By Meredith Patrick

Every Sunday, my mother would take my older sister and me to church at Our Mother of Consolation in Philadelphia. We would put on dresses, make the five-minute drive to church, and sit in the same pew each week.

Our Mother of Consolation is a beautiful church, with gorgeous stained-glass windows and intricate statues of the Stations of the Cross along the walls. I always liked to look around. I remember being bored, however, by the homilies as a child, and was envious of the kids who got to leave and go into a room beyond the sacristy (where the sacred vestments are stored) for a brief Sunday school service. Eventually, I asked my mother if I could go with the other kids, and she agreed.

And so, a decision that was made out of boredom as a small child was the catalyst for me becoming a Catholic.

I don’t mean to sound like I’m mocking the religion, but it’s shocking to me, upon reflection, that this was the reason why I began the process of initiation into the church. The choice became official after my mother’s father died. He played a very major role in my childhood. I looked up to him a great deal and wanted to emulate him. When he died, I was adamant about being a Catholic like he was. After years of going to church every week, when I was 7 years old, I decided I wanted to be baptized.

My mother is Catholic and my father is Jewish. When they got married, they made a mutual decision to let their children decide which religion they wanted to be raised in. My father was pretty secular and rarely went to synagogue services, while my mother went to church once a week; therefore, my sister and I were only really exposed to Catholicism growing up. My only significant childhood memories of Judaism were when my father lit Hanukkah candles every year. We went to his mother’s house for Passover Seders, and I recall staying at her house while the men went to High Holiday services. Still, I didn’t consider myself half-Jewish; I saw myself as Catholic. I didn’t see why I shouldn’t be baptized, since I was doing everything a Catholic did anyway.

The tradition in Catholicism is to baptize babies shortly after their birth. Since my parents wanted their children to choose their own religion, I was baptized later. My father didn’t object, seeing as I made the decision on my own. I don’t remember much about the ceremony: just bending over backward across the baptismal font and having the holy water poured across my head.

After I was baptized, I experimented with ways to further initiate myself into the church. I became an altar girl for a while, helping the priest go about his rituals throughout the Mass. Later on, I sang with the small group that led the congregation during each of the songs. Looking back, I realize that I was trying to feel like I belonged in the church community. I never really felt at home, however, and eventually abandoned both being an altar girl and singing in front of the congregation.

By the time I was 8 years old, I started to get interested in the Holocaust. I had always loved to read as a child, and reading Anne Frank’s diary on my own had a profound impact on me. Up until that point, I had absolutely no knowledge of the Holocaust or World War II. The connection I felt with Anne and the way she described her life growing up made me want to learn more about the time period. I began to read more about the events surrounding her life in Europe. Hindsight shows that not only did I feel a connection with Anne, but with all of the Jews who lived through the Holocaust. Yet, at the time, it didn’t alter my religious beliefs or my view of Judaism.

My beliefs did change, however, when I was 13 and 9/11 happened. This was the impetus that led to my shifting away not only from Catholicism but from God as well. Having read dozens of books about the Holocaust, I had already wondered how God could allow such a horrible thing to happen; 9/11 was my breaking point. I refused to believe in a God that would let so many innocent people die under horrific circumstances. Even if God existed, I didn’t want to worship Him. I felt wrong praising His name in church every week, as if He deserved to be exalted. I slowly stopped going to church, until my attendance ceased altogether.

For years after that, I didn’t consider myself religious at all. I didn’t call myself an atheist, though, as I still believed in some kind of afterlife.

It wasn’t until my sophomore year of college that I began to investigate my own Jewishness. I had transferred from the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, an acting conservatory in New York City, to Albright College, a small liberal arts school in Reading, Pennsylvania. A few weeks into my first semester, there was an activities fair where students could learn about different clubs and organizations on campus. I signed up for Hillel, the Jewish group at Albright. It seemed interesting, and I figured I could learn more about the religion my father’s side of the family belonged to. His mother, my grandmother, had died while I was in high school. She was a very important, loving figure in my life. She and my grandfather had done community service for Meals on Wheels at a local synagogue; my sister and I would often join them. While I don’t remember much about her funeral, I can recall her headstone being unveiled in a Jewish cemetery a year later. The surrounding headstones inscribed in Hebrew were somehow comforting to me.

As a member of Hillel, I started to consider myself half-Jewish. The members were welcoming and made me feel like I belonged. I was also taking religious courses that focused on Judaism, such as Religious Responses to the Holocaust; Judaism, Christianity, and Islam; and Hebrew Bible. I eventually became a Religious Studies major, because I wanted to keep learning more about Judaism. My parents were supportive, since they viewed college as the time to learn about what you’re interested in.

At a Hillel meeting in the fall of 2007, the president announced that registration for an upcoming Birthright trip was open. I asked for more information, regarding a trip to Israel as yet another way to dive further into my quest for knowledge about Judaism and my heritage. The hard part was convincing my mother to let me go. She was hesitant only because she was worried that it would be too dangerous, with suicide bombers being a constant threat to my safety. My father knew how much I wanted to go, and we both ultimately persuaded her that I would be fine.

A minor stumbling block was the phone interview I had as part of the application process. The interviewer seemed a little hesitant when she found out I was half-Jewish. I explained that it was important for me to learn more about my heritage, considering I knew very little about it growing up. When that didn’t seem to be enough, I got a little defensive about my status as a half-Jew, informing the interviewer that my great-great-grandmother had died in the Holocaust. My passion and determination seemed to sway her.

The 10 days I spent in Israel were 10 of the best days of my life. I became close to several of my fellow students, who were all very welcoming and made me feel a part of the Jewish community. I especially grew fond of a girl my age, Rayna, who was Jewish but didn’t believe in God. The idea that one could be a Jew without believing in God had been something I was introduced to during my classes at Albright, and it gave me hope: I could still be a part of this community that I felt connected to without giving up my beliefs (or lack thereof). As the trip progressed, I began to identify myself with Judaism more and more.

I’ll never forget when Rayna and I went into a jewelry store in Jerusalem. The shop owner asked us where we were from, and we told her we were visiting from America. She asked, “So, what does is feel like to be home?” When she posed that question, the idea of Israel being “home” for all Jews finally made sense to me, because I felt it to be true deep down in my bones. I could only smile at her, while Rayna replied, “It feels good.”

My favorite part of the trip was when we visited the Western Wall. The visiting areas were divided into two parts: a large section for the men, and a small section for the women. Because the women’s section was so small, you had to wait your turn to get close to the Wall. There were white plastic chairs spread out near the back of the section, where you could sit and wait, sit and pray, or sit and write a message that you wanted to put in the Wall. Most people wrote prayers to God, but seeing as how I don’t believe in Him, I wrote a note to my grandmother. I hoped she would have been proud of me for exploring my Jewishness. When I was able to find a spot in front of the Wall, I tucked the note into a crevice. Everyone around me was praying, some out loud, some quietly to themselves. Orthodox Jews in skirts down to their ankles were rocking back and forth as they prayed. I knew I wasn’t going to pray, but I felt like I needed to do something, since this was the holiest site in Judaism. I remembered having seen photos of people leaning their foreheads against the wall, with one or both hands splayed out next to them. I moved closer to the Wall, rested my forehead against it, and put my hands on the stones on either side of my face. I closed my eyes and waited. Soon, the voices of those praying around me faded into distant murmurs; it was almost like I was by myself, yet still had the comfort of the proximity of others. I felt an incredible calm wash over me, from my head all the way down to my toes. I’ve never felt so at peace in my entire life. I could have stayed there for hours. I silently thanked my grandmother for her presence in my life growing up and asked her to watch over me. As I backed away from the Wall slowly (you’re not supposed to turn your back on it), I thought maybe, just maybe, there might be a God after all.

A few months after I returned to Albright, I started looking into officially converting to Judaism. My trip to Israel had been life-altering, in that it made me feel like I finally found a place where I belonged. I had learned about Judaism in my courses at school and felt connected to it while reading about its traditions and beliefs, but it wasn’t until I was actually surrounded by the Jewish community in Israel that I felt like I was home. The books I read on converting to Judaism only solidified my decision.

I told my father first, since he’s Jewish and has always supported any decision I’ve made, whether it was transferring colleges or going on Birthright. He was very understanding, and even offered to give me some Jewish family heirlooms, like the mezuzah and menorah that belonged to my grandparents.

I was more nervous about telling my mother, because she had essentially raised me as Catholic, and I worried that she would view my conversion as a rejection of her and her beliefs. I shouldn’t have been so worried, as she was also supportive, knowing that I’d only make a decision if I had thought about if for a long time and weighed my options. Her main hesitation was over my wanting to become Jewish even though I don’t believe in God. I tried as best as I could to explain that a belief in God wasn’t a prerequisite for being Jewish, since Judaism is more than just a religion, but also a culture and a people as well.

Although I told both of my parents about my decision in person, I found it sufficient to inform my sister via text message, as she was living in a different city at the time. Her reply? “im not surprised. Im glad ur happy.” It put the biggest smile on my face.

I also told my dad’s sister, my aunt, and his father, my grandfather. My aunt’s response was to grin and hug me, while my grandfather said, “I’m even more proud of you. I was already proud before, but I’m even more proud of you now.” The love and support of my friends and family has been overwhelming and incredibly moving.

I’m constantly reading and discovering new things about Judaism. When I studied abroad in Paris for a semester, one of my favorite experiences was going to the Jewish Art and History Museum. At the closing sale of the Borders bookstore in my hometown, I immediately went to the religious section and bought two more books on Judaism. For a college graduation present, I’ve asked my parents to pay for a Jewish heritage tour that includes visits to Poland, the Czech Republic, and Germany. Even though I’m not officially Jewish yet, I already consider myself to be a Jew.

I keep kosher, which is easy as a vegetarian, and I fast on Yom Kippur. I ask my dad to go to High Holiday services with me at my grandfather’s Jewish retirement home, and we also light Hanukkah candles together.

One of the most touching parts of my journey has been my mom’s acceptance. This past December, she bought me a Hanukkah card that wished me a happy holiday; she also wrote that I should ask the Albright cafeteria to make latkes, and offered to light the menorah for me while I was gone. Her acceptance of my Jewishness, despite her strong ties to Catholicism, has meant more to me than she will ever know.

I’m going to begin the conversion process after I graduate from college, so I can dedicate the amount of time such an undertaking deserves. Yet, even after the ceremony is over, my journey in Judaism will continue.

Meredith Patrick traveled to Israel as part of the Kesher Birthright program in the winter of 2007-2008. A native of Philadelphia, she went to school in New York and Paris before graduating with a B.A. in French and Religious Studies from Albright College in 2010. She was also part of the Holocaust Studies special program at Albright and was elected the president of Hillel her senior year.

**This essay appears in What We Brought Back: Jewish Life After Birthright, a new anthology written by Birthright alumni, and published by The Toby Press in conjunction with Birthright Israel NEXT and Nextbook Inc.

Photo by Kudumomo, licensed under Creative Commons.

Read more from Issue #25: Changing Traditions.

By Stephen Rosenberg

In my family, most traditions seem to build themselves around the tasty, the inebriating, and the downright dangerous (seeing a movie over the holidays no matter what the weather). We also tend to over-complicate things. Case in point, an email from my brother-in-law about New Years that I received this morning: “I have not chosen my appetizer, however rest assured that it will be very labor-intensive, involve several special ingredients that may have to be mail-ordered, and delicious.” While everything about his plan is amazing, and follows our family’s custom of cooking together on New Years, some are more simple and based on a shared Jewish family history.

One of my favorite parts about Judaism is the sense of being connected to history through a shared set of customs and traditions, practiced through the ages. That’s probably why I like Passover so much. Jewish or not, though, we’re all part of a greater human narrative, and the connections we make–or don’t make–to our ancestors, helps define who we are. Those connections come in all forms. I am proud that one of my favorite family traditions connects me to my Zadie, a proud man that I wish I had been able to know better. That same tradition connects me to my father, who shares a rich memory from his own childhood, and also tells a special story about his relationship to Zadie, his father-in-law.

As a boy in Bloomfield, CT, my father fondly recalls helping out at the synagogue on Shabbat, where davening old men celebrated with shots of Canadian Club blended whiskey. Years later, after completing his residency, he and my mother moved in with her parents for six weeks until they shipped out to England — he as a captain in the Air Force, she as the smart, lovely bride who had to put up with him. During that brief time, my dad had an opportunity to get closer to his father-in-law. Zadie, an honest soda company owner, who turned down bottling Coke to continue his own brand, wasn’t exactly the chatty type. Turns out, though, he was fond of cigars. Grandma forbade them in the house, so he and my father frequently enjoyed each other’s company on the porch, occasionally with cocktails. Zadie wasn’t much of a drinker, but when he did indulge he favored Canadian Club. From that period on, for decades thereafter (long after Zadie stopped smoking cigars on doctor’s orders), my dad would offer Zadie Canadian Club when he and Grandma visited, remembering his drink preference and honoring the memory of their brief time under the same roof.

It is remarkable how much history can inhabit a simple tradition. When the hearty of my family breaks the Yom Kippur fast with a shot of Canadian Club, we connect to our past and rejoice in the present. We also, with a loud “l’chaim!,” honor the memory of loved ones not in the room.

Stephen fancies himself a web entrepreneur, and is a self-described beach bum, cooking enthusiast, and geopolitical junkie. He’s currently building brainpik.com, and is co-organizer of StartAtlanta.

…

Photo provided by the author.

Read more from Issue #25: Changing Traditions.

by Mimi Hecht

I’m not going to lie. I used to think being a mom was for losers. Or, better yet, that you become a loser. Sure, baring offspring is an essential and rewarding part of life as we know it, but who really wants to trade in their vintage-leather handbag for a diaper bag? Who actually invites the selflessness it all demands? Come on. Spit-up? Early rising? Oh, and not to mention my one biggest fear growing up: child labor.

As much as I always knew I wanted to raise a family, I looked to the future imagining I would be forfeiting my personality, self-expression, time and, oh, just about everything else I love about life. It’s not that I feared that I wouldn’t love my kids. And, growing up as one of seven kids, I saw the beauty in a large brood. But, to say the least, I didn’t idolize, nor anticipate taking on, the image of the self-sacrificing, raggedy Jewish mother that was so often praised.

Luckily, my very own first birth taught me that my happiness and confidence as a mother would be in my own hands.

Nine months after marrying the love of my life, my water broke. I had spent nine months falling prey to the new-age, alternative-style of birth and motherhood that most moms I knew revered. I meticulously and fanatically planned for a drug-free, calm, and quick birth at a birthing center equipped with massage chairs and a jacuzzi. But in the end, I wound up in a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV, being prodded with an epidural needle. It was everything the world had told me would rid me of my perfect birth. My hired birth-support looked at me sadly and my midwife seemed to be saying “Poor you, you’re not going to have a beautiful, drug-free birth.” But even though the circumstances of my birth were now beyond my control, I decided it would still be just as “beautiful” as originally planned. I didn’t need to have the picture-perfect, counter-conventional labor in order to have an uplifting, empowering birth. I would not be defeated! Despite the circumstances, I would still do things my way and, yes, have an absolutely perfect experience!

The emergence of my redheaded son was an emotionally charged experience witnessed by many of my close family. I lay in that hospital bed pushing with all my love and energy – completely present, in-tune, and strong. Looking back, I don’t know how it could have been better! I will never forget the chaos, the joy, and the result of a beautiful, healthy boy in my arms. Tightly holding his slimy body, I immediately loved being a mother more than I ever knew I could.

But I still wasn’t going to become a loser! Having just learned the power of my own will, I knew I wouldn’t allow myself to abide by any “Mother-Manual” but mine. Nor would I fall into the pressures of being a by-the-books, high-pressure mom that has to puree her own baby food to gain approval. I would be me! This baby came out of my body; I’ll define the terms. I would take motherhood and learn not only to love it, but rock it.

I want women to know that being a mother is not just a right-of-passage, but rather a personal journey into which we can infuse our greatest hopes, dreams, and talents. The common adage that motherhood is “all sacrifice” is so demeaning and barely true! If you’re determined, motherhood is all gain and little sacrifice. Sure, you have to call a scrawny high-schooler to watch your kid every time you and your husband want to go out. And yes, you get a lot less sleep. But when it comes to being you, the more you stick to what works for you and your life, the better off everyone will be. If you care about fashion, you can still shove all the baby paraphernalia in a designer handbag. You don’t have to use a modesty-cover when you breastfeed if it makes you feel like a nerd. Heck, you don’t have to breastfeed if it doesn’t work for you. (Uh oh, I think the La Leche League is knocking down my door!)

Insistent on not passively slipping into the mom-club, I started ladymama.org, a growing online community of women and moms all looking to stay smart, stylish, sane, and spiritual. At LadyMama, we vent, we laugh, we connect, and we’re not afraid to talk about taboo topics like infertility and birth control.

The only reason I love being a mom today is because I have relieved myself of the pressures that exist out there in Motherland and instead choose to utilize my own personal style and opinions to be the best mom I can be. I’m convinced that herein lies the secret to Jewish women throughout the ages: the ability to weave our unique expression, intuition, strengths, and soul into a healthy, happy, and lively home.

When it comes to grading myself as a mom, I have only myself and G-d to answer to. I am not ashamed to admit that I will gladly plan – yes, plan! – an epidural birth. While plenty of mothers feel guilty leaving their newborns, I used a babysitter when my son was a mere four weeks old. I will gladly tell my granola-mom friends about my unpopular decisions like using pacifiers to calm the baby, letting my kid eat pretty much anything, and that I have little qualms about drinking coffee and wearing heels when I’m pregnant. Oh, and I will never, ever use cloth diapers, no matter how good it is for the environment or even my baby. I’ll go with what’s easiest. And when things are easy, I am happy. And a happy mom is a happy family. Now that’s one rule I most certainly can’t live without.

Mimi Hecht is a young mother living in Brooklyn, New York. She is a freelance writer, with a passion for portraying the truth and humor in being a woman at www.ladymama.com.

Read more posts from Issue 24: Jewish Women

Photo by gabi_menashe, licensed under Creative Commons.

My childhood home does not stand out from the surrounding houses; in fact, the ranch-style, brown brick structure almost fades into the surrounding flora, and is nearly swallowed up by the larger two-floor homes sharing the dead-end street. That being said, and given the fact that I spent my entire childhood growing up there, nearly every inch of my parents’ property is crawling with memories.

I was reminded of this on a recent trip home. In the two years since I last set foot through the door, I’d gone through significant life changes, including: getting married, moving to a new part of the country, finishing grad school and, simply stated, growing up. Yet, as my husband drove down the road towards my house, the floodgates opened and memories washed over me. We passed the street where I cheered my brothers on during endless games of stickball (a game of skill, none of which I possess).  We passed the creek that separated our property from our neighbors’, Where everything became a dense jungle, a death-defying obstacle course or whatever else my imagination demanded.  We passed the lawn with its daunting hill which taunted me as I agonized over pushing the lawn mower up and down, left and right (see previous column here).

Jon pulled in behind my old “high school ride” and while the car itself looked exactly the same, the clever bumper sticker (and reminder) my mother placed on the rear bumper had faded into illegibility. “How else will people know the importance of being nice to your kids?” I thought while opening the door to our car. “They’ll pick your nursing home.” I never did understand why my mother put the sticker there but the words do ring true.

As I neared the front door, a warm April sunburst peaked through the clouds and glinted off the stained-glass windows in the dining room. I’d once asked my father why he chose those windows, with their unique iconography:

“Em”, he said, “the Star of David and menorah remind us of who we are, especially when we’re so few in numbers. The cornucopia of fruits and vegetables remind us that wherever we are, our lives should be full and plentiful.”

Neither before nor since has my doctor father sounded so much like…a rabbi.

As I passed through the front door, the memories only increased in number and depth. A quick glance down the hall and I could see the doorways to the back bedrooms, all three of which I occupied at some point. I thought about heading into my most recent bedroom but stopped short, remembering that I was actually there for a reason (to grab a bowl for my dog) and besides – my mother had changed it into a guest room. That room was not my own anymore; its contents of my teenage years had long been moved or thrown away. Walking back in to my bedroom might forever shift the images in my brain, possibly trashing the contents included therein.

Instead, I headed towards the kitchen, and aimed straight for the cupboard where I knew my mother had kept the plastic bowls for years. They were still there but I barely remember reaching for them. Instead, I felt myself drowning in memories from over eighteen years worth of family dinners at that kitchen table, the one where we gathered every night at 7:30 on the dot, milk in our cups and a meat, starch, and vegetable waiting to be devoured on each plate.

I stopped for a moment, one hand grasping a bowl while the rest of me stood paralyzed. In the blink of an eye, there we were, sharing stories from our day, hearing about the latest sporting events, discussing crazy family antics and, occasionally, engaging in a food fight. I saw it all, and then, in the blink of an eye, my entire childhood disappeared.

I shuttered myself “awake” again, grabbed the bowl and headed back outside. Shaking my head, I was surprised that being on my childhood property for a mere thirty seconds could bring forth such a rush of memories. Though my parents’ house may physically blend in with the background, it’s comforting to know my memories clearly stand out against the test of time.

One day, my parents will choose to sell that brown-brick, ranch style house. The movers will remove a lifetime worth of “stuff,” and my parents will take with them them the physical contents they either deem important enough to keep or otherwise give away.  I, on the other hand, have already left that place, taking exactly what I need: memories from a home, sweet home, ones that I’ll put towards building one OF my own. I may not ever have a stained glass window depicting a Star of David, menorah, and woven basket of produce, but I will remember that wherever I am, my home shall hopefully be full and the love within its walls plentiful.

Read more posts from Issue 12: Aliyah – Going Home.

Photo by Pyoakum, licensed under Creative Commons

My father’s name was Lewis Lander. He sometimes went by “Big Lew the Jew from Avenue U.” This nickname was self-applied, even though he was not from Avenue U, and was admittedly only “a majestic five foot seven on a good day.” He was, however, a Jew. He rarely attended synagogue, and was comparatively unfamiliar with religious practices. I think his Judaism came out in his sense of humor. He used it as a way to view the world and deal with the absurdity of life that he recognized all too well.

One Jewish tradition that he did observe was leading Passover Seder in our home. When it came time to do hand washing, he would say, “Now please join me in washing,” and then spit air into each hand and clap, rubbing them together. That’s how we knew it was time to eat.

When my mother told him she was pregnant with their first child (me), he looked at her with wide-eyed excitement and said, “You mean I’m going to have a brother?” Once he had children, they of course had to have nicknames. I was lovingly named “Thornbush,” undoubtedly a nod to my warm and cuddly demeanor.

My dad had a way of remaining funny while dishing out biting criticism or complaint. I remember going with him to a diner where he thought we had waited too long to order. He stopped a waitress to ask her if there was some sort of secret password that he didn’t know to get service. All I could do was sink down in my chair and be glad that it wasn’t directed at me.

He recognized comedic genius in others too, even if it was unintentional. There was his never published book, “Mangled Idioms,” a collection of mis-sayings by his sister-in-law. “You can’t kick a dead horse in the mouth” remains a favorite of mine. A chicken scratched rough draft remains in the bottom drawer of my mother’s dresser.

God, did he have fun with my mother. There was a period where he was calling her “New York,” paying homage to his beloved TV show “Flavor of Love.” He could always spin it when my mom got mad, saying that New York was Flav’s favorite woman, as she was his.

Big Lew was also willing, once in a while, to make himself the butt of the joke. One day I came home to find him out in the street playing catch with my brother and wearing a humongous “R.I.P. Tupac Shakur” T-shirt.

He would say things like, “Don’t you know I’m challenged?” when he’d spill food on himself or forget to do something important. He called himself “Homer.” In this way, he used humor to cope with his own shortcomings and problems, some of which were quite serious.

I have a lot of my father in me, for which I must laugh to keep from crying. When we buried him two years ago, there was a long silence after the earth was filled in. Eventually uncomfortable, I broke it by shouting, “All right, who’s hungry?” Those who knew us well enough laughed with me, and we started back home.

I miss Big Lew terribly. I’ll remember him and laugh through my tears every time I spit wash before eating Pesach dinner.

Photo by Kevygee, licensed under Creative Commons.

Read more posts from Issue 09: “What’s So Funny.”

The funniest, most inherently Jewish joke that I have ever heard is one that was never intended to be funny. It stems from deep within our Jewish roots, from a place we all know and feel. And we only laugh at the joke because our only other option is to cry at our loneliness and the humiliation of being set up with another complete mismatch. Here’s the classic joke. The line that kills every time. The epitome of modern Jewish humor – “I know the perfect person for you.”

Being 26 and single (like REALLY single) is fine. Not ideal, but fine. I work with all Jewish women, I make regular guest appearances at my mom’s school where all the teachers are Jewish women, and I’m very involved in my community. You could only imagine the harassment I get. I take in stride, I take it as a compliment. Sometimes, the one setting me up says such nice things about me that I find myself interested in meeting this version of me. But the truth is that I’m nice, I do lots of charity work, I have some good qualities. Super. Everyone assumes that since I am single I am looking to be set up. (Well, until someone brings up the Richard Simmons story and then they think I’m gay, which is also fine but not true and even then they have someone for me.)

Just this week, I got a call from a teacher at my mom’s school. “Ari, will you do me a favor?” Mind you, I have never met this teacher before in my life, but that’s okay.

“Sure. What do you need?”

She then explained the favor – something humiliating but fun involving a cape, a mask and her kindergarten class.

“Yeah, that sounds like fun.”

Here it comes. I can feel it.

“Great. See you Thursday. Oh, and I have a daughter. She’s gorgeous. I’ll show you a picture. She’s single. She’s in college. She’s a real knock-out. She’s perfect for you.”

Choke. Wow. Really?

“Great. I’ll see you Thursday.”

(Side note: Never saw a picture of the daughter. I’ll be okay.)

The last time someone set me up with “the perfect person for me.” I could tell it would end poorly before it even began. But how can I turn down a “she’s perfect for you” when I’m single? Then I’ll get barraged with, “this could have been the one and you turned her down because you didn’t like her Facebook profile? This is why you’re single.”

I have been set up with girls who are married, lesbians, shomer neggiah, and live thousands of miles away. All of them were “a perfect match.” I think since the days of the shadchan being the center of a Jewish society, matchmaking has been an art form that everyone thinks they have. It’s somehow engrained in us. But this is the divine comedy. While some of these shidduchs turn out well, most just make for great stories with friends.

I’ll end with my favorite one.

“Ari, I have the perfect girl for you,” two separate people told me.

Fine, I’ll meet her. Why not?

During our (already awkward) first encounter, one of our matchmakers lets out this gem: “By the way, did you know that you two are cousins?”

Forget Woody Allen, Jerry Seinfeld, Mel Brooks – anyone else that we consider a Jewish comedian. This is the real hilarity.

Photo by emanuxa, licensed under Creative Commons

Read more posts from Issue 09: “What’s So Funny.”

My mom, Margie, was in her forties when I was born, very unusual for those times. So she was much older than all of my friends’ mothers. I clearly remember when she began to be forgetful. It happened shortly after my father died – they had adored each other and she just couldn’t deal well with living alone.

The forgetfulness started when she was in her late eighties. At first it was an occasional lapse, but gradually became more pronounced. Finally, my mom’s doctor made it a reality. He diagnosed her with dementia, probably Alzheimer’s.

I was forced to face the truth and deal with the many problems that followed. Almost immediately, she began a long stay in the hospital due to a serious lapse of memory, her decreasing ability to deal well with reality, occasional hallucinations, and her need to begin medication and to have it regulated properly. But when the time came for her to leave the hospital, I had to argue with the hospital social work staff and administrators who insisted that she belonged in a nursing home. I refused because I knew she wouldn’t do well in a nursing home, and I had also promised my dad never to allow that to happen.

I won that fight and was able to take her back to her apartment on the Lower East Side, but it meant hiring 24-hour aides to “ensure her safety.” My mom adjusted to the aides, and had a complete personality change which often comes with this disease. She became extremely attached to me and also more demonstrative as the dementia increased. This was not what I’d been accustomed to growing up, and proved to require a big adjustment on my part. However, it also proved to be an unexpectedly positive change. It was actually very nice to be hugged and kissed whenever I came over to visit.

Watching over her was a big responsibility. I had to check up on her and the aides every day at first, gradually cutting back to three to four times per week, and eventually (at the insistence of my friends) two to three times per week. Before I realized what was happening, my life consisted of full-time work, telephone calls to mom twice a day, and visits to her, which seemed to make her happy. Then there were trips to the cleaners, laundry to be done, grocery shopping, picking up prescriptions and distributing them in weekly dose containers, and all the other tasks that needed to be taken care of for her.

Mom’s health deteriorated with time, and after three more years at home she passed away in her own apartment. It was not unexpected, but still a shock. The funeral was small, with only the rabbi, family, and her aides (who had grown to love her) attending. In her nineties, when she died, she didn’t have many friends who were still alive and well enough to come to the graveside burial.

It took over two months for me to stop picking up the telephone to call my mom to say hello. And it took almost as long for me to feel comfortable planning outings with my friends and family after being unavailable for such a lengthy time. But it always made me feel gratified to have done the best I could for my mom in her final years, and to have been able to fulfill my promise to my dad not to put her into a nursing home. Maybe best of all, I had been the recipient of her outpouring of warmth and love over her last few years.

Finally, although it’s become much more common nowadays than it was when I was born, it makes me smile to think about the negative feelings many people have regarding “older people” who have babies and never live long enough to see them grow up. Boy, did my mom prove that theory wrong! She was able to see her only daughter and her two grandchildren become productive and happy adults.

CRUNCH.

“Shit!”

“Have some respect!”

“It’s not like they can hear me.”

It was late in the morning on Friday, I was driving in a graveyard, and I had just rammed my car into what I desperately hoped was not a tombstone, especially not anyone’s I knew. My wife, knitting quietly in passenger seat, was not amused by either our predicament or my remark. We had departed from the eulogy service for a relative of mine – a 90+ year-old, short, white-haired, gruff man named Shaya. He was my grandfather’s uncle, or maybe my grandfather was his uncle, or they were cousins once- or twice-removed. My grandmother had explained the genealogy to me countless times, but the relationships between all those faceless ghosts from Warsaw and Lublin was ephemeral, and I never remembered them. I always knew Shaya as the old man who used to talk to my dad in Yiddish and who was the patriarch of the only American relatives my Israeli immigrant family had in the United States. Whenever we met, he showed me the faded blue numbers burned into his arm and asked if I still remembered what they meant. I never forgot.

The only reason I’d even hit anything was because we had gotten separated from the funeral procession. I had no idea where we were going, and between fumbling with my phone, bluetooth, GPS, and looking every which way at once to try and find a burial party in the sprawling Montefiore Cemetery in Queens, I whacked what turned out to be a low white stone, one of many lining the paths between the graves. At least it wasn’t a tombstone.

I finally made it to the right spot, to the smell of fresh dirt on a spring day, and the finality of a hole, a pine box, and a shovel.

This is how we say goodbye.

When the last spadeful had been added to the mound that now rose up where a hole once was, when the last “Amen” of the Kaddish had been recited by Shaya’s daughter, and the last tear had been shed by his grandchildren, my father and I raised up our eyes and saw, not a stone’s throw away, the Ohel – the burial site of the Lubavitcher Rebbe. We paid a short visit, recited a quick Psalm, and returned to our cars. Even on a Friday, now past noon, pious Chabad Hassidim gathered in prayer and supplication. My family was not Lubavitch, and my father had never taken me to the Rebbe while he was alive to get a blessing and a dollar bill. But the Ohel was right there, right near Shaya’s grave, so that visiting the Rebbe just seemed like the thing to do. That Shaya, a Jew who never forgave God for the Holocaust, would find himself buried so close to the Rebbe, in a plot probably worth hundreds of thousands of dollars (if not more) to the Rebbe’s followers, felt oddly meaningful, but I can’t say I understood exactly what it meant.

I got back to my car, and noticed, at last, the dent. It was in the the rear door on the driver’s side, and the corner of the door had bent into the frame of the car. It was a pretty nasty dent, but I felt strangely calm about it. Going to the funeral, honoring the dead, placing a rock on the headstone, these felt like important things to do, even if I didn’t feel it while I was doing them. If God wanted me to do a little body work to earn my role in the ancient rite, that was okay with me. I knew at the moment of impact that there was going to be a dent. I just didn’t know where I’d been hit.

…

Photo by Isaac Shalev.

The beauty of having an Italian father is being born into a giant, very localized, Roman-Catholic family in the New Haven area of Connecticut. Most people think the big fight in New Haven is over which pizza is better – Sally’s or Pepe’s – but local guidos like us know there are a dozen other places to go. Growing up, I spent more time with my father’s side of the family than my mother’s; the fact of the matter is, the Italian side was always larger than the Jewish side, so much so that they easily outnumbered my mother’s family at the bnei-mitzvot of my sister and me.

Having an appreciation for religion, my father’s family has been very supportive of my Jewish observance and background, though perhaps occasionally confused or frustrated by my inconsistent practices and the subsequent complications. To this day, when I visit for Christmas celebrations, they greet me with a “Happy Hanukkah!” even though it is not usually the reason I’m there (and in spite of my insistence that, in the holiday rankings, Christmas is really a few steps higher). My aunt has even taken to making a vegetarian lasagna just for my sister and I (the traditional version is loaded with delicious treif). I kvell every time! And I’ll never forget the Christmas dinner, when after saying grace–in Latin AND English–my Nonni (Grandmother) turned to me and excitedly told me to “Do it in Jewish!” After the initial confusion over what I was being asked to do, I had the presence of mind to say hamotzi in English as best as I could. Perhaps not in the moment, but in retrospect, I realized that it was such a heartfelt gesture that my grandmother, in her own way, wanted to include my Jewish practices in the family celebration.

For years I had made up reasons in my head for why I should play down the Jewish thing, but it just wasn’t necessary. Sure there were bumps in the road, and maybe some baggage that predated my own existence, but really I feel blessed to have a family that accepts and supports me the way they do, especially having heard stories where that’s not the case. Just like mishpocha is mishpocha, famiglia is famiglia, and I wouldn’t trade mine for anything.

Chag Hanukkah Sameach and Buon Natale!

Photo by Maggie Hoffman, licensed under Creative Commons.

In the words of Andy Williams, “it’s the most wonderful time of the year.” Each year as the air turns crisp, the leaves change color, and the light throw-blankets turn into heavy duvet covers, I turn into a Jew obsessed. A Jew obsessed with Christmas, that is. I become fixated on roasting chestnuts and ice skating–I even recently downloaded the Elf soundtrack. This may seem a bit at odds with my Jewish background, my fellowship at a Jewish organization, and my amazing ability to consume gelt in large quantities. However, I’ve never embraced Chanukah as fully as I’ve embraced Christmas. Chanukah has never had the same universal appeal to me. Hardly anyone knows the complete lyrics to “I had a little dreidel,” and Judah “the Hammer” Maccabi sounds like the name of a pro-wrestler. Needless to say, our marketing has never spoken to me in the same way that nutcrackers and sugarplum fairies have.

My friends constantly question my enthusiasm for candy canes and stockings, with askance ranging from, “do you even celebrate Christmas,” to “do I have to buy you a present?” My parents think I’m misguided and wonder if they could have served me more latkes growing up, or shipped me off to an Orthodox boarding school. By way of explanation, I now offer this: it truly is the most wonderful time of the year, no matter what religion you practice or what holiday you choose to celebrate. I celebrate the parts of the season that echo the core tenets of Jewish spirit.

To me, the season means not just celebrating Christmas or Chanukah, but celebrating the holidays (or the pieces of each holiday) that bring families closer together, volunteering at your local soup kitchen, or hanging out with the elderly (even if that just means Grandma and Grandpa). The best part about the holidays is that the time when you normally come home, throw your jacket on the ground, shove some food in your mouth, and then go to bed, gets put into slow motion. During the holidays you can come home, hug or kiss whomever may be waiting, sit down and talk with them over a hot meal, sing, laugh, and tell stories about winters past. You go to bed with a smile on your face. This is the stuff that the holidays, and Jewish culture, are built from and made of.

Judaism is built on celebrations with your friends and family. From the fun to somber (Chanukah to Yom Kippur), we gather everywhere from our living rooms to the synagogue to worship as a group, and the holiday season embodies this celebratory reunion. By trying to convince my parents to watch Miracle on 34th Street, making a fruitcake for Grandma, or serving soup on Christmas day, I am celebrating Christmas. But, by embracing the traditions of Christmas as fully as the rest of my family has embraced Chanukah, I’m embracing the foundations of Judaism.

Photo by Laurenatclemson, licensed under Creative Commons.