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Half-and-Half
By Meredith Druss
Sitting on the beach with my parents and sister this weekend, I asked my mother about her experiences being a Taiwanese woman who had converted to Judaism and raised two daughters Jewishly. My mother’s answers mirrored many of the feelings I have: “People are curious and pay me more attention when they see me in a Jewish space,” and “often I’m asked to explain myself but when I say I married a Jewish man and converted, they’re fine with that.” In my personal favorite of her responses she said, “everyone is welcoming, they see my energy and enthusiasm, and are happy to see me so involved.”
Together, riding the high of how open and welcoming Judaism is for us converts and half-Asians, we weren’t prepared for my dad’s question:
“If you were dating an Orthodox boy and he asked that you convert under Orthodoxy before marrying him, would you do it?”
Immediately, my mind reverted to my impertinent ten-year-old self who used to sass mistaken pure-breds who dared to call me a “half-Asian, half-Jewish girl.”
“I’m half-Asian, full-Jewish,” I’d retort, proud to educate on the difference between ethnicity and religion.
But am I really?
Having an Asian mother means it’s doubtful that my maternal line is Jewish through-and-through. While there are some Jewish communities in China (the Kaifeng Jews), Wandy Wang wasn’t from one, and to some, I realize, her Conservative conversion with intent to marry my father doesn’t cut it. So if mom’s not Jewish, then neither are the kids.
Bam.
What do you say when your own father asks if you will admit that you’re not really Jewish in order to marry your hypothetical Orthodox future-husband?
A fighter by nature, I laid it into him.
“It’s an affront to my identity! How dare anyone question my Judaism, do people question if you’re actually from Caucasia?! If this hypothetical fiancé won’t marry me unless I convert, what’s he doing dating non-Jews in the first place?”
My mother also took it personally.
“Judaism is a way of living.”
She argued that if I knew my mother to be Jewish, and lived Jewishly – the following of tradition, the observance of ritual, the commitment to certain beliefs – then I was already Jewish. Judaism isn’t something that someone can take a DNA test to determine. It doesn’t show in bone structure or the face.
“If Meredith continues to do all that, why would she have to convert?”
I affirmed my mother, “Should I be asking proof from my potential Jewish suitors that their maternal ancestors are Jewish or Orthodox-converted all the way up to the matriarch Sarah?”
I didn’t really answer the question. Defensively, I said “no” to my father only to stop the conversation. Sure, if it made things easier, why wouldn’t I convert to Orthodoxy? But then, would converting mean that I’d be acknowledging that I am not a Jew now. Who’s the one that needs to compromise here?
The greater question in all of this is that of religion vs. ethnicity. Is Judaism my ethnicity, a way of life and a group of people I happen to have traditions and beliefs in common with; or is it my religion, the way I service and worship G-d? In modern day terminology, we throw around the phrase “cultural Jew” to identify those of us that are members of the Tribe but don’t follow strict religious observance. Then, of course, there are religious Jews. Somewhere along the line, you can’t be a cultural Jew if your mother/grandmother/great-grandmother, etc. was not recognized as a religious Jew in her conversion….If I’m somewhere in the middle (a cultural Jew who believes and worships G-d and follows moderate observance levels), what’s my new categorization now? Half-Asian-Half-Ethnic-Jew-Three-Quarters-Religious Jew (…but only if you approve of Conservative conversions)?
Let me tell you, I can’t wait for the day when I can say, “I’m Jewish and I’m Asian” and no one will blink an eye.
Photo by Beige Alert, licensed under Creative Commons.
Read more posts from issue #16: Diverse Jews
Middle School Fantasies
By Amir Levi
During 7th grade, everyone was having their bar and bat-mitzvahs. I remember before each party, as I would be putting on the same suit I wore to every one, I would ask myself, ‘Will this be the party where he notices me and asks me to dance?’. A complete wallflower and social outcast in middle school, I would sit on the side watching the slow dances of the 1994-1995 season (guys putting their hands on the girls hips, with the girls putting their hands on the guys shoulders, and both parties stepping side to side in the same rhythm, no matter what the song was). I thought those dances were the first step to meeting Mr. Right and that if I wasn’t asked to dance, I would remain single for the rest of my life. Fifteen years later, I’m still waiting to be asked to dance.
I used to imagine myself as the awkward girl in romantic movies, you know, the girl with the glasses that the popular guy doesn’t notice at first, but once her glasses come off and her hair gets let down, he realizes that she’s more beautiful than anyone else he could’ve ever hoped for…and more interesting as well. I had braces, big hair, and my older brother’s hand-me-downs. I couldn’t wait for guys to dig below the surface to find that I was just what they were looking for.
I needed these fantasies. I went to a Jewish school in Atlanta where if you weren’t an athlete or a bully, you immediately became the target, not only by the students, but by some of the faculty as well. As my aspirations involved singing, dancing and a desire to hang out with Madonna and Paula Abdul (as opposed to Nirvana and Green Day), it became evident that there would be no support system in my everyday life, so I had to seek solace elsewhere. My friendships came from my acting classes, my boyfriends came from… well, the pictures ripped out of Dynamite magazines and taped to my doors. I had wonderful boyfriends: Luke Perry, Jason Priestley, and Mark Paul Gosselaar. I would kiss each of them goodnight almost every day, and I would fantasize that any one of them would come to the bar and bat mitzvahs to rescue me as I was getting beaten up while being called “faggot.”
I also fantasized about my future. While watching Fiddler on the Roof, I’d think about which groom I’d end up with, and I’d measure the pros and cons of each. Motel was cute, but a wimp; Perchik was passionate, but poor; and Fyedka… well, he wasn’t Jewish, so I wasn’t interested. In the end I’d always choose Perchik. Perchik would stand up for me and for rights of everyone around me. I needed someone who would fight the good fight and who I could believe in. I also wanted someone who would marry me under a chupa and stomp on the glass while everyone yelled “mazel tov.” I was going to be a Jewish bride and no amount of bullying from my peers was going to stop me.
After I graduated eighth grade, I went to an International School, as opposed to Yeshiva, and I was freed. I made instant friends (some of whom I’m still close to today) and I stopped looking over my shoulder for threats of violence. I participated in debates between the girls and boys of my class about whether gays were equal (boys usually voted no, girls voted yes), and I broke up with the men of my bedroom in favor of fantasies about the boys in my class.
I never doubted my Judaism. In fact, I connected with the fact that in spite of the adversity the Jewish people faced (and continue to face), we still survive and continue to thrive as a people. I needed to survive the torments of my youth because I knew that eventually life had to get better. I needed to be strong for myself, and for Perchik. After all, someday he would ask me to dance, right?
amirlevimm@gmail.com
Photo by zilupe, licensed under Creative Commons.
Changing Tradition
By Alexander Marcus
Rabbi Meir used to say: Do not look at the flask but at what is in it; there may be a new flask that is full of old wine and an old flask that does not even have new wine in it.
- Pirkei Avot 4.27
I carefully made my way down the slippery stone steps, heading toward the wooden house that had been temporarily converted into a classroom in the hillside Gurung village of Tangting, Nepal. It was early November 2007. The sky was engulfed by the snow-capped mountains of the Himalayas. I was about to participate in the academic culmination of four months of intense study and total linguistic and cultural immersion. I had already completed the written portion of my Nepali language exams, conducted research with Hindu holy men, Tibetan refugees, and farmers here in Tangting. Now was my final test. I was to sit one-on-one with Shova, the head Nepali language instructor, and have a 30 minute free-form conversation entirely in Nepali. Any vocabulary and any topic was fair game.
Shova is an intelligent, extremely well-educated Nepali woman. She was raised in the heart of the tourist section of Kathmandu and later served in countries all over the world in the Peace Corps. She is one of those people who seems to radiate wisdom: if you are lucky enough to ever hear her advice, you instinctively sense you should absorb her every word. She is strict but fair. I walked into the room where she was waiting, knowing that the next half hour would be difficult. After we dispensed with the customary Nepali pleasantries – “Have you eaten rice yet today?” “Yes, and you?” – I was caught completely off-guard by her opening question.
“What is your opinion about homosexuals?” she asked me nonchalantly, using the English word “homosexual.”
Taken aback I replied, “What do you mean? What is my opinion of homosexuals?” Stalling for time, I repeated her question in the first person, the smallest bit of panic in my tone.
“You know,” she said, “Gay people. What do you think about them? Do you think that that’s alright?”
“Of course I think it’s alright,” I finally croaked. “It’s not a choice and everybody deserves to be happy. Don’t you think so?” I have always seen myself as an ally for the LGBTQ community, and I consider it my duty, as both a Jew and a human being, to treat everyone with dignity. And some of my best friends are gay. I wondered what they would think if they could hear our conversation.
Shova was quiet for a moment. I think it dawned on her that this might not have been the greatest subject to discuss while testing my language ability. She must have seen the shock on my face, and realized that she should explain herself.
“Yes, alright,” she said, “Maybe in America it’s alright to be gay, but not here in Nepal. In America, a woman does not need a man to survive, but in Nepal a woman needs a man. If a man is gay, and decides to be with another man, then there is a woman with nobody to take care of her.”
I do not remember precisely what happened after that exchange. We quickly changed the subject, and most likely delved into a more detailed discussion of the contents of my breakfast. But I could not get that conversation out of my mind. How could someone for whom I have so much respect think such a thing?
It took me a very long time to allow myself to consider that in certain ways Shova was right.
During my first experience in Nepal, and two years later when I returned, I witnessed the troubles that Nepali women endure. In Nepal it is very difficult for a woman to own property, and an unmarried woman often has very few rights. Too many married women suffer silently at the hands of drunken, abusive husbands. In this context, it is of the utmost importance to stress the duty of a husband toward his wife, and of men toward women. Marriage is not a choice, and it is rarely a matter of love. For women it is an essential ingredient for happiness; for men it might be nothing more than the fulfillment of an obligation.
I am now living in Colorado, working with a non-profit that advocates for the inclusion of LGBTQ people in the Jewish community. It should come as no surprise to those who are familiar with the evolution of Jewish thought on these issues that the rights of LGBTQ people have often been intertwined with the rights of women. It should also be no surprise to anybody in the United States that we have only really tackled LGBTQ issues after proving the viability of “alternative” family units and created space for women to enter worlds that were once the exclusive realm of men. We have certain luxuries of thought that Nepal does not yet have.
But as American Jews we have unique difficulties of our own. We must walk the line between being true to our traditions and allowing those traditions to speak to our present age. I would guess that many traditional Jews see variations of their own concerns in Shova’s words. The breakup of traditional families can have very negative consequences for everyone involved. To expand the idea of marriage and family to include LGBTQ people can be a scary idea. But we can also learn from Shova’s position. She is concerned, just like we are, for the well-being of the most vulnerable members of her community.
While Shova recognized the limits of her time and place, she did not consider homosexuals sinners or evil people, nor did she dismiss how difficult her prescription must be for many. Likewise, we must extend our own obligations to our brethren to the fullest degree possible in our time and place. LGBT individuals have been proving for decades that they are capable of maintaining viable, healthy families, and raising children in nurturing households. As Jews in the United States, with the framework and resources that we have, I believe it is our obligation to prove to them that we are capable in turn of welcoming them into our communities as completely as possible.
Epilogue: On November 18th, 2008 the Supreme Court of Nepal directed the government to enact laws enabling equal rights to LGBT citizens. Sunil Babu Pant is the first openly gay member of the constituent assembly, Nepal’s interim governing body. The new constitution, which is currently being drafted, will contain a clause establishing same-sex marriage and protection for “sexual minorities.”
Photo by -Marlith-, licensed under Creative Commons.
Do You Have The Touch?
By Rita Polevoy
A few weeks ago, I went on a date with someone who was Shomer Negiah, meaning, someone who doesn’t engage in physical contact with members of the opposite sex. The expectation of no touching was there from the start of the date, but the thought of not being able to even hug him was a turn-off for me. The only positive aspect was at the ever-awkward date goodbye – I didn’t have to worry about whether he would go for a hug, a kiss, or more.
Physical boundaries can be useful at times. Hugging someone you haven’t seen in a long time is gratifying at first, but the sensation does not last forever. It makes me question the reasoning behind Shomer Negiah. Is the idea that touching a person of the opposite sex makes you want to have them sexually? Or does an observant man not want to shake my hand in fear that I am menstruating and am considered “dirty”? Is he afraid of what his wife would say if she saw us shaking hands? I have a hard time understanding the problem with basic physical contact. Some argue that a single touch from another human being can spark desire, emotion, and provocative thoughts, but even looking at another person can have these same effects. It would be ridiculous to suggest that we stop looking at each other too.
Orthodox rabbis and other observant folks who argue in favor of Shomer Negiah claim that it heightens the sexual experience once you finally engage in sexual activity with someone you love. They say that in the end, it isn’t all about sex anyways – it’s about love and closeness between two people. They also mention that divorce rates are much lower among those that follow the practice. I’m not trying to degrade the Orthodox community, I just want to point out that throughout the life of an average human being, most people have multiple sexual partners (A study conducted by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in 2007 showed that men average seven partners throughout their lifetime).
Many children are taught to hold off on any sort of sexual activity until marriage. Â However, I was taught that sexual desire, and eventually in later years, sexual activity, was acceptable. My parents still warned me about consequences of having too many partners and always encouraged me to use protection. Because of their understanding view, I found it easy to talk to them about “the birds and the bees,” and this led me to make thoughtful choices about who I slept with, and about how far along into a relationship I wanted to be before making such a personal commitment. Why did my parents raise me this way? They always said that good sexual chemistry is an important factor in a healthy relationship and that it’s dangerous and potentially disappointing to walk blindly into a commitment when you haven’t experienced the physical side of that person. Sex cannot make a relationship, but it can certainly help strengthen its bonds.
There are many different viewpoints on whether it is okay to share your body with a person who you are not bound to by a legal contract. Either way, we all have sex eventually. Here’s where some religiously-observant people argue that having sex before marriage defiles the true purpose of sex. However, sex is not written on paper and confined to the boundaries of a Ketubah. A signature will not bring the guarantee of sexual understanding, satisfaction, or if ever needed, escape from marital rape and sexual abuse. Having listened to arguments about what sex before marriage is or is not, it seems like some people have formed a preconception about what it is supposed to be. We are all, regardless of our level of religious observance, prone to extra-marital affairs or even some pre-marital experiences. Between two consenting adults, there is no person of authority present to say “no.” Sex is holy and great and wonderful and, pun intended, absolutely orgasmic.
Many secular people understand just as well as observant people that sex is something special.The magic of sex is that even after the first time it leaves one craving for more. There’s no doubt that the sanctity of sex can be compromised by multiple one-night-stands, random hookups, porn, rape, or abuse, but to reduce sex to a physical act performed by two people in a “holy way” is not fair to the act of sex or to the people performing it. I won’t deny that sex is probably really amazing when you and your partner are virgins and you’re touching and caressing each other for the first time – this is exciting, of course, but it is foul to say that people who have more than one partner throughout their lifetime (say two or three) find sex less exciting or thrilling. In fact, pre-marital sex can be a blessing, not only by bringing a person who is experienced in what they are doing (like being able to identify what their partner likes and needs) but it takes away the discomfort of feeling insecure about what one looks like naked and the excruciatingly painful moment of being penetrated for the first time and being confused about what is going on and how it is all supposed to work.
There is nothing in secular society that says that you absolutely must “test drive the car before you buy it;” people in this realm are treated the same as in observant realms – as individuals that are able to make their own decisions. I am of course in full support of anyone who chooses to abstain from sex or even from physical contact before marriage, but I am also in support of those who have experienced what it means to have sex with a person you love and respect and who feels the same about you.
Photo by stephend9, licensed under Creative Commons.
Read more articles from Issue 08: “The Sex Issue.”
The Interfaith Question
When we posted “Dating Jewish Men” yesterday, we didn’t realize how much conversation it would spark. It appears that how we decide who to spend our lives with is a really hot topic. So, we want to bring the men into the conversation too and hear what you all have to say.
Is it important to you to end up with someone who is Jewish? If that’s the case, is it imperative to only date Jewish people along the way?
Photo by victoriapeckham, licensed under Creative Commons.
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