Swipe Right for True Love

  

By Olufemi Sowemimo

Becky and Femi

OK, I’ll come clean: I wasn’t expecting to meet my wife on Tinder.

I’m not some app-phobic, anti-technology fuddy duddy who assumed that real relationships could only happen through friendly set-ups and Katherine Heigl-worthy meet-cutes. I knew fully well that swiping right could possibly lead to a relationship. Given the app’s reputation, though, I expected that any such relationship would prove to be…well, temporary.

I don’t mean what-was-your-name-again-next-morning-walk-of-shame temporary… just this-will-be-rewarding-and-fun-for-while-it-lasts temporary.

But something special happened on my first date with my bride-to-be. After a wonderful night filled with laughter, singing and scintillating conversation, Rebecca Lenore Herring farted in my car.

In her defense, I wasn’t actually in the car when she did it. It happened after I opened the passenger door to let her in (you know, like a gentleman who doesn’t talk about a lady’s farts), during my walk to the driver’s side. In case you’re wondering, the five seconds it takes to make that journey is, in fact, not enough time to allow a fart to dissipate.

I’m not about to pretend that I fell in love with my fiancée because of a fart. Becky is not Katherine Heigl, and even if she was, I don’t think this would qualify as a very strong rom-com inciting incident. Now that I’m far enough away from it, I can look back at that night and laugh, but that night? It wasn’t charming trying to inconspicuously hold my breath and hide the tears in my eyes as I rolled my window down, finally sucking down giant gulps of fresh air.

The moment wasn’t charming, but it was representative. Because that night, like every day of her life before it and every one since it, Becky was astoundingly, undeniably, unapologetically Becky. I’ve told her this many times, and it still holds truethat Becky is the absolute Beckiest person I’ve ever met. And there’s no escaping it—to meet Becky is to be assaulted with her Beckiness. I know for certain that I could live a dozen lifetimes and never meet anyone Beckier.

What this means is that from the outset of our relationship, for better or worse, all of our differences were immediately on the table. Some of those differences have been pretty minor: I don’t like the show Friends and Becky thinks pumpkin pie is better than sweet potato (which is plainly, objectively wrong). But some of those differences have been more major: one of them being that of faith.

I grew up a member of the Church of God: a sort of cross between Pentecostalism and Nondenominational Christianity. While I’ve mostly fallen away from the religion of my upbringing, being with Becky has meant learning about how central faith is to her culture, and how central that culture is to her sense of self. Getting to know her has meant getting to know Judaism, which has been a journey in itself.

Because I am, in many ways, Becky’s opposite—more introverted and private—I didn’t call her out on the fart that night (in fact, it wasn’t until months after our first date that I revealed to Becky that yeah, I know you FARTED IN MY CAR ON OUR FIRST DATE). She’s confessed to me that if I had, she likely would have leapt from the moving car in embarrassment and we probably would never have seen each other again. I guess it’s part of why we work so well together.

In a time when it’s so easy to represent ourselves as someone other than who we really are—be it through everyday social interactions, or even a dating app—being with someone who is so overwhelmingly, genuinely herself that she couldn’t stop it if she tried is as welcome and refreshing as those lungful’s of air on that fateful night.

I’m looking forward to this new journey that we’re embarking on and taking our first steps into forever. I don’t know exactly what to expect of our future, but I know for certain that she’ll ever remain as Becky as she has always been.

A Roze(nsky) By Any Other Name

  
family wedding photos

A collection of wedding photos from Jordyn’s family.

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 partner’s last name. Six percent hyphenated or created a new last name.

While I’ve seen other studies that show the percentage of women who keep their last names at closer to 20 percent, the fact remains: Changing your name after marriage is the “normal” thing to do.

Changing my name has never felt like the right move for me—my last name is the one on my degrees, it’s part of the name of my photography business, it’s the name I’ve written under, and, it’s the name I’ve used my entire life. I’ve given this some serious thought. I support a person’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 doesn’t feel right.

(It also should be noted, that Justin isn’t up for changing his last name either. My last name is hard to spell, and he’s spent too long building his brand to change his name to something else. I don’t think this is a conversation only half of a couple should be having—if name changes are on the table, they should be on the table for everyone.)

It wasn’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 family’s name—and taking a step away from my Jewish identity.

I know that marrying Justin, who isn’t Jewish, won’t make me any less Jewish.

It won’t make our home any less Jewish; it won’t invalidate the mezuzah hanging on the door, or make my observance of holidays any less meaningful.

It won’t make my work any less Jewish; it won’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 Justin’s last name wouldn’t make me any less Jewish… but it feels that way.

Jordyn's grandparent's celebrating a wedding anniversary.

Jordyn’s grandparents celebrating a wedding anniversary.

As an Ashkenazi Jew, with a very classically Ashkenazi Jewish last name, my name is a calling card. Rozensky, with its “rozen” and its “sky,” shouts Jewish. I can trace its Jewish history. My name comes with a connection to my people—not just in the sense of “the chosen people,” but also in the way it connects me to previous generations of Rozenskys. I’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 names—which hold such important aspects of our identities—compromise doesn’t seem like the best bet.

The Beerorah

  

The 4th Annual Beerorah (From 2013)

One of my favorite holidays is Hanukkah, and for that, I give a lot of the credit to the Beerorah. The Beerorah is something that my fiancé Derek and I came up with the first Hanukkah we were dating – well, really it’s a gift pack from He’Brew brewing company (a division of Schmaltz brewing) that his best friend had given him when the friend found out he was dating me.

We joke that the Beerorah combines our two loves: “My love of God with his love of beer.” And Derek really does love beer – it’s his hobby in a true aficionado’s way. I have learned more about craft beer in the four-and-a-half years we’ve been together than most people learn in a lifetime, and we love to visit beer bars and breweries just to try new and rare beers. Also he and his best friend have a collection of over 500 bottles of (craft) beer, carefully inventoried in their “beerventory.”

As for me though, the love of God part is apt too. A Conservative Jew, Judaism has always been a large part of my identity. Growing up, I attended synagogue every Saturday because I wanted to – not only to gain guidance from the Rabbi’s sermons or to enjoy the serene satisfaction of the silent Amidah (one of my favorite prayers), but because it was the center of the social circle for my friends and I. Go on a date? Having family drama? Meet at synagogue and we can discuss it.

But going to synagogue and practicing Judaism were also integral to my identity in part because of the climate in which I grew up. I am from Riverdale, NY – home of eight or nine different synagogues and many many Jews. Nonetheless, my synagogue was swatstikaed one weekend when I was in Hebrew School. On the night before Kol Nidre (the holiest night of the year) a year or two after September 11th, our synagogue was firebombed with Molotov cocktails. We attended services while eager news crews waited outside to interview us and have gone through metal detectors and pat downs with varying regularity ever since. So my Judaism and its essentialness to my identity came in part from the fears to my safety that came with it – and the way those fears bound my group of close friends and I together to the community and to each other.

The 5th Annual Beerorah (From 2014)

That said, it was never essential to me to date a Jewish guy. I greatly enjoyed learning about different religions and cultures and watching people experience aspects of Judaism for the first time. I always had a strong opinion about how I wanted to observe Judaism and had my own relationship with God. I knew that my kids will be Jewish, that I am Jewish, that my family is Jewish, that I will never be anything but Jewish. And honestly, I knew I needed a laid back low-maintenance sports fan kind of guy – I wasn’t sure I would necessarily find that within the Jewish community.

You can say “Oh, but traditions! But continuity! But faith!” but I have also found that Derek has been much more respectful of my faith and practice than the Jewish guys I’ve dated. One got mad at me for not answering the phone while I was at a Friday night Shabbat dinner. I got in a heated argument with another who asked, “But WHY do you believe? WHY do you have faith? Where’s the rational proof that God exists?” Both were the moments when I knew the relationships wouldn’t work out. The Beerorah was one of the first examples of Derek’s openness and respect of my faith. And when we light it together each Hanukkah (this year was its fifth iteration), it reminds me of that – that we can meld what matters to us together to create something just as wonderful (or more wonderful) than the original. I haven’t compromised anything – I’m still Jewish, and I still have my love of God and my observance. He still has his love of beer. And we both have each other.

Happy Holidays!