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Being stuck in a car for three hours with my mother, Adrian (my significant other) and our baby girl, Helen Rose, is just part of the beauty of Thanksgiving. I should note that being born and raised in Mexico, Adrian doesnâ€™t know a lot about our American holiday, so I began by explaining that sitting in traffic is not just a rite of passage, but also a tradition. I should also explain that he hates turkey and canâ€™t stand the way I drive. But no one else wanted to drive, so our holiday began with a two-hour traffic delay through Staten Island on our way to New Jersey.
Here is something else: The last time Adrian met my cousins, uncle and aunt was at Helenâ€™s baby naming, when we were consumed with being new parents as she was then only two months old. So this was going to be a new rite of passage. Meeting family can be nerve-wracking, especially since I have a very Jewish family. Almost everyone in my family has gone to yeshiva, keeps kosher and lives following Jewish law, and some even live or have lived in Israel.
Helen, Adrian and I follow different rules and laws within our interfaith family. Some we make up along the way as we try to find our place in both a Jewish and Mexican-Catholic culture. We make sure to keep both faiths present in our household so that nothing is lost for Helen. Both religions and traditions live and speak through her. And as she grows she will decide what to keep.
We eventually made it to New Jersey. There were 23 people at my cousinâ€™s house, not including babies. It felt like a new year. I remember lonely Thanksgivings working in restaurants. I remember Thanksgivings without my father, without my grandparents and without hope. This year felt so different and alive.
Adrian was nervous but excited, and Helen looks so much like him that people kept commenting that they seemed like twins. My baby cousins (now grown and almost all engaged) said I looked happier than theyâ€™ve ever seen me. Also, when we first arrived, my cousin saved us some mini hot dogs from the appetizers they had passed around, and Helen ate almost three of them. My nephews, just two-and-a-half months older than Helen, were there as well, and they all played and ran around chasing the two dogs.
At one point my cousinâ€™s father made a speech about my baby cousinâ€™s recent engagement. During his speech he talked about living a Jewish life and passing down Jewish traditions. I thought about this deeply. I asked myself, what from my culture, my tradition and my religion do I want to pass to my daughter?
As a child I had a lot of trouble in school. Sent to an Orthodox yeshiva at a young age, I learned how to fit into a black-hat community while wearing jeans and swearing on weekends. I was taught that there was only one way to do something. I was taught that God was almighty, all-knowing and pissed off all or most of the time.
It wasnâ€™t always bad though. I learned Hebrew and spirituality. Later on in my life when I picked up a book by Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan called â€śMeditation and the Bible,â€ť I could follow the deep meaning of the Torah. When I returned to the Judaica store to purchase another book by the same rabbi, I could answer the religious boy behind the counter who asked me what I thought about Rabbi Kaplanâ€™s observations.
Sometimes it feels as though Adrian, Helen and I are walking through a biblical desert. We have our own beliefs; our traditions and obstacles rise up from the sand all the time. How we react to those obstacles is an integral part of our spiritual growth.
My cousin turned to me mid-meal and asked if it was hard for Adrian to be at the Thanksgiving feast with us. It was hard for him, but not because of a difference in religion. Itâ€™s hard because his family is a million miles away. Itâ€™s hard because his mother is sick. Itâ€™s hard because his brothers are not united and his sister just broke up with her boyfriend and doesnâ€™t know what to do. Itâ€™s hard in a lot of different, normal ways. But itâ€™s also easy. Itâ€™s easy for him to smile when Helen smiles. To laugh when she chases one of my cousinâ€™s dogs all over the house. Itâ€™s easy because thereâ€™s food on the table, a roof over our heads and a warm bed to sleep in when we get home. Itâ€™s easy because so many people do not have these simple luxuries.
What about the Jewish tradition do I want to pass down to our daughter? Gratitude. Love. Life. Traditions new and old.
After we said our thank yous and goodbyes, we drove back to our little apartment in Brooklyn, where I put Helen to bed and unpacked the blue-and-white menorah for the Hanukkah holiday to come. Then I opened the package containing our matching family Christmas pajamas and set them aside in a special holiday drawer.
Thanksgiving came about when the pilgrims and Native Americans sat down at a table to eat and celebrate together. Thatâ€™s one story, anyway. What were they celebrating if not their differences, their two ways of living, their double faiths?
Growing up, my motherâ€™s house was kosher. We had dishes for dairy and dishes for meat and we never mixed milk with meat. This goes back to the teachings of the Torah where it states on three separate occasions that a baby goat is not to be cooked in itâ€™s motherâ€™s milk. But our house was kosher mainly because my mother wanted my brother and me to fit in at the Orthodox Yeshiva we went to even though we werenâ€™t Orthodox.
This plan fell through more than once. Most of my friends’ parents knew that my own parents werenâ€™t religious. When we had sleepovers it was I who would have to travel to my peers’ houses because our house wasnâ€™t â€śkosher enough.â€ť But my motherâ€™s efforts werenâ€™t in vain. When Adrian and I moved into our apartment a few years ago it was my Grandmotherâ€™s dishes I unpacked from a cardboard box labeled â€śGrandma Rosieâ€™s Dairy Dishes.â€ť
There were teacups with pink roses and a tan trim on them wrapped in bubble wrap. There was a cake plate lined in gold and a blue glass candy dish I remembered reaching into as a child to pull out sticky black licorice squares. These dishes had made their debut in my Grandmotherâ€™s apartment then later at my motherâ€™s house and finally were gifted to me. They held memories of Friday morning pancakes and grilled cheese sandwiches. They also held the responsibility of staying kosher.
For my nephewâ€™s first birthday party this past Sunday, the Star Wars cake I made followed the kosher rules. But the kosher rules also brought up concerns for our daughter Helenâ€™s quickly approaching birthday in October. My brother and his wife ordered from a kosher catering company and had traditional Brooklyn/Jewish food. There were pastrami sandwiches, pickles, coleslaw and chocolate cupcakes with vanilla frosting in addition to the cake I baked. As with any Jewish event there was more than enough food. Adrian and I talked about having a Mexican/Jewish themed birthday for Helen to honor the Jewish side of my family and the Mexican Catholic side of Adrianâ€™s family.Â
I started to get excited thinking about Helenâ€™s birthday. We began saving empty cans of jalapeĂ±o peppers for floral arrangements and I bought a pack of Mexican LoterĂa cards (a traditional Mexican board game similar to bingo) to make into crafty invitations. I obsessed over Pinterest cake ideas and thought that getting balloons that say â€śunoâ€ť instead of â€ś1â€ť would be a cute idea.
Then, in the middle of my excitement, I remembered how much Adrian loves to eat meat and how steak tacos are usually accompanied by fresh cream and cheese. I thought of Adrianâ€™s favorite Mexican dishes that involve chicken and cheese and pork. Then I panicked.
We keep a kosher home but when we eat out we donâ€™t eat kosher. But how was I to explain to him that Helenâ€™s birthday had to follow kosher rules? My family is kosher but his family will also be there. Part of me felt I was being unfair. Part of being kosher sometimes makes it seem like I am making Judaism seem more important than Catholicism, and thatâ€™s not fair. But, how do you bend a rule that canâ€™t be broken because of tradition or belief or just out of respect for other family members?
I waited until Adrian got home from work.
â€śBebe,â€ť I said, â€śIâ€™m worried about Helenâ€™s birthday. Maybe we shouldnâ€™t even have a party this year.â€ť I couldnâ€™t believe I was considering cancelling my daughterâ€™s first birthday party so that I wouldnâ€™t have to have an argument about steak enchiladas.
â€śWhy?â€ť Adrian asked, â€śI thought you wanted to do a big thing the way your brother did.â€ť
â€śWell, I did, but Iâ€™m worried about the food.â€ť I started to bite my nails.
â€śStop biting your nails. What about the food?â€ť he said.
â€śIt has to be, well, itâ€™s going to have to be, I mean because of my family we are going to have to have kosher Mexican food.â€ť
Adrian thought for a while before he answered, â€śWhat does that entail?â€ť
He knew some of the kosher rules but I reminded him that aside from the meat being kosher we couldnâ€™t mix milk with meat.
â€śYou want meat at the party?â€ť he asked.
â€śI thought you wanted meat at the party,â€ť I said.
â€śWhy donâ€™t we just do all dairy?â€ť he said.
â€śWhat?â€ť I couldnâ€™t believe it. Adrian is a carnivore through and through and I assumed he would want to have something with steak at Helenâ€™s party.
â€śI mean we can just do cheese enchiladas, guacamole, salsa, chips and have everything be dairy, no meat.â€ť
â€śI thought you wanted meat!â€ť I yelled in shock.
â€śI do, but dairy is so much easier!â€ť he shouted back.
Part of the challenge of being in an interfaith relationship is trying never to offend the other person. I was so afraid I would offend Adrian by not having traditional Mexican cuisine at our daughterâ€™s birthday that I looked past the other options in Mexican cooking. Mexico has a wide variety of seasoning and spices and I was looking only at having a kosher party as being a problem and not a bridge between two cultures and traditions. Anyway, Helenâ€™s first birthday is about celebrating the birth of new traditions as well as old. We want to bestow on her a life rich with flavor; a life where the menu has both chicken noodle soup and pozole.
I was in the seventh grade when my father died. I had already been asked to leave an Orthodox yeshiva in the fifth grade because I had been a â€śbehavior problem.â€ť I was on my second life at a private school in Brooklyn Heights. Brooklyn Heights is one of the oldest, richest neighborhoods in Brooklyn. Truman Capote, Henry Miller and W.H. Auden all lived there. I was not from there, I was not rich and I knew no one. But my school was there and I made my first set of friends who werenâ€™t Jewish.
When my father died Iâ€™m not sure that anyone in my new school knew our Jewish customs for mourning. For example, we covered our mirrors to erase vanity. We sat on the floor because when death is upon us the living should not be comfortable. The belief is that we should be uncomfortable because by getting used to discomfort one can learn to go on. We left our doors open for neighbors, friends and family to visit for seven days. This is a period called â€śshivaâ€ť and this word in Hebrew also means â€śseven.â€ť The traditional mourning period after someone dies lasts for seven days and we call this â€śsitting shiva.â€ť
I had one friend from this Brooklyn Heights private school who did come to my house to sit shiva. Her name was Liz. She didnâ€™t live near me but she didnâ€™t live in Brooklyn Heights either. Her father drove her to my house and when she got out of the car she looked lost and confused. She was not Jewish but she knew it would mean a lot to me if she came to visit. I canâ€™t remember what we said to each other that day. I only remember that she showed up.
A few months ago Liz texted me to tell me that sheâ€™s pregnant with a baby girl, her first. Her due date is October 23Â and my baby Helenâ€™s due date this past year was October 24. Liz came over to meet Helen. Over the years we have kept in touch and fallen out of touch and then got back in touch again. Life and its winding roads have kept us close in spirit but not always in body. When Liz met Helen for the first time it was as if my past was meeting my present.
Hereâ€™s another strange coincidence. Liz recently moved back to Brooklyn from L.A. and she bought an apartment just three blocks away from where I live. Without knowing it, we have been living back to back for a while. Helen and I went over to drop off some clothes and play with Liz’s dog, Wally. While we were visiting, Liz took out a book I had written for her in the eighth grade. It was an English assignment to write a short book about someone you admire and I had chosen to write about Liz.
Liz read the book out loud to me while sitting pregnant on her couch. Helen chewed a stuffed animal and listened, too. The book was about how we used to hang out in the bathroom and how many times Liz had dyed her hair and how much I admired her for being a good friend. I didnâ€™t recall writing that book. What I did recall was how very lost I felt in the eighth grade.
I felt I had never been Jewish enough for yeshiva, but I wasnâ€™t not Jewish enough for private school in high class Brooklyn Heights. I never felt pretty. I never felt special and I never felt God listened to what I had to say. I felt that God had betrayed me, taken away my father, made my mother unreachable and my brother disappear.
God has a funny way of showing up. This past Sunday was Lizâ€™s baby shower. I attended with Helen and saw four or five people I havenâ€™t seen since the sixth grade. Many of the guests heard me speaking Spanish to Helen and asked where I was from. I told them our backstory. I explained that Helen is Jewish from my family and Mexican Catholic from her Papiâ€™s family. After the shower I went to my motherâ€™s house to visit and watched her coo over the baby.
The Jewish mourning period lasts for seven days but the mourning period for a parent that dies lasts for a year. This is Jewish law. What Jewish law does not say is that sometimes we mourn for a lifetime. Sometimes we mourn the dead for years and then we mourn ourselves. We mourn who we were and more so who we werenâ€™t or who we didnâ€™t know how to be. When my father died and Liz came up on my porch to sit shiva that was the seed that stayed in my heart. A girl from outside of my religion and culture came to visit during a crucial time in my life. I was 12 1/2 Â on my motherâ€™s porch that day. Today I am 35. Today I understand that compassion is not one religion and neither is God.
This afternoon on my way to work I stopped inside a church. It is a small church very near the famous Brooklyn Heights. I stopped in to meditate and ask for guidance. Though I pray in synagogue I often find that churches have a much more calming effect on my spirit. There was a woman in the church praying and I took a seat in the back. She was the only other person there and I donâ€™t think she felt me come in. Sometimes I say a Hebrew prayer, sometimes a Buddhist prayer, but today I closed my eyes and began the Prayer of St. Francis. â€śLord, make me an instrument of your peace.â€ť As my eyes were closed I could hear the woman begin to cry. Her crying turned into sobs. â€śWhere there is hatred, let me sow loveâ€¦â€ť I opened my eyes and the woman was lying on the floor faced down. She had thrown herself in front of a statue of Mary and was crying into her own arms.I wanted to hug her, to reach down and say, â€śMiss, is there anything I can do?â€ť But, myÂ 12 1/2-year-old self was already lying on the ground with her… â€śWhere there is injury, pardon. Where there is doubt, faithâ€¦â€ť
Then I began the Hebrew prayer called Shemah Yisrael, (Hear, O Israel), which I usually sing when I feel sadness, just as I sang it every night before bed as a child.Â The second verse came to me immediately: â€śTwo thousand years is a very long exile. The time has come for it to endâ€¦â€ť
Spring means color. Splashing greens and yellows. Purple tulips cascading over front porches and red robins bustling in the trees. Spring also means Easter for Christians, with blue and violet painted eggs. It means Passover for the Jews. For South Americans and Mexicans it means Semana Santa (the days of Jesusâ€™s crucifixion). For me, it is a season shrouded in black. It is the green/grey eyes of my father, his brown hush puppies scuffling across the carpet. It is the ivory keys of his baby grand piano.
My father loved the spring. He loved it for three reasons. The first is that he could smoke outside again without freezing his fingers off. The second is that he could go fishing and play golf in the same day and still get home in time to practice playing his Chopin. But mostly my father loved Passover. Purim came and went in our neighborhood but Passover was an event to be reckoned with.
Every year my mother would slowly begin changing the dishes from our regular meat and dairy dishes to the â€śPassover dishesâ€ť (because the holiday of Passover has its own dietary laws). This meant that my brother and I would have to carefully carry 10Â full cardboard boxes up from the basement. They contained pots, pans, plates, glasses and my grandmotherâ€™s heavy black roasting pot. Ancient silverware passed down from our ancestors was in one box along with glasses, cups, a traditional seder plate and a tray for matzah. In another box there was a cup for Elijah (a biblical prophetÂ who makes his presence known in the middle of Passover dinner). One box contained breakfast tools; my Grandma Helenâ€™s eggbeater and my Grandma Rosieâ€™s potato peeler.
When these boxes came up from the basement my mother would begin the preparations for the first seder night and the days to follow. She would make her menu and call the cleaning lady to ask her to come the day before.
My father would sit regally at his piano. He would sneak pieces of matzah from the boxes my mother had put aside and dip them in cream cheese or tuna. Then he would bang out Beethoven on his Steinway or he would ask us to sing.
â€śBaby Faceâ€ť was a song I knew all the words to because my grandmother would sing it to me. My father could play that song by heart and make our house sound like a ragtime bar. He also loved musicals and ballads. There was one song called â€śCome Josephine in My Flying Machineâ€ť which was first published in 1910 but was popular in the late 1930s. I loved to sing that song sitting next to my father on his piano bench, while my mother changed the dishes and my brother roamed around outside.
My father would start, â€śOh, say, let us fly girlâ€ť and I would say, â€śWhere dear?â€ť and Pop would smile and say â€śTo the sky dear,â€ť and we would sing for days. Sometimes when Passover would finally arrive we would do the whole duet for the guests while my mother was roasting the brisket and adding cinnamon to the kugel.
And what I remember is the smell of our house during those spring days. Onions, garlic, rosemary and cumin wafted up the stairs and out the front door. There was the metallic hint of chopped liver, the eye-piercing strength of horseradish and the kosher wine fumes mixed with my fatherâ€™s Aqua Velva after-shave and Marlboro Red tobacco. There was the smell of my motherâ€™s perfume, grassy and effortless, and the musky velvet of my brotherâ€™s yarmulke.
Then Passover would emerge. My cousins, my aunt and uncle, my grandmother and family friends would gather around my motherâ€™s seder table to read the story of how the Jews escaped Egypt, how Moses parted the Red Sea so that our people could cross over to the other side.
In Brooklyn, we sing songs and read this story. My father, who was big in every way (he had been an actor and had a voice that bellowed through the walls) would shout this story in Hebrew. Then he would point to me and say, â€śAnd now Anna will say the four questions.â€ť It is a Jewish tradition that the youngest person at the seder table asks four questions. And there are so many traditions that accompany this holiday. Elijah the prophet has a cup placed for him in the middle of the Passover seder table. The front door is opened for him and it is said his spirit passes through each house and he drinks from the cup. Elijahâ€™s cup is called the â€śsilent cupâ€ť and as a child I would open the door for Elijah and after I closedÂ itÂ I would run back to the table to see if the wine had a ripple in it or if it was less full.
There is also the tradition of the afikomen. This is the middle piece of matzah andÂ each year in my family, in the middle of the service, my uncle hides it and the youngest child has to find it. When it is found, the child can ask for money in exchange for returning the middle matzah. Since I was a girl, my uncle has always hidden the matzah in his inner suit jacket pocket. When he takes his jacket off to eat I steal it.
Last year on Passover I was pregnant with my little Helen Rose. No one knew except for my mother, my brother and my sister-in-law. My father has been gone for over 20 years. His soul went to G-d on August 23,Â 1994. I was almost 13. My uncle is his older brother. I turned 34 last year and was the youngest at our seder table. When my uncle took his jacket off to begin eating his meal, I stole the afikomen.
I have a Mexican Catholic partner. I am not married. I am Jewish. These three facts do not define who I am. I am much more than that.
Last year as my uncle reached into his jacket pocket to take out the afikomen I held it up with a shaky hand at the other side of the table. My uncle went to Crown Heights Yeshiva, as did my father. We come from a long line of Jewish beliefs, customs, traditions and schools of thought. I desired one thing for the afikomen and it wasnâ€™t money.
â€śThis year,â€ť I began as my uncle sat quietly at the head of the table, â€śthis year I want something in return for the afikomen. But this year I donâ€™t want money. This year Uncle Jeff, I want your blessing. Iâ€™m pregnant and the baby is due in October and Iâ€™m so happy.â€ť
My Aunt Claire jumped out of her chair. My brother and his wife looked down at the table; they were expecting twins in August. My mother looked at the wall. My cousin Arnoldâ€™s mouth fell open. My uncle, who fought in Korea and jumped out of planes, who married my aunt when she was 18 and moved to Long Island and raised a traditional Jewish family, turned to me with his eyes that look so similar to my own fatherâ€™s and said, â€śMazal Tov kid. Congratulations.â€ť
My partner Adrian and I live in a small Brooklyn apartment with our little Helen Rose. We keep the traditions of my family. We go to Rockaway and fish every summer. Adrian smokes Marlboro Reds or Camels. On Passover, my motherâ€™s house still smells like roasted onions. On Rosh Hashanah we eat apples and honey and on Hanukkah we light the menorah. When spring arrives we buy Helen painted eggs and stuffed bunnies. For Christmas we make traditional Mexican holiday food. This year at Helenâ€™s first seder we will place a cup of wine in the middle of the table and when I open the door for the prophet, perhaps my father will walk inside as well. Maybe heâ€™ll steal a piece of matzah, sit at the piano bench and watch the new generation celebrate its new customs and its old ones. Maybe heâ€™ll whisper â€śCome Josephine in My Flying Machineâ€ť into Helenâ€™s ear. After all, spring was always his favorite time of year and Passover his favorite holiday.
Purim in my neighborhood is an extravaganza. Limousines crowd the streets and rabbles of teenagers run in and out of houses dressed up as the main characters in the Purim story.
A quick summary for those who are not familiar: There is Vashti, who is dethroned by the King Ahasuerus. Then Esther becomes the new Queen after she wins a beauty contest, which she doesnâ€™t even dress up for (sheâ€™s THAT beautiful). Mordechai is her cousin (probably equally beautiful) and he figures out that some people are trying to kill the king. Then Haman (the evil one in the story) gets promoted to be the head official by the king, but he hates the Jewish people. Mordechai refuses to bow to Haman and then in turn Haman makes it his life goal to destroy the Jewish people. Mordechai asks Esther for help. She invites the King and Haman to a banquet and when they attend she invites them to a second banquet. At the second banquet she asks the King to have mercy on her people and accuses Haman of his wrongdoings. Haman is then sentenced to death on the very same gallows he had himself made to kill the Jewish people.
The more daring ones in my neighborhood dress as Haman. The more beautiful dress as Esther. Occasionally, a Vashti costume will be thrown into the mix. But most popular are Mordechai and the King.
My partner Adrian and I live three blocks away from my mother with our newborn girl, Helen Rose. Last year, we remembered to call my mother on Purim to heedÂ the warning: â€śListen Ma, remember if the doorbell rings donâ€™t answer it. Itâ€™s just the kids who like to dance around everyoneâ€™s living room to celebrate Purim.â€ť
My mother ignored us as usual.
â€śHoly cow!â€ť The phone call came from her at 9 p.m. She yelled over the tooting of horns and the rattling of groggers. â€śThe doorbell rang and I thought it was you guys,â€ť she screamed. â€śNext thing I know thereâ€™s about twenty Orthodox Jewish boys dressed as biblical characters dancing around my living room! I gotta go before someone breaks something.â€ť She hung up.
Thatâ€™s how Purim goes in Midwood, Brooklyn.
Adrian, who is Mexican-Catholic, asks me, â€śIs it like Halloween?â€ť
I laugh, â€śWell sort of but we really put Halloween to shame.â€ť And we do. Forget about goblins and ghouls. We make hamantaschen, triangle-shaped cookies thatÂ symbolize Hamanâ€™s death. (Haman wore a hat shaped like a triangle.)
â€śWell, what did you wear for your first Purim?â€ť Adrian enquires. I laugh again and think back.
The first official Purim I celebrated was at the Orthodox Yeshiva I attended as a girl. It was first grade and every girl wanted to go as Esther. Itâ€™s like the newest Disney character but sheâ€™s thousands of years old. I wanted to be different and I hated wearing dresses even though I had to wear one to school every day. Here was my chance to break out! Instead of going to school dressed as Esther like every other girl I went dressed as the castle.
My mother walked me to The Variety Store on Avenue M and Mr. Miller showed me where the colorful oak tag was. I bought two pieces of hot pink oak tagÂ and punched holes in the top of each piece. Then I used string to tie the pieces together and put them over my head. I drew windows and a door and that was it. I was the castle. It was funny but not as funny as Stephen, a boy in my class, who dressed up as Vashti the banished Queen. I think I saw him on Ru Paulâ€™s Drag Race a few years ago.
â€śWeâ€™re not dressing Helen as a castle,â€ť Adrian says.
Â â€śNo kidding,â€ť I answer.
Traditionally speaking, the kids in my neighborhood usually only dress up as characters from the Purim story. I suppose we could put Helen in something different and I suggest this to Adrian.
â€śHow about a piece of challah bread?â€ť he asks.
Â â€śWhat?â€ť I say pretending not to hear him.
Â â€śChallah bread,â€ť he continues, â€śItâ€™s kosher, itâ€™s traditional and itâ€™s my favorite!â€ť
â€śYeah, because thatâ€™s not embarrassing at all,â€ť I add.
Adrian smiles, lifts up the baby and says, â€śChallah por favor!â€ť
Trying to explain Purim is not easy. For starters G-dâ€™s name is not mentioned once in the entire book.Â Does this mean G-d is not present? It actually means the opposite, that G-d is ALWAYS present and for this reason Esther and Mordechai are able to save the Jewish people. Also, thereâ€™s the part about the Megillah. The Megillah is the scroll of Esther and tells the Purim story. This scroll is read on the evening Purim begins as well as the next morning. In Midwood, young Orthodox Jewish boys of about 10 and 12 years old stop people on the street to ask:
â€śAre you Jewish?â€ť
Â On my walk to my motherâ€™s house every year I answer, â€śYes.â€ť
Â Then the boys say, â€śHave you heard the Megillah this year?â€ť
Because I do not attend synagogue on Purim I say no and they ask to read the entire scroll of Esther to me standing on the corner of East 23rd Street and Avenue M.
The scroll of Esther can take some time and there is even a Jewish saying, â€śItâ€™s like he read the whole Megillah,â€ť referring to how long something can take. But, every year I say, â€śYes, boys, please read.â€ť
And this is the most beautiful part of Purim. That two boys who are 10Â and 12Â years old know it is a good deed to read the story of Esther to a wandering Jew on the streets of Brooklyn. And because they are Yeshiva boys they speed read their Hebrew out loud as if to prove the â€śwhole Megillahâ€ť saying wrong.
This year I canâ€™t wait to take the baby on a walk through the streets of Midwood during Purim. I wonder what those boys will say. â€śIs she Jewish?â€ť
Â â€śYes,â€ť I will answer.
Â â€śHas she heard the Megillah this year?â€ť
Â And because she does not attend synagogue with her mother on Purim I will say no and they will ask to read the entire scroll of Esther to her. Then they will ask, â€śWhat will you dress her up as?â€ť and I will smile and say, â€śChallah bread, we were thinking challah breadâ€¦or a hamantaschen cookie.â€ť
Happy Purim, everyone! From the Mexican-American-Jewish-Newborn and her family.
When I was 8 years old I had a good friend who lived around the corner from me. His name was Nachshon. We took the same school bus to school and at the Orthodox Yeshiva we attended we were in the same class. I went to his house often after school to play video games or just to hang out. He rarely came to my house. My family was not religious enough for his family even though we had a kosher home and my parents tried hard to educate us in Judaism. My parents were liberals. They had been actors and met on stage. They believed in finding out about oneself both inside and outside of the religion. For this reason the Jewish community at my Yeshiva rejected many of my parentsâ€™ beliefs and therefore my brother and I were rejected as well, though in a subtler manner.
I was allowed into Nachshonâ€™s home where the rules of kosher/non-kosher, religious and non-religious were in tact and could not be stirred. He was, however, not allowed into my own home. At 8 years of age I didnâ€™t care. He had a Nintendo and my brother and I did not. He had better toys, better games and carpeting in his basement. He had what I didnâ€™t have, or so it seemed.
Then something happened to Nachshon, or rather something happened to his father. One day Nachshon didnâ€™t show up to school. In the middle of Torah study that morning our teacher told us all to put on our coats, we were going somewhere. Once outside we boarded a yellow bus. The bus twisted and turned through the sooty Brooklyn streets until we were close to my own neighborhood. We ended up in front of Nachshonâ€™s residence.
I had been to his house many times before but never with my whole class. There were twenty of us: the girls dressed in long skirts and long sleeved shirts, the boys with yarmulkes, black pants and white shirts. We looked like a sea of exclamation points shuffling through the small doorway. The house was dark and the mirrors had been covered with black fabric. There were low boxes on the floor in the living room for the family members to sit on. It was then I realized what we were doing there. We went, as a class to sit shiva. Shiva is the traditional Jewish mourning period. It usually lasts for seven days and family members sit on the floor or on low boxes, they cover their mirrors and in my neighborhood they leave the door open for visitors to come and go. It is a â€śmitzvah,â€ť a good deed to sit shiva. As a child it is terrifying.
Nachshon looked small in his own home surrounded by guests from all over the neighborhood. His father had been sick for a long time. No one knew any of the details. He died of some kind of cancer and now the closest family members sat around the living room on low boxes reciting his name and weeping.
That year I stopped going to Nachshonâ€™s house to play. He didnâ€™t speak to me in school. I heard that his mother wanted him to hang around only very religious Orthodox Jewish boys and girls. I was not in that category. The next year I was kicked out of the Yeshiva and I didnâ€™t see him again for a long time. Then one day something happened to me, or rather something happened to my father.
I saw Nachshon again four-and-a-half years later at a shiva for my own father. He showed up on the front porch with sad eyes, dressed in a black suit, his yarmulke a patch of crimson velvet on his head.
â€śIâ€™m so sorry about your father,â€ť he said. It was the first time he had ever been to my house. Death had brought him there. Death, sympathy and compassion had overcome my â€śnot Jewish enoughâ€ť family. Though he came on his own. There was no school bus, no long skirts following his lead. He came alone. It was the last time I ever saw him. I felt as if his presence was an apology.
Today I have a newborn. She is Jewish by her mother, Mexican-Catholic by her father. I wonder what she will feel as she grows up in the neighborhood I grew up in. Her father speaks a different language and her mother wears rock t-shirts every day of the week. Does this make her less Jewish? Will parents be afraid to send their children to our house? How will this make her feel? What will I say when she says â€śWhy?â€ť
I will tell her I lost a very close friend a long time ago because of fear and judgment. I will tell her something broke between us because the community that surrounded us did not know how to bind us closer together in a time of mourning and instead shifted us apart.
I would like my daughter to grow up understanding the customs of each religion. The way Catholics and Jews deal with death is of equal importance. But more than this I want her to make her own decisions about religion and I want her to be able to turn to spirituality in times of great distress. I want her to have courage the way Nachshon had when he defied the community and walked up on my front porch to pay his respects. I will explain to my daughter one day that in that one fixed moment in time we were who we were as Jews but more so as resplendent human spirits.