“I don’t know if this is too personal…”

I was at a book event for The New Jew in Milwaukee, my hometown. One of my favorite parts of author events is the opportunity to answer questions. Not only does it bring me closer to readers and vise versa, it helps me to understand myself. It’s cheaper than therapy.

“… You mentioned you’re single. I wonder, as you look for your next partner, would you only have a committed relationship with someone who is Jewish?”

She was right  – it was a personal question. But then again, I had written a very personal story and the question was relevant. My book is about an interfaith love affair, and it was an issue I was facing again, but in reverse. I was compelled to offer a truthful response. If only I had one.

“That is such a good question,” I considered the room of inquisitive faces.

The truth was, it was something I had thought a lot about. I embraced Judaism nearly ten years ago because it was very meaningful to me. I’ve always wondered what it might be like to be in love with someone who loved my traditions, who found them meaningful. It would be amazing to continue Jewish studies together. I loved the idea of sitting in shul next to the man I love, knowing he felt at home there. It would be a shared identity.

Yet, not every Jewish person finds meaning in his or her religion. It could be disappointing to be with a Jewish man who felt nothing for his heritage.  After all, not all Jews are created spiritually equal.

I thought back on my own path to Judaism. When I met my husband, I was Catholic. What if he had closed the door to all gentile women? Our love affair – a beautiful part of my life – never would have been. Our children never would have been born.

I also remembered what it was like to be shut out of a world that I was drawn to – the Jewish community. It wasn’t just the traditions that made me feel alien to the religion. I felt it in countless conversations. Even today, it hurts when Jewish friends express their hope and desire that their children marry someone Jewish. Some have told their children that under no uncertain terms should they marry a gentile. Does that mean that they only accepted me in my marriage because I converted? Would I have been any less of a loving, nurturing, spirited soul had I not?

As I started my response, the truth formed itself.

“Life is different for me now. I am not looking to a partner to share a religion with so we can raise our children in one religion. My children are Jewish – I’m Jewish – it’s already settled.” I paused.“Yet I love the idea of falling in love with a Jewish man, sharing a religion we both love. I can only imagine our own love for each other would grow deeper with each shared experience.” The crowd nodded, knowingly.

“But here’s the thing: I can hardly think of anything more hypocritical than to shut someone out based on his religion, after having the exact same thing happen to me.”

I don’t know if I will be in an interfaith relationship or not. But I do know that, no matter what his religion, I will be with someone who shares the same passion and optimism for life. I feel blessed that the tenets of Judaism support my beliefs, and I would bless the religion that gave him the same spirituality. It would be incredible to share my days with someone who shared my zeal for life. And that type of love transcends the borders of faith.

As the event wrapped up, I know I found my truth.

Harrison and Olivia started school two days ago. I remember what it was like to be their ages, in eighth grade and fifth grade respectively. I also remember what it was like to be parented at their ages, and I can’t help but measure my way of mothering against my parents’. Seems they win every time, particularly in the area of raising responsible children.

By fifth grade I was making my lunch, putting away my clean laundry, cleaning an assigned part of the house every Saturday, and self-motivating with homework. In eighth grade, I was doing all that and more – arranging rides to after-school events, managing my own social calendar, time-managing my way through the semester-long homework assignments, and washing my own clothes – separating darks from lights. Oh, and I was always cleaning the kitchen. Since birth, I’m pretty sure. 

Maybe its the Jewish mother in me – a role I always felt naturally suited for – or perhaps its a sign of the times of raising busy kids, but I’m quite sure that my children aren’t nearly as self-sufficient. And with that lack of ability comes a lower self-esteem.  I have to remember that all people deserve to have a solid, positive, self-perception. But that only comes with accomplishments. If one is just told they’re wonderful all the time, well, I just defined narcissism. 

So, raising kids with these tangled roots – hearty Midwesterner and doting Jewishness – has its challenges. I have to be willing to nag like my poor mother had to do her entire life with children in the house. And I have to be willing to be scowled at. I can also bake for them, dote on them when they’re sick, do a fair amount of meddling, and always talk of things spiritual. With any luck, my own kids’ roots will have their own sense of security from knowing they can take care of themselves.

by Sylvia Lichtenger

My youngest son, Wyatt, just had his bar mitzvah this past Saturday. Yes, I converted when I married my husband David. And no, I’m not”religious”.  I converted because I felt a pull towards Judaism, I wanted to contribute something — I had no real idea what I was contributing, but I had such admiration for the culture, such respect for all that Jews have done in terms of scientific advancement, education, philanthropy.

So when I was sitting watching the ceremony, it hit me. I had borne and raised two young Jewish young men, two additions to the world, who hopefully had the Jewish values that I did NOT have growing up. Two human beings that cared about the needy, that cared about Jewish history, that helped the 6 million dead not die in vain. I finally knew why I converted, and I cried tears of thankfulness and relief.

I did not convert merely to recite meaningless Hebrew in temple, I converted to further a wonderful faith/culture/religion – whatever you want to call it. Let’s face it.On a per capita basis, Jews have done more for mankind that any other group, and I have done my part to help that group survive.

But that’s not every convert’s story. Recently a friend told me she studied Judaism for one quick month before she married her Jewish husband, converted, and voila! Now she’s Jewish. Andi Rosenthal, author of the upcoming book, Six Sonnets, became so enraptured by Judaism in her conversion that she continues to explore the path of Rabbinic School. There are countless (and I do mean countless) stories to tell about what it is like to convert, and what it is like to have converted. And they are different from one person to the next.

Tell us yours. What motivated you to convert? What is life like now, as a New Jew? Did you bring your former traditions into your life as a Jew? Have you ever looked back? Do you ever look forward? Tonight, at a book event, I was asked if there were times when I still feel like an outsider to the religion. My answer was an unequivocal Yes. It’s an interesting duality. While, on one hand, I feel like an enthusiastic, somewhat knowledgeable Jew, on the other hand I can feel like I have so much more to learn! 

If you feel like sharing any of your tales – short or long, humorous or poignant, odd or predictable – email me at sally@sallysrokfriedes.com. Anonymity is absolutely fine. Honesty is non-negotiable. You might be surprised at how much you enjoy writing it.

Wikipedia, however, offers a different version. The author of the post suggests the stereotype “generally involves a nagging, overprotective, manipulative, controlling, smothering, and overbearing mother or wife, one who persists in interfering in her children’s lives long after they have become adults.”

As my son Harrison would say, “Harumph!” (he reads a lot of comics).

In Twenty Five Questions for a Jewish Mother, the Jewish Mother  is described in a wide range of ways – from living in hand-wringing angst, to being beautifully child-centered, and to acting neurotic. I have to say, I fit all of those. I’ve felt like a Jewish Mother since the moment I gave birth -and I wasn’t even Jewish then. I know its true because my kids tell me so.

 Like when I sent Harrison and Olivia off to walk to the store by themselves. At ages 12 and 10, one would think it wouldn’t be a matter of concern. However, our house is about half a mile from our only local market, and the journey involves crossing one busy intersection. But I was determined to let them experience the independence I had at their age, so I zipped their jackets, handed them my cell phone, and had them repeat the route to me five times (which, admittedly, involved only one turn). 

“You know where you’re going.”
“Yes, mom”
“You know to call me if you get lost.”
“Yes, mom.”
“Are you warm enough? I could just–”
“Mom. We’re fine!”
“Tell me again where you turn.”

The first leg of their trek was on the path behind our house. Lucky for me, it was partially visible from my balcony. I patted their backs, sent them on their way, and sprinted to my perch.

One minute passed. Two. Three. Half a day went by (or, in Rational Mom time– four minutes). Finally, I dialed my cell phone number.

“Yes, mom?” I heard a smiling sigh on the other end of the line.

“Did you find the path.”

“Yes, mom. Look down. We’re right here.” The phone clicked, and I heard Harrison’s voice call out across the expanse of lawn.

“Mom!”

“YES?” 

“We feel so independent!”

I congratulated myself on my choice to let them take the walk alone. Sure, it was hard for me, but look at the payoff already! My babies were growing up.  And I made it happen!

“That’s great!” I hollered back. “I’m so glad!”

“Yes!  We feel so independent with our Jewish Mother standing outside, watching us walk, and calling to us from the balcony!”

I took it as a compliment.

It is a sentence that had spilled from my lips countless times. That my motivation for converting was for marriage would be a seemingly safe assumption, given that I had married a Jewish man. But my conversion was the result of a nearly decade long spiritual quest. So complex was it, that it finally took a book, The New Jew , to answer the oft-asked question, “Why did you convert?”

If the journey writing about my conversion was rich and enlightening, speaking with readers is absolutely illuminating. It’s not only because it offers me the opportunity to hear other peoples’ stories. It’s because of the new ideas that those conversations spurn. This blog is one of those ideas.

While The New Jew, An Unexpected Conversion is the story of my conversion from Midwest lapsed Catholic to New York Jew, it sort of stops where another story begins. It’s like the romantic film that has a torrid, sometimes frustrating romance that happily culminates in a wedding. As gratifying as those movies are, they rarely tell you the “then what?” story. Does a relationship story really end at marriage? In my experience, that’s where it begins. The same could be said of conversion.

I’m finding that people want to know the “then what?” story. Part of their questions are curiosity-driven, wondering what it is like to be Jewish, particularly after a lifetime of another faith. Many of the inquiries come from a relatedness. As one reader, who is also a convert to Judaism, noted at a recent book signing, “Being a convert is a whole different thing. Are you finding that, too?”

So began The New Jew blog. My hope that this blog is a site to find out how life continues after the initial journey – in honest, humorous and sometimes poignant stories, and where people can leave their ideas and experiences. Most of all, as in any good read, I hope it is a place where people can find themselves in the story.