Alef: The NEXT Conversation
What Comes First?
By Yocheved Sidof
What comes first, the chicken or the egg? What about love or sex? In my life, Love came first; or so I thought…
I grew up in a tightly knit Chassidic community in the Midwest, the first-born child of Iranian immigrants. I was raised with a lot of rules. Some were religiously influenced and others were cultural, but one of the big rules – NO Boys – fell equally into both categories: big-time religious and cultural no-no’s. According to the laws of Tzniut (modesty), boys and girls are separated from a very young age. There is very little socializing, and absolutely no touching, between opposite genders in strict Orthodox communities. (These laws are meant to sensitize us to the power of attraction and the sanctity of sexuality). That aside, there was no way my parents would let their Persian Princess be swept off her feet too easily; it just wouldn’t fly.
I came to New York City at the vulnerable age of seventeen to attend Stern College for Women. It was my first independent foray into this crazy “concrete jungle where dreams are made of” (Sorry, I couldn’t resist). Suddenly, I was surrounded by tons of women who were hanging out with guys, dating, looking for The One. My friends covered the whole spectrum: some dated without touching their partners at all, while others slept with their boyfriends. I fell somewhere in the middle. (Don’t tell my parents.) As I searched for my soulmate, I had one big rule – I would only have sex with my husband.
The issues of touch and sexuality were never so clear-cut for me. My convictions were totally in-line with my upbringing, but it was hard to hold stead-fast when there were so many pressures to deal with. Then, after years of tumultuous relationships and broken hearts, I met my man. We shared common interests, common values, and common goals, but we never shared a bed; we wanted our intimate life to begin as a committed, married couple.
We both believed in the sanctity of sex, and wanted to express that union of body and soul only within the context of a committed marriage. Sure it’s a risk (we all know the ‘test-drive a car’ analogy), but it was a risk we felt was worth taking.
I’m directing a documentary called Can’t Touch This, about the laws surrounding premarital intimacy in Judaism, i.e. Shomer Negiah. We have on-camera interviews with Rabbis, sex therapists, psychologists, and educators, and most importantly, hours of honest conversation with people who grapple with this question almost everyday: What is the interplay between religion and sex? How, if at all, does a person’s belief in G-d inform his or her sexual choices?
For one of my favorite shoots we traipsed to Times Square, camera in tow, to get some man-on-the-street interviews. Under the tantalizing billboards of scantily-clad men and women, we asked our fellow New Yorkers questions about sexuality, such as: How often do you think about sex? How did you learn about sex? What is meaningful touch? If in a relationship, how long would you wait to have sex? One honest man offered this take on building sexual compatibility: “If you have the mental chemistry, and you’re hitting it off, I believe the sex can be just as exciting. It just has to be… nurtured. And I just have not been lucky enough to find someone with that kind of patience. We live in a fast food society, fast sex, everything is fast. I don’t have time to practice with you. We’ve got to get it right the first or second time, or I’ve got to move on.”
I didn’t decide to marry my husband based on our sexual compatibility, how great he is in bed, or how quickly we each learned the other’s desires… I didn’t have any idea how we’d vibe together as a sexual couple. We formed our shared sexual identity as a married couple, and that created a beautiful, yet very vulnerable, sense of intimacy. Love and sex were woven together in a cycle, allowing each to nurture the other. It definitely wasn’t seamless, but I knew that even if our intimate life wasn’t perfect, I wasn’t at risk of losing him–he truly loves me for me, and not for how adept I may be in bed. We would work through the rough patches, and commit ourselves to gratifying each other–not for sex’s sake, but for love’s.
And you know what? That man-on-the-street is right. We do have unrealistic expectations about sexual gratification. Popular media totally misleads us about how sexual compatibility is formed. It’s not instantaneous. Nobody has ‘great sex’ right away. It takes time, practice, sensitivity, commitment … and a whole lot of love.
…
This post originally appeared on Alef October 22, 2010.
Yocheved Sidof is a photographer, filmmaker, and teacher who lives in Brooklyn, NY. She and her husband Yossi are the proud parents of Reuven Uriyah, 4 years old, Ma’ayan Chaya, 2 and a half, and Tzofia Malka, 3 months.
Photo provided by the author.
Thoughts of Israel
By Kate Bigam
It was a straightforward question, spoken in a tone that was casual but knowing: “Did it change you?” he asked us. We were two Birthright participants who had recently returned from our introductory trip to Israel, and on that Shabbat evening, the questions from friends and family had, until that point, focused on things like weather and camels and politics. His question took us by surprise with the impact of its simplicity; it was the question I didn’t realize I’d been waiting for.
The answer, of course, was yes. We are changed, though neither of us has yet to determine how. Still, the feeling is there, bubbling under the surface, sometimes spilling out in the form of tears during a Friday night Shema that reminds us of standing atop Masada at sunrise.
In Israel, I fell in love with a dozen experiences so individually distinctive that there was hardly time to process their impact before moving onto the next. Multiple times a day, I learned lessons about myself and my faith, my history and my heart. Indeed, I have never felt quite so alive as I felt during those 10 days. When I arrived home to Ohio, though, I found I could not speak of Israel, even to answer the simplest of questions. It hurt too much – it hurt to remember the joy I’d left behind, to admit aloud that I would never again be in the same place with the same people having the same experiences. In the days following my return, I awoke every morning with an aching sense of loss and an unshakable feeling of displacement at being away from the land I’d so quickly come to love.
The 50 participants on our trip – Americans, Canadians and Israelis alike – parted ways with one common question at the forefront of our thought: How do we maintain the magic? We all agreed that we felt changed, but determining what shape that change would take when we returned to real life proved more difficult to identify. Even now, weeks after our return, I’ve yet to pin down the specifics.
Maybe it’s a change of faith, a renewed connection to ancient tradition that has deepened my desire to connect with Judaism on a spiritual level.
Maybe it’s a change of perspective, putting names and faces and personalities to the formerly abstract concept of a militaristic country where everyone is a soldier or a veteran, where rifles are not just common but compulsory.
Maybe it’s a change of politics, a newfound understanding that when you are truly love a country, you do not forsake it for its flaws; you work to better it so that you may embrace it more fully.
Maybe it’s a change of personal connection, a previously nonexistent relationship to the concept of Zionism and the necessity of a Jewish homeland. Finally recognizing that it’s called “the homeland” because wherever we come from, we are welcome in Israel almost unconditionally.
Maybe it’s a change of attitude, the inspiration that comes with 10 days of feeling every emotion intensely and passionately. The motivation to live a fuller, more meaningful life. To become more adventurous, more educated, more aware. To take risks, to be happy, to live beautifully and with intention.
These are the lessons I have brought home with me, the most boiled-down versions of my detailed, convoluted thoughts of Israel. Even now, recalling my time there is almost too much to bear, too much to distill. The change within me is not as clear as I’d like it to be, either; it lurks inside me and forms slowly, rather than bursting forth clearly and with purpose, as I’d hoped. I am the same as I ever was, but there is something new, too, a budding love for Israel that has taken root within me and will continue to grow even after the sharp pain of longing has dissipated.
The details, I trust, will become clearer with time, and a clearer picture of the ways Israel changed me will begin to emerge. In the meantime, my breath catches whenever I think about the magnitude of the possibilities and promise this new relationship holds and the many ways that I may carry Israel with me. Here I am in the west, where I have always been – but for the first time, a large part of my heart is, truly, in the east. And this is only the beginning.
Photo provided by the author.
Interested in Israel? Enjoy the rest of Issue # 19: Israel.
This Little Light of Mine
“There is a difference between getting a partner and attracting a partner.
Getting implies that our hooks work; attracting means that
our light is bright and appears like a beacon to one who is meant to see it.”
-Marianne Williamson
By Shara Grifenhagen
When I was 28, I packed up my entire life and moved around the world to be in Israel with the Israeli boyfriend I’d met two years prior. I got to Israel with three suitcases and a dream, and quickly lost myself, as was to be expected (in hindsight). I mean, I moved around the world…of course it was going to take some getting used to. I don’t know why I expected to just show up and be myself. There’s a new culture and a new identity to assume. Sadly, with all these changes, my inner light began to flicker and fade, and I focused so much energy on keeping this guy happy because I could not…under any circumstances…end up alone in a foreign country.
I found myself losing a little more of that inner light each day in order to be the most perfect girlfriend ever. I was convinced that it was him…or nothing.
So you can imagine how devastated I was when that relationship ended. Twice, in fact. We did the break up, get back together and break up thing. And every time we broke up and got back together, my inner light dimmed until it was so dull that I then entered the most volatile and dramatic relationship of my life…a 2-year relationship which I dragged out for about 2 years longer than I should have.
Better to pretend to be someone else than to be alone, right?
Better to pretend I was ok with his questionable fidelity and his dramatic mood swings, than to attend another wedding or another party without a date. Yes, I was officially in darkness at this point.
My hooks certainly worked. I got his attention…but did I really want it?
I feel like we, as women, spend many of our formative years worrying about getting the guy. We lower our necklines and make our skirts shorter. And sadly, we often find ourselves competing with every other girl in the room to get “that guy.” And then when we get him…we do whatever it takes to keep him. Even if it means losing a bit of ourselves.
I mean…let’s be honest. How many of us have been in a relationship where we were so scared that the partner may ditch us and we’d end up alone that we did whatever it took to keep him interested? We went to that stupid emo rock concert and pretended it was the best time ever. We helped him polish his skateboard or arrange that old stamp collection. We encouraged his singing or told him that his disgusting, lumpy chicken pot pie was the best. We were REALLY REALLY interested.
Better to pretend a little bit so this dude likes us more, right? I mean…better to be a little bored (or even boring), than to be alone.
Oh how very very wrong.
When I finally got the courage to end that crazy, unstable relationship and move on, I spent the next few months finally working on myself. I was now 32 years old and had been living in Israel for more than four years. I had to get back to my roots…rediscover the person I’d abandoned when I got off that airplane at Ben Gurion…the woman I was scared I’d buried so deep in my soul that she’d never see the light of day again.
I finally worked on my Hebrew so I could better express myself out in public. I signed up for a photography class since I hadn’t picked up my camera since university…when I was still developing prints in a darkroom. I enrolled in a creative writing class…to challenge me and help me get some of my stories on paper. I was searching for myself…looking for the girl I once was…and hoping that in the process, my inner light would start to shine again.
As the days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months, I began to find that inner self. With every day that I dedicated more time to myself, to reading, to writing, to taking pictures, to just having a bottle of wine with my girlfriends, I felt my light start to shine a little brighter.
I was alone and I was content and I knew I was going to be ok. I knew that my happiness wasn’t dependant on any man, but on myself. I knew that if I couldn’t love myself and let myself be loved exactly the way I am…it was never going to work.
Somehow, women have been socialized to believe that in order to find a mate, we must quiet down. We should learn how to cook and love to clean. We should want a career and never…never talk about wanting babies. We’re told that no man will like a woman with opinions that are too loud…and that being the cute girl perched on the end of the bar silently sipping her cosmo while some guy admires her cleavage, is more important than speaking up and being heard.
What we SHOULD be told instead, is that the only voice we need to hear is our own, really. And we should be exactly who we are… when our inner light shines bright enough, he will find us. And we’ll be in a place where we’ll want to be found.
…
Shara Grifenhagen made aliyah with Nefesh b’Nefesh in July, 2005. She grew up in North Carolina and earned her undergraduate degree in journalism and mass communication from the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill. Since moving to Israel, she has earned an International MBA at Bar Ilan University and now makes creative marketing videos for companies around the world.
Photo by Magda Sobkowiak, licensed under Creative Commons.
From Jesus, With Love
By Nikki Wright
I came home on a warm summer night last August beaming from head to toe. I set my head down on a pillow and couldn’t get Chris’s face out of my mind. We just ended a pretty intense night together where we got really close physically (although no, we did not have sex). His mother, who I had met the previous weekend and bonded with immediately, had a minor stroke the night before. She was doing fine, and already recovering well in a hospital in southern New Jersey. Sadly, this was not the first time she had a stroke, due to her complications with diabetes. Chris’ parents told him to stay in New York City that night because his mother was doing just fine, and that he need not worry. Still, he was visibly upset when I saw him, heartbroken by her reoccurring health problems. All I wanted to do was be there for him.
We had been dating for only a few short weeks – but had been friends for several months since meeting on the tennis courts in Central Park that summer. We had undeniable chemistry and mutual attraction. There was just one little problem that I had been trying to overlook all summer – Chris was a born again Christian and I am Jewish. The more he opened up to me, the more it was evident that for Chris, serving Christ was his life’s mission. That little voice inside of me kept nudging me, telling me our relationship would never work out, that we had no real future together.
I’m totally open to other religions – I believe religions are, for the most part, a vehicle for people to be connected to the universe in a deeper, more spiritual way – but becoming a born again Christian had zero appeal for me. Then again, who was I to judge Chris in his spiritual journey? He confided in me that before he found Christ, he was doing a lot of drugs in college and was incredibly depressed. If being a born again Christian brought him joy, made him feel like his life had a purpose, and got him off drugs, then I was all for it. Still, I wondered if he was just jumping from one extreme to another – if the void that was left by his drug use was now filled with serving Christ. Chris displayed his desire for me typically in small ways – hugging, kissing, holding my hand. Still, I could see he was conflicted – he seemed very hesitant and guilty every time he kissed me. And yet despite all of this, I was not ready to let Chris go.
The morning following our intense date, I awoke to a two-page ranting email from Chris. As I absorbed his words, it finally dawned on me that Chris was proselytizing to me.
His email read:
“I know this is probably really hard for you to understand, but as I have tried to share with you before, my heart has been changed and transformed by the power of Jesus. I know this sounds alien to you. I have so longed to be a shining light of love in your life! I have wanted in every way to be a blessing, to please you and love you. But I am conflicted and know in my heart for sure that there is only one who can truly do this, and his name is Jesus! I really don’t have an agenda but to love you as Christ does. Unfortunately I have fallen quite short of that calling and need to recognize that the best thing right now is for us to be friends. I hope that in the midst of this trial you and I will come to trust more in the One who is absolutely sovereign and who ordains all things according to His wise purposes. There are no accidents here. You know this, Nikki!”
Chris’ critical words on what he thought of our “transgressions” burned in my head. “We had NOT even had SEX,” I yelled at my laptop. I guess a part of me believed that once Chris fell in love with me, he would give up his zealous Christian ways. In Judaism, sex is regarded as a “divine gift” from God, not solely for the purpose of procreation, but for the purpose of companionship and pleasure. Judaism does not believe that sexuality is evil, but rather a strong and chronic urge similar to hunger or thirst, that is apparent in healthy human beings. In traditional Judaism, sex is permissible only within the context of a marriage. But I’m not the most traditional girl, and neither are most of my Jewish friends.
I heard on NPR that a majority of evangelical or born-again Christians believe that sexual activity outside of marriage is likely to have harmful psychological and physical effects. Moreover, many evangelical Christians have a conflicted relationship with sex even once they are married, believing that it’s a sinful act unless used to propagate. Hear me out: I was NOT with Chris only to have sex. However, I am not a virgin and when I am in a committed relationship with a guy, I want to enjoy a sex life with him.
Besides, I take being Jewish seriously. I love the Jewish holidays with all the great food and familiar traditions. I loved my Bat Mitzvah. I love celebrating Shabbat whenever I can. I love hearing Hebrew at delis in New York City and deconstructing it. Ultimately, as much as I was falling for Chris, I knew I had to stay true to myself. And so, as painful as it was, I wrote an email back and said goodbye.
Photo by kyz, licensed under Creative Commons.
The Journey, On Tape
by Daliya Karnofksy
When asked to write a follow-up to my monologue, I decided to give it a view, since I hadn’t seen it in a while. Of the two versions I found, one was of the very first time I did the monologue. I was freshly-married and waving my ring around joyously as I told my story and realized I was funny, and worthy of being loved.
The second version was about a year and a half later. I was a lot thinner from stress, no ring anywhere, and carrying the cool distance of someone who had loved and lost.
My performance was much more engaging in the first one, if a bit sloppy. How open I was! How free and excited. I was falling in love with myself as a solo performer for the first time in much the same way I had fallen in love with my soldier. No holds barred, juicing for laughs and bathing in the attention. Shocked by the positive response.
In the second video, my performance is tighter. I obviously know what I’m doing; I have carefully choreographed my movements and know when to hold for the laughs. I expect the love, and yet feel I don’t deserve it.
At this point in time I was ending a long-term relationship that began shortly after the end of my marriage. It was round two of love for me, and I was losing again. So while I was more polished, I struggled for the joy and was far less engaging. I just didn’t want to get too close to the story I was telling. My mouth was moving but my heart stayed where it belonged.
In both of these relationships I was the one who technically ended it, but that didn’t make it any easier, because each time I felt like a failure. Yes, I married too young, and we were not right for each other. He didn’t want me to be an actress, and I had to follow my dream. But why couldn’t I just hold it together? There was no point in asking why I had gotten married. I don’t regret what I did. I needed to know if we belonged together.
At one point during our marriage, I remember my husband turning to me as we walked down our street on a summer night, and telling me were “zeevoog,” a Hebrew word that means soulmates. At that moment it felt as if we were. Sometimes I still think we may be, but we found each other in the wrong place and the wrong time, and “zeevoog” just wasn’t enough. I considered staying with him until it was the right place and time. When I’m thirty-five, I thought, I’ll really appreciate the security. But in that moment I knew that if I just waited to be happy for the next eleven years until I was thirty-five, all it would turn into was a bunch of resentment and whatever “zeevoog” we had would be long gone.
So we split, and I dove headlong into another relationship, to seal up my wounds and convince myself I was capable of doing it. Since my husband had been my first love, I just needed to know I hadn’t blown my one and only chance. Everyone told me not to jump into anything, just like everyone told me not to get married. Try as I might to keep some distance and re-establish my independence, it was so much easier to feel loved and needed and become half of a couple again. I know it doesn’t have to be one or the other. Or that’s what I’m told, though I haven’t quite figured it out for myself yet.
Of course, after about a year of that, my heart revolted again, saying it wasn’t ready, and really, where was my independence? I kept putting my own dreams aside and blaming it on the person I was with. It was his fault I wasn’t writing, his fault I didn’t make it to yoga in the morning or develop better eating habits. I grew angry and resentful all over again, when I had promised not to. I was kicking and screaming to get out, and it was no secret to him. I treated him badly and he put up with it, and was not surprised when I ended it.
Only I was surprised at how bad it felt this time. I had my freedom again; wasn’t I happy? No one was holding me back, keeping me from what I truly wanted. Then why did I feel so alone, and scared, and so much like a failure? I am coming closer to the realization that the people I choose to be with have absolutely nothing to do with whether or not I achieve my dreams. Every decision I make is entirely my own. They are there to support and love me, and that is why I am there for them. They are not there to force me to do what I love or make sure my needs are being met. Only I can do that.
I recently performed my monologue after some time away, now two and a half years after the first time, and I imagine if it had been filmed, I would have again seen a different performance. The cool distance was gone but the self-confidence remained, as I was willing to admit this time that I loved him and I was sad when the marriage ended. And yes, I felt like a failure. The first step is admitting these feelings, and choosing to learn from them instead of wallowing in them. I loved the best way that I could, and then realized that would never be enough if I didn’t take the time to love myself by tending to my own needs. The pursuit of my dreams doesn’t end because someone is lying next to me tempting me to sleep in; I just have to kiss them on the forehead and jump out of bed, ready to greet the day on my own.
Photo by eivindw, licensed under Creative Commons.
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