Don’t Call Me Bubbe–I’m Grandma.

  

By Sherrie Bergus

On the eve of my first birthday as a grandmother, which happened to be the day of the eclipse, I wrote this manifesto down. It took courage, this but here I am. Like Thoreau before me, I headed out to reflect upon the waters of a beloved lake and declared this:

I am a grandma, not a Bubbe.

It didn’t really take the momentous act of the world going dark for not quite three minutes, or this Jewish woman celebrating her birthday, to realize that my existence is light years away from that of my own Bubbe Ida’s.

Besides our DNA, so little of our experience is the same.

I was born into an Orthodox Jewish family. My husband grew up in a “modern” Conservative household. Both of my children were bar/bat mitzvah and continued their religious studies beyond. Their education and travel landed them in different locales, both with non-Jewish partners and their own way of living Jewishly.

Of course, traditions, love, and blood still bind us all.

So I could theoretically assert that I am a Bubbe in the Land of Nanas and Omas, I could redefine the label of Bubbe and modernize it, in keeping with our family, a patchwork of cultures and traditions.

But I am sorry, Bubbe. I just cannot.

At my daughter’s engagement party—she was marrying a man from Montreal—my aunt who is called Bubbe by her grandkids pressed me: “I can’t wait to hear your grandchildren call you Bubbe with a French accent.” In response I whisper seethed, “I will not be called Bubbe.”

It just didn’t feel right: My son-in-law is an atheist. My daughter, wishing to embrace her religion in her new Canadian residence has become part of the fabric of a vibrant, Reform-Jewish community. She has taught her life partner that to her, God is “your invisible best friend.” He attends services with her and lovingly wears her hand-crocheted kippah (head covering). As an avid foodie/chef he enjoys cooking brisket for Rosh Hashanah, latkes at Hanukkah and celebrating the holidays through food.

They’re making it work.

And when it comes to the other side of my family, my daughter-in-law is a practicing Catholic. A Reform Rabbi and an Episcopal Priest intricately wove together their wedding ceremony. Less than six months later, my mother passed away.

On the way to the funeral we were discussing our dinner plans for later that evening. I remembered that it was Lent. I asked her if there was anything we should avoid to make things easier for her. Quickly, she told me not to worry about her at all.

I feel awed by the way my family is marching into modernity, with such thoughtfulness. So do you see my confusion when it comes to what I’ll be called—new traditions, new family permutations, new ways—old names?

I mean, it is 2017 and I didn’t just step out of the shtetl. I would love to add a unique cultural spin on my new name. If I really go back to my Belorussian roots, my little grandbabies would call me “Babka.” Nope. I can’t do it. I have thought about it, but I am not a cushiony soft savta, nor any type of baked goods.

So I have devised the perfect solution. For now, Grandma it is. Ultimately, of course, the baby will decide.

This article was reprinted with permission from Kveller.com, a fast-growing, award-winning website for parents raising Jewish and interfaith kids. Follow Kveller on Facebook and sign up for their newsletters here.

The Love Letters Between Kirk Douglas & His Wife Are Astounding

  

By Joanna Valente

Kirk Douglas and wife, Anne - reprint from Kveller.com

Credit: Kveller.com

Everyone enjoys a good love story. Even though I infamously dislike narratives with neat, tidy endings, I’m also a huge romantic at heart. This is why I’m so excited that  Kirk Douglas and his wife, Anne, wrote a book called Kirk and Anne: Letters of Love, Laughter, and a Lifetime in Hollywood, which was released in May.

The book, which was written with Marcia Newberger, centers around their long, passionate, and sometimes turbulent marriage. The couple has been married since 1954 (in Las Vegas, no less), so clearly after 63 years, they know a thing or two about how to make relationships work. Kirk is now 100 and Anne is 98–not only unusual milestones for anyone to reach both in age and marriage, but a happily ironic one considering what Kirk once wrote in a letter.

Kirk Douglas and his wife Anne

Credit: Kveller.com

Four years after they were married, Kirk wrote Anne a letter saying, “If I live to be one hundred, there will still be so many things unsaid.” On his 100th birthday last year, it all came full circle when he wrote “As I have now reached that milestone, I can attest that it is still true.”

As pointed out by our sister site JTAtheir union felt unlikely, in that Kirk was “the son of a hard-drinking Jewish immigrant ragman and junk collector,” while Anne was “the daughter of a prosperous German family.” When they met, both were recently divorced, and Kirk was engaged. But they were meant to be.

Because of his acting schedule, they often wrote letters to each other. Kirk referred to Anne as “Stolz,” while Anne addressed Kirk as “Isidore” or “Izzy.” Interestingly, Anne converted in 2003 to Judaism (after 49 years of marriage!), describing her mikveh experience:

“After removing all nail polish, I entered the swimming pool and put my head under the water. I came out looking like a wet dog. But I was Jewish. It is time he got a nice Jewish girl.”

Kirk and Anne Douglas with son, Michael Douglas

Credit: Kveller.com

The book, with a foreword by their actor son, Michael, was clearly crafted with love. You can see it from excerpts such as these:

Book excerpt 1

Book excerpt 2

This article was reprinted with permission from Kveller.com, a fast-growing, award-winning website for parents raising Jewish and interfaith kids. Follow Kveller on Facebook and sign up for their newsletters here.

Joanna ValenteJoanna Valente is the Editorial Assistant at Kveller. She is the author of Sirs & MadamsThe Gods Are DeadXenosand Marys of the Sea, and received her MFA at Sarah Lawrence College. You can follow her @joannasaid on Twitter, @joannacvalenteon Instagram, or email her at joanna@kveller.com.

Our Gay, Interfaith Family’s Surprising Synagogue-Shopping Experience

  

By Liat Katz

Pews in a synagogue facing the stage area

“A Y A M,” She writes.

“Um, Maya, I think you wrote your name backwards,” I respond.

“Nope, it’s just in Hebrew,” the 6-year-old says.

Maya is learning to read and write in English, while also learning Hebrew at our synagogue’s Sunday school. That makes it confusing. And she’s left-handed too, which makes this backwards-forwards thing even harder.

The whole figuring-out-the-Jewish thing in our modern world has been complicated. Finding a Jewish community that is both warm and accepts our two-mom interfaith family was also difficult, but I think we are starting to find a rhythm.

My wife, Lisa, is not Jewish (she is a recovering Baptist), but is completely on board with raising our kids Jewish. She took time to learn some Hebrew, she helps the kids get to Hebrew school, light candles, says prayers on Shabbat, and seems to be more knowledgeable about Judaism than I am at this point. She also makes the best latkes I have ever tasted.

For our oldest girl’s naming ceremony, we hired a Rabbi who was a humanist, gay, social worker, anarchist, vegan to do the ceremony in our home. I’m not kidding. Of course he had no problem with the fact that were gay and interfaith. And the ceremony was beautiful. But beyond candle lighting and the occasional high holiday service, we did not have much of a Jewish household after that ceremony.

That was, until a couple of years ago, when we heard that kids absolutely have to start by third grade in Hebrew School to be on the bat mitzvah track. Aviva, our older child, was almost in third grade. And being a child of a Holocaust survivor, I felt compelled to partake in this Jewish tradition for all those that could not. Besides, though I am not very religious, I wanted to have our kids have a sense of belonging to a larger Jewish community.

When I lived in Israel, I could be a part of the Jewish community—and feel Jewish by virtue of living in a Jewish land, speaking the language, interacting with the people. But here, in the U.S., going to temple seems to be where we need to connect to the Jewish community.

So we started shopping for synagogues to join. We started with the obvious ones for our family—Reconstructionist. We went to a few services and kids’ services at a relatively local Reconstructionist synagogue. I looked around: Lots of gay families, check. Interfaith families, check. Even racial diversity (pretty unusual at most synagogues), check. Interesting services with lots of opportunities for activities, check. The only thing missing was, well, warmth. Being Gay-friendly did not make them friendly-friendly. Nobody really spoke to us, looked at us or acknowledged us, or each other, either. Not the place for us.

We checked out Reform synagogues. The communities were nice, but huge. And somehow it wasn’t what I wanted. Why didn’t I like it? The people seemed nice, there were a few other gay families, a bit of diversity…but I realized it wasn’t like the services I grew up in. The tunes to the songs were different, and the prayers were mostly in English.

So it turned out that this non-traditional family that had babies in a non-traditional way, wanted a synagogue that was more…traditional.

Looking online for a Jewish community, I stumbled upon Kehilat Shalom, a small Conservative synagogue that was about 15 miles away from our house. The Rabbi looked nice. And the midweek Hebrew class was held online, which meant we wouldn’t have to drive anywhere after school every week.

I contacted the Rabbi and got a lovely response. We went to a service. No gay people, but the people were warm, asked us genuine questions, and invited us to various groups.

The services were mostly in Hebrew, and the tunes were as I remembered them. The sanctuary was beautiful, and bathed in natural light. I closed my eyes and exhaled. We enrolled our older daughter in Hebrew School—and the mid-week Hebrew school class with a special Skype-type program was so helpful and you know, just like the ancient Israelites had planned.

And as I dropped her off for Sunday classes, I went in to Rabbi Arian’s office to chat. Yes, he is knowledgeable about all things Rabbinic and Halachic, but he is also surprisingly, human. I got to know him and his great wife, Keleigh. And they got to know our family. They invited our family to their house, and we invited them to ours.

Of course, I did panic when we invited the Rabbi over. What do we cook? What plates do we use? We made pizza. Vegetarian pizza. My kids started to play a pretend restaurant game and offered the Rabbi a ham and cheese sandwich—he took it in stride.

And one Fall afternoon, there came a surprising new edition to the litany of endless childhood questions that often makes this mommy feel inadequate. In addition to my daughters’ questions like: Why don’t we have a…Christmas tree?…a daddy?…a beach house? they now, also ask me:“Why don’t we have a Sukkah?

As I got to talk with the Rabbi more, I began to understand conceptions of God and faith in a more relatable and fulfilling way. I discovered that maybe I want more than just Jewish culture in my life. And as the Rabbi got to know us and others in our community, he became more interested in LGBTQ issues.

In fact, he recently did a talk entitled, “Reflections on Ten Years of LGBT Inclusion in Conservative Judaism” at synagogue. And after he took a tour of civil rights sites (and the Names Project) in Atlanta, he wrote in a weekly Shabbat email and blog post: “The unspoken but very real question: what if anything is the connection between antisemitism, racism, and prejudice against the LGBT community? What is the role of religion in both creating and fighting prejudice?”

Maya is slowly learning to spell both in Hebrew and English. Aviva continues to connect via computer to her teacher and to class, and now she also connects to Judaism through an overnight camp. And as I connect to a Rabbi, a God, and a community that are both thoughtful and inclusive, I realize that our life is even more diverse and warmly Jewish than I ever expected it could be.

This article was reprinted with permission from Kveller.com, a fast-growing, award-winning website for parents raising Jewish and interfaith kids. Follow Kveller on Facebook and sign up for their newsletters here.

Liat Katz, a clinical social worker, is a graduate of New Directions, a writing program offered by the Washington Center for Psychoanalysis. Her work has been published in Lilith, The Washington Post, Washingtonian, and the narrative medicine websites Pulse and KevinMD. Of herself, she says, “I write to make sense of the world I see through the lens of a mom, a clinician, a patient, a wife, and a person just muddling through life.” Liat lives in Rockville, Maryland with her wife, two daughters, four cats, and a bunny.