Alef: The NEXT Conversation
La Mishpacha
By Violeta Flemenbaum
“Borei pri, ya lo comi” which translates to “Borei pri, I ate it”, and so we begin to eat our Shabbat dinner. My husband always says this at the end of Ha-motzi. While some people may find this strange, we don’t! After all, Ari and I grew up with Spanish as our first language. He’s the son of Ashkenazi Jews from Colombia and I’m the daughter of Catholics from Mexico.
It seemed only natural that we gravitated toward each other and eventually married. We had so much in common: being made fun of at school for being Hispanic (Ari went to orthodox Jewish schools while I attended Catholic schools) and we both grew up in households where Spanish along with heavily accented English was spoken. I was already on the path to conversion when I met Ari but that’s a story for another day. Eventually we married and are the proud parents of 3 amazing children.
Our Latino upbringing infused a respect for G-d and family that my friends who are not the children of immigrants have a hard time understanding. For example, if either of our parents invites us to dinner at the last minute, we are obligated to join them despite any other plans that we have already made. Latino parents, regardless of what religion they practice, always stress the commandment “Honor thy mother and thy father.” They practically beat it into their children’s mentality. When it comes to G-d, you are expected to follow the rules. When I converted, I had no problem with kashrut or mikvah because in my heart I felt it was the right thing to do.
When Ari and I started our own family, the first thing on our list was to find a name for our son that worked well in Hebrew, Spanish, and English so we named him Gabriel. Next came Natalie (I know, I know but I just couldn’t pass up this exquisite name). We call her Tali the majority of the time. Then came our precious Daniela.
If you come to our house around any mealtime, you’re likely to find us having lox and bagels with huevos rancheros, or brisket with a side of tortillas. For Shavuot I like to make “pastel de tres leches” (three milks cake) which is a common dessert in Latin countries. You’re also likely to hear Fortuna and the New Orleans Klezmer All-stars on our CD player. Our kids are well aware of their rich cultural heritage and they will proudly exclaim that they are “Hebrew-Spanish.” Is our family Jewishness a little different than what you’d might expect? Sure, but we wouldn’t have it any other way! L’Chaim and Salud from our familia to yours.
Photos by cbertel and grongar, licensed under Creative Commons.
Judaism en Español
By Margaret Boyle
Most people are generally surprised when I explain that I first started studying Spanish in order to connect with my Jewish roots. While this confusion is often remedied by a brief rundown of my family history, what I find interesting about these conversations is the cultural importance we attach to the language of our childhood and the tremendous privilege we are afforded as speakers of that language.
As teenagers in the early 1920s, my great-grandparents were forced to leave their families behind in Eastern Europe. After a series of arduous detours, they made their way to Mexico where my great-grandfather – Elias Poplawsky – went from selling neckties on the street corners of Veracruz to becoming a founding member of the Mexico City JCC (El Centro Deportivo Israelita). Native Polish and Yiddish speakers, my great-grandparents had to overcome both the hardship of leaving behind family to the fate of distinctly hostile cities, and the plight common to all immigrants who must learn new languages and adapt to cultural norms. Their incredible story is, of course, not unique – Mexico City is today home to more than 40,000 Jews.
Although my Mom was born in Mexico City, she moved with her family to Los Angeles in the 1960s. A generation later, I found myself proud of my Mexican-Jewish roots, but also somewhat disconnected – I was unable to speak or understand Spanish, Yiddish, or Hebrew. As my California public school didn’t offer Yiddish or Hebrew language classes, I was driven to learn the language that seemed most practical for my cultural quest. Learning Spanish meant I could more easily navigate family visits to Mexico City, as well as engage the thriving Spanish-speaking communities of LA.
During my freshman year in college my passion for Spanish language blossomed into a love for Spanish literature. To my surprise it turned out that, while Spanish-speaking Ashkenazi Jews weren’t the most common products of the Diaspora Spanish-speaking Sephardic Jews had a longstanding presence in the Hispanic world. In 1492, for example, as part of the Spanish Inquisition, Jews, and later Muslims, were expelled from the Spanish Empire in order to protect Old Christians of “clean blood” (limpieza de sangre). Over time, aggression gradually escalated, and interestingly, language itself became the second target for attack. In 1562, Philip II issued a royal decree that forbid the use of languages other than Christian Spanish. If the Spanish Empire wasn’t completely successful in its attempt to “cleanse” itself with the first expulsions, the monarchy’s attack on language clearly points out its cultural and political importance.
And yet, despite persecution, Jews and Muslims continued resisting the dominance of the Inquisition through the protection of their languages. They covertly used Aljamiado – manuscripts which utilize Hebrew or Arabic alphabets to transcribe Romance languages like Spanish. As my Eastern-European family shared the common language of Yiddish, the Jews of Spain shared Ladino, a romance language influenced by Hebrew and Aramaic. The history of Jews in the Hispanic world, with its repeated lessons on the importance of language as a social and political tool, continues to inspire me.
I was lucky to spend time with my great-grandmother until my early teen years when she passed away at the age of 95. Although she wasn’t able to see me finally master Spanish language, I think often about the ways we would piece together conversations around shared experiences. We could bless Shabbat candles together. We could watch telenovelas together and come away with completely different plot lines (me, because of my language skills; her, because she refused to wear her hearing aid at night). We could make babkas, latkes, and matzah enchiladas (but not at the same time!). When I tell people how I learned Spanish in order to connect to my Jewish roots, what I really mean is that I learned Spanish so I could know my Baba Malka. And what could be more powerful, and a better motivational tool, than language’s ability to connect us with each other and with our histories?
Photo by Thelmadatter, licensed under Creative Commons.
Follow Us
2009. Alef: The NEXT Conversation All rights reserved.
Home |
About |
Contact Us
Recent Comments