Porcus Interruptus

Being Jewish is not all about the food. But it’s a lot about the food. And during my 17 years as a convert, I’ve had my share of food-related faux pas. At the first Passover Seder I hosted, we noticed a foul odor emanating from the center of the table. To my horror, I realized I had forgotten to roast the lamb shank so there was a hunk of smelly, raw meat on our Seder plate. At a Rosh Hashanah lunch, which is traditionally supposed to be all dairy, I put out a plate of cold cuts.  And my friends will never let me forget the time I asked for a “side of mayonnaise” with my pastrami sandwich at the famous Canter’s Deli in LA. "You're such a Shiksa!" they said laughing. "Goy alert!"

Old habits die hard. And I'm the first to admit that I’ll probably always feel more comfortable at a burrito bar than a bagel store; that my idea of a perfect schmear is guacamole and sour cream.  Yes, I’ve warmed to gefilte fish, but I will never, ever eat herring (especially right out of the container at Fairway the way my husband does!)  And I love pork - pulled, roasted, moo shu, dumplings, hot dogs, tenderloin and bacon. Especially bacon.  

So last Sunday, several classmates from my adult b’nai mitzvah class and I went on a “field trip” to Congregation Ansche Chesed. We are currently studying Shacharit, the daily morning prayer service, and our instructor, a rabbinical student, thought it would be helpful for us to read and recite the prayers in context.  After the service, we went to a diner to have breakfast before our bi-weekly Hebrew lesson. In keeping with the Jewish theme of the morning, I ordered the Challah French Toast. Then, without thinking,I asked the waitress for a side of bacon.

Bacon.

As soon as the word came out of my mouth, I wanted to push pause, rewind and start the scene over. But it was too late. I had ordered bacon while sitting next to my bat mitzvah instructor who is also a rabbi-in-training. Ugh. I'm definitely going to Hell, I thought. But then I remembered Jews don't think that way.

The instructor just looked at me, her big brown eyes open wide. She didn’t look angry or judgemental - she just looked sort of panic-stricken, as if she had a peanut allergy and found herself sitting next to someone who’d ordered a great big PB&J.

“No bacon, please, no bacon,” she said with a gentle urgency.  

“Oh of course,” I said, as I quickly asked the waitress to remove the forbidden food from my order. "I'm so sorry."

I took a big swig of coffee and replayed the incident in my head.

“Is this two steps forward, one step back,” I wondered. I am making such big strides lately - the Hebrew class, the Torah study, the morning prayers. Maybe I can only go so far as a Jew without boomeranging back to the old me?  

Or is this just self-sabotage. Perhaps all this serious study is making me want to act out in some way.

“Or was I trying to prove a point?”  I pondered. Except for fasting, which I find extremely spiritual and meaningful, I've never fully connected with food restrictions. As a Catholic, I always ate meat on Fridays and I tend to eat bread during Passover as well. Right now, I don’t feel that keeping Kosher would enhance my Jewish practice, but I haven’t put a lot of time into studying the laws of kashrut so I may decide later that I will keep Kosher. Never say never, I guess.

But for now, I think the answer is pretty straightforward. I just love bacon. Especially with challah french toast.

Next time I'll have the oatmeal.

Fear

I’m now two months into the adult b’nai mitzvah class and I’m overcome with fear.

Fear that my fellow classmates will find out how little I really know about the classic Bible stories we’re reading (Adam & Eve, Noah, Abraham & Isaac, Joseph and the Coat of Many Colors - shouldn’t I know these from all those years of Catholic school?!)  

Fear of never, ever being able to learn Hebrew (it’s really hard to go right to left - metaphorically and literally!)

Fear of being perceived as a religious zealot by friends and family (“You’re like Super Jew” is a common refrain. And I’m not always sure it’s meant as a compliment, especially when my eye-rolling teenagers say it.)  

Fear that I’m too old. That I’m not smart enough. That I’m just not as serious as all these other people.   

So this morning I found myself drafting an email to the instructor letting him know that while I appreciate the opportunity to be part of this extraordinary group of Jewish adults, I just can’t commit right now.  I just can’t do it.

But before I pushed “send,” my mind flashed on this beautiful piece of public art I saw on my recent trip to Johannesburg. The artist Hannelie Coetzee chiseled the image of a person onto a wall so that it looked like a man walking through the bricks and the plaster.  Our guide explained that Coetzee wanted to show that on our spiritual journey, we have to walk through the wall to get to the other side - enlightenment.  

For me, that wall is fear.  And I can’t walk around it.  I can’t sneak down a side street to avoid it. I have to face it head on.  I have to walk through it.  

I deleted the email. And I'll be back in class tomorrow night.

A Beautiful Mosaic

I got an email from our instructor at noon on Monday, the day of our first adult b’nai mitzvah class. I didn’t read his message; I was much more interested in looking at the email addresses. Who are my fellow travelers on this two-year journey? I wondered. Four of the women I know from our bi-weekly Torah study group (we decided to merge into this larger class of 20. ) I assumed that most of the others would be septuagenarian upper west side grandmas for whom becoming a bat mitzvah was now a bucket list item. And one or two token men.

But the group proved way more diverse than I could have imagined.

 

There was Mel,* the transgendered boy with the pink mohawk who had a bat mitzvah ceremony at age 13 when he was Melanie. Now he wants to become a bar mitzvah in keeping with his true identity.

And Ethel, an 85 year-old “triple repeater,” (this is her third adult bat mitzvah course)  because “you’re never too old stop learning.”

And David, the son of Holocaust survivors, who rejected Judaism and lived among the Shoshone Indians in Wyoming. He reconnected with his roots after becoming fascinated by how and why the Jews survived and the Shoshone did not.  

And Raphael, an Argentinian Jew whose grandfather was strict Orthodox, but whose father was agnostic and secular. He wants to “access” the Judaism he knows lives in his cells.

And Colleen, the red-headed former Irish Catholic who “came out” as Jew a few years ago and now goes by the Hebrew name Kelilah.

And Zack, a thirtysomething from California who became a bar mitzvah when he was 13, but didn’t feel he really learned anything and now wants a do-over.

And Leah who grew up in an Orthodox community and is now studying to be a rabbi.

Wow.  Atheists and agnostics; converts and children of survivors; a future rabbis and a former Catholic. Each of us refusing to be steamrolled by our noisy fears that tell us, “I’m too busy,” or “I shouldn’t spend the money,” or “I’m too old” or “I don’t know enough to be in this course.”  Instead,  we let our hearts lead the way resulting in a beautiful Jewish mosaic.

+Names have been changed to protect the privacy of my classmates.

Too Jewish?

“Do you really have to be so Jewish?”

Although he said it with a wink and a hug, my husband had a point. It was after 10pm on a Monday night - my birthday, no less - and I had just come home from the first of my two-year, 3-hour adult bat mitzvah classes. The previous weekend, I’d spent the better part of a sunny Sunday at a mini Hebrew marathon; on Tuesday evenings, I attend a Shabbat discussion group led by our Rabbi and every other Wednesday I meet with four women and a different Rabbi for a Torah study group. I try to light candles on (most) Friday nights; I’ve been organizing our upcoming Hanukkah festivities and I'm making plans to visit a synagogue and Jewish museum during our upcoming visit to Cape Town. And I can't wait to go back to Israel!

When we were dating, my not being Jewish was almost a deal breaker for us.  Now, twenty years later, I'm too Jewish. Oh the irony...

48

“There will come a time when you believe everything is finished; 

that will be the beginning.” - Louis L'Amour 

Today is my 48th birthday. I won’t be celebrating at a trendy restaurant this evening (okay, I did that on Saturday night. Lafayette. Fabulous.)  Nor will I be sitting at home compulsively refreshing my Facebook page looking for birthday “notifications.” Not that there’s anything wrong with that.  Instead, I will be marking this non-milestone birthday at the inaugural meeting of “Never Too Late: Bar and Bat Mitzvah for Grown-Ups,” an intensive two-year course for Jewish adults who, for various reasons, missed out on this coming-of-age event  I have a pretty good excuse; I was Catholic when I was 13.   But, as the class description says, “committing to Jewish life can be affirmed and celebrated at any point.”  So 18 years after my conversion to Judaism, I am coming of [middle] age.

I look forward to sharing my experiences here as I embark on this next leg of my spiritual journey.  Stay tuned...