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Blessings have been on my mind lately. In the Jewish wedding ceremony there are seven blessings recited, and, for better or for worse, Iâ€™m finding them complicated. Which is why, when our house started to shake during a thunderstorm the other night, I was already awake turning blessing after blessing over and over in my mind.
The thunder rolled, the lightning flashed, and my mind immediately went to the damage that weâ€™d seen this winter, wondering if this storm would re-expose those leaks. After a few minutes of almost deafening rain, my mind finally slowed past its catastrophic style thinking to an appreciation of all of the noises, smells, and feelings that accompany a thunderstorm.
I was thankful for the rain that we receive here in New England, as opposed the droughts that are impacting so much of our world. I was thankful that I was inside, and lucky enough to be safe from the elements. I was grateful to be cuddled up under my blanket next to my sleeping partner, with my sleeping cat in the nook behind my knees.
I noticed Justin stirring from his sleep. â€śGood thunderstorm,â€ť he muttered to himself.
It might seem simplistic, but right thereâ€¦ that was a blessing.
One of the pieces of Jewish learning Iâ€™ve most taken to heart is the idea that a prayer should speak to what is truly in your heartâ€”the trappings of the words matter a whole lot less. (This idea seems particularly relevant when coming at the idea of one religionâ€™s prayer from a multi-faith lens.)
Which is why weâ€™re going to take the seven blessings and take them from complicated ideas to a simple â€śgood thunderstormâ€ť style message. Â But we need your help.
Weâ€™re asking seven of our friends to craft their own blessings based on the meaning of the originals. Theyâ€™ll then be recited in the original Hebrew by our rabbi. What matters to us is less of the traditional language (weâ€™ll have our bases covered by our rabbiâ€™s recitations), but the sentiments passed along by the friends reciting the blessings.
Hereâ€™s where weâ€™re asking for your help: if you were to simplify the following prayers to one word, what would it be?
I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments below!
In 2011, TheKnot.com surveyed almost 20,000 newlywed women. They found that only 8 percent kept their last names. Of the remaining 92 percent, 86 percent took their partnerâ€™s last name. Six percent hyphenated or created a new last name.
While Iâ€™ve seen other studies that show the percentage of women who keep their last names atÂ closer to 20 percent, the fact remains: Changing your name after marriage is the â€śnormalâ€ť thing to do.
Changing my name has never felt like the right move for meâ€”my last name is the one on my degrees, itâ€™s part of the name of my photography business, itâ€™s the name Iâ€™ve written under, and, itâ€™s the name Iâ€™ve used my entire life. Iâ€™ve given this some serious thought. I support a personâ€™s right to choose the name that feels like the best fit for them, and I understand the idea that a unified last name presents a unified team.
But, for me, changing my name just doesnâ€™t feel right.
(It also should be noted, that Justin isnâ€™t up for changing his last name either. My last name is hard to spell, and heâ€™s spent too long building his brand to change his name to something else. I donâ€™t think this is a conversation only half of a coupleÂ should be havingâ€”if name changes are on the table, they should be on the table for everyone.)
It wasnâ€™t until recently, when concepts like name changes shifted from hypothetical to reality, did something click for me. Changing my last name would mean separating my name from my familyâ€™s nameâ€”and taking a step away from my Jewish identity.
I know that marrying Justin, who isnâ€™t Jewish, wonâ€™t make me any less Jewish.
It wonâ€™t make our home any less Jewish; it wonâ€™t invalidate the mezuzah hanging on the door, or make my observance of holidays any less meaningful.
It wonâ€™t make my work any less Jewish; it wonâ€™t tarnish my past community organizing, nor will it make my work with Keshet and commitment to full LGBTQ inclusion in the Jewish community less authentic.
Taking Justinâ€™s last name wouldnâ€™t make me any less Jewishâ€¦ but it feels that way.
As an Ashkenazi Jew, with a very classically Ashkenazi Jewish last name, my name is a calling card. Rozensky, with its â€śrozenâ€ť and its â€śsky,â€ť shouts Jewish. I can trace its Jewish history. My name comes with a connection to my peopleâ€”not just in the sense of â€śthe chosen people,â€ť but also in the way it connects me to previous generations of Rozenskys. Iâ€™m not ready to step away from that tradition.
There will be plenty of compromises made in our marriage; after all, meeting each other halfway is an important part of keeping a relationship working. But when it comes to our namesâ€”which hold such important aspects of our identitiesâ€”compromise doesnâ€™t seem like the best bet.