluralism marked an incredible feat in our generation of American Judaism: we, teens, jettisoned the walls of ignorance and fear that our ancestors built to insulate us. We embraced our differences and discovered beautiful commonalities through our experiments with the faith that divides so many people. We live in a world where too many focus on the direct destinations of their Jewish life, rather than on the journeys themselves. There is myriad knowledge and warmth we can gain by visiting the synagogues or communities that emphasize different ways of being Jewish than what we’re accustomed to practicing.

From my one summer in Israel, I learned that it is truly impossible to experiment with faith unless you are willing to step outside of your comfort zone. Denominations are necessary in order to strengthen communities; however, tolerance and the ability to explore these denominations, is the most vital step to creating Jewish pluralism. From the countless conversations I witnessed among my Bronfman friends, I realized that pluralistic Judaism could exist. And through the friendships we created based on understanding and faith exploration, I realized something more: pluralism can thrive.

Emily Goldberg, a student at the Abraham Joshua Heschel School in Manhattan, loves sharing her perspective on faith and religion, especially with her own growing Jewish community. She is the founder of “Common Ground Friends,” the first student-driven interfaith group in South Florida and records her own ideas in her blog, A Leap of Faith  (http://www.faithleaping.blogspot.com ), as well as in Sh’ma: the Journal of Jewish Ideas. This past summer she joined a life-long community of Jewish thinkers and leaders, The Bronfman Youth Fellowships in Israel, and is currently serving as the rabbinic intern at Romemu, a liberal synagogue on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. She hopes to lead a liberal and innovative Jewish community of her own someday, one where others can be inspired to pursue coexistence and positive change.

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December 10, 2012 · 9:27 am

Remembering Chanukah

by Janice L. Booker (Malibu, CA )

I grew up in Philadelphia in the days preceding World War II when Chanukah was not nearly the celebration it is today.

The holiday was never mentioned in public school, despite the fact that the population of my elementary and junior high school was predominantly Jewish.

There was no expectation of equal coverage. Christmas was celebrated in the schools with a tree in every classroom and in assemblies where we sang Christmas carols weeks before the holiday.

An unwritten, unspoken agreement among the Jewish kids was that when we sang the carols, lustily and with pleasure, we kept our lips sealed when the name of Jesus Christ was mentioned. To my knowledge, no parent ever asked for this and no one discussed it; it just was.

I don’t remember feeling cheated or inferior. Christmas just didn’t belong to me, and Chanukah was no substitute. There were no decorations and no expectations of eight gifts.

Sometimes friends of my parents or relatives gave Chanukah “gelt,” a small offering of cash. A quarter was considered a windfall.

We did buy chocolate “coins,” but Chanukah was treated as a minor holiday, which it realistically is.

As Christmas has become the shopping extravaganza it is today, so Chanukah celebrations have proliferated proportionally.

I succumbed when my children were young and went into the one gift per night routine, which I still do with my grandchildren.

Janice L. Booker is the author of The Jewish American Princess and Other Myths, Philly Firsts, and Across from the Alley Next Door to the Pool Room, from which this reminiscence is excerpted with permission of the author. For more information about her work, visit: http://www.amazon.com/Janice-L.-Booker/e/B001KCCS8E

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