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I felt guilty and sad. It was July 22. My father had died on this day two years earlier. The rabbi had not read my father's name because I had never told him that this was the day we should remember him. And so, I sat quietly while the mourners prayed.
|Yahrzeit candle. Photo: Flickr/Peretzpup.|
I was new to all this. I had converted to Judaism a few years before and when my father died suddenly I had no idea how to mourn him according to Jewish tradition. I didn't even know how to spell yahrzeit. Besides, I was sure that my father would not want me to follow Jewish customs on his behalf. Although he was born Jewish, he converted to Christianity and married a Christian woman, my mother. He viewed my journey back to Judaism with a mixture of bewilderment, amusement and contempt. After I started learning Hebrew, I remember him laughing, "So, now you know the language. What's next? Rabbi school?"
But I knew I was on my own path of discovery and return. Although my father thought I was being ridiculous, I thought he was being narrow-minded. After all, he himself was a convert. And so, I applied myself to studying my new religion and practicing as many of the new customs I could master. I had to be taught what many Jews grow up taking for granted--when to bow in shul, how to say L'shana tova (Happy New Year!) on Rosh Hashanah. But I never bothered to learn any of the Jewish rituals for mourning a death. Why memorize those? No one close to me was going to die. At least, not for a good long while.
In the days that followed my father's death, my Jewish friends tried to give me a crash course on mourning customs. But their lessons proved too difficult for me to absorb. I was in survival mode, missing my father in a terrible, visceral way. And then there was my Christian family. Mourning my father's death according to Jewish law was far trickier than learning the Shabbat prayers. In fact, it was impossible. He had a Christian funeral, since this was his faith and the faith of my mother. But my friends insisted that I sit shiva. So, I did, although I had no idea what happened at shivas. I gathered little snippets of information. I should not cook. This was not a party. I should sit on a low stool. I should not talk if I did not feel like it. But I should talk about my father. Still, despite all the coaching I received, I felt awkward. None of my family came, not out of unkindness, but because they didn't know what a shiva was and I felt too uncomfortable to know how to include them. Thankfully, local Jews flooded through my door and gradually I forgot that I did not know what to do and felt comforted, just as the ancient rabbis knew would happen. Afterwards, though, after everyone had left, I felt lost, like I was pretending to be Jewish. The customs did not fit.
During the first year of my father's death, I did not say Kaddish every day. I liked the idea of it, but finding a daily minyan felt impossible. And yet that was not the real stumbling block. I had an embarrassing problem. I felt ashamed that I could barely read the Kaddish in Hebrew. I needed a transliterated version or else I could not keep up with the others. I could say other parts of the service like a pro: the Aleinu, most of the Amidah, and all of the concluding prayers. Kaddish was the one exception. One rabbi told me that this is because it is actually an Aramaic prayer and is difficult for beginners to learn to read. But I think it is because I did not grow up hearing it and so every time I read Kaddish I am reminded of my outsider status, that I am a convert, and that I will always be a convert.
As a result, I went underground with my mourning. I cried occasionally at strange times of day. I told strangers that my dad had died and welled up with tears. Registering my father's yahrzeit with the temple office was the last straw. Who cared about the anniversary of his death? I was going to mourn him every day, the rest of my life. Besides, I did not want to say kaddish in front of everyone.
But today, the start of my third year without him, I wish the rabbi had said his name. Or that I had spoken up. I want to mark his death inside my community precisely because I have not. Maybe this is because when I hear the yahrzeits listed, I am moved to discover this is the anniversary of a friend's mother's death, or of a temple member I once knew. The yahrzeits bring back the dead for everyone, not just the primary mourner. And so by not observing this tradition, I have realized its brilliance. The yahrzeits are not just for us to hear. They are for the community, as well. Even if we did not know the dead, we can empathize with the living, our fellow congregants who have sustained a loss.
My goal for this new year is to march into the temple office and tell our temple secretary that my dad died on July 22, 2006. I will let her find the Hebrew date for the yahrzeit. I will also make sure to have a transliterated version of the Kaddish handy on that day.