A tranquil, full pink moon rises tonight, ushering in the second night of Passover and the Eve of Easter. As a child who was brought up in the Roman Catholic faith, I never missed church during Holy Week. Especially the Easter Vigil, which takes place on the eve of Easter Sunday. Each year I attended this mass, though not without trepidation. The pews were all aglow with the devout parishioners standing elbow-to-elbow clutching illuminated white tapers, and while this sight was nothing short of magical, I always had the gnawing feeling that this would be the year that my shoulder-length hair would go up in flames. One strategy was to distract myself by singing liturgical music with the congregation, belting out “Hosanna in the Highest”, which was always among my top 5 holy hits.
If I had a crystal ball back then, and I could have foreseen my morning of de-Christianization at the Upper West Side Mikveh, I may not have gone through the trouble of attending such an anxiety-inducing event year after year. Still, I enjoyed church, especially during the holidays since they were almost always joyous occasions, except for Good Friday, which was the day that Jesus died after having been crucified a few days prior. But since this led to his resurrection, the atmosphere during mass was more hopeful than solemn. Jewish holidays, on the other hand, are usually somber, except for Purim when one should be as inebriated as is safely possible and make a-whole-lot-of noise to drown out the name of Hamman the wicked king who naturally, persecuted the Jews.
Judaism had always intrigued me. Both my best friend and my first real boyfriend were Jewish, and I had an interest in learning more about it for as far back as I could remember. I felt there was something so mystical and intentional about it. Being a Jew isn’t particularly fun, and yet the “chosen ones” continued to choose it.
Having taken the term too literally, I had misconstrued the meaning of this label until I was offered an interpretation during one of my conversion classes. To be chosen was not characterized by an elitist belief, but by the understanding that one is chosen to suffer. Who would choose to suffer? Each year, roughly 3,000 believers volunteer to be chosen and are welcomed into the tribe. I was one of them.
About three years into our relationship and a few days after he put a ring on it, my fiancé explained that while he could marry me, he would never consider procreating with a shiksa (gentile). He had three children with his original Jewish wife, and it would be a shanda (disgrace) to discount the belief system by which he raised his children, and to now live as a family in Christ. After a few failed attempts with the “but Jesus was a Jew” argument, I got his point and it made sense. Since I had lost my parents early in life, I felt that most of my family wouldn’t mind that I was losing my religion. And so, for the next couple of years, I spent my evenings studying Torah, learning biblical Hebrew, and preparing Shabbat dinners. Since my name, Maria was too New Testament, my rabbi gave me the name Miriam, which was basically its Jewish equivalent. My Hebrew teacher decided she would call me Meira since “Miriam was an old woman’s name”. I was fine with either, since both names held beautiful meaning. Miriam means beloved, while Meira is “one who illuminates.”
I looked forward to my evenings at Jewish Studies class, and I had found the stories to be engrossing. Although there was no mention of the birth of a miracle child in a barn, or Jesus: Version 2.0, three days post-crucifixion, there were non-traditional marriage arrangements like the time when Sarah granted permission to her husband Abraham to shack up with her maid Hagar, to produce an heir, and a sweet love story like when Isaac brought Rebekah into his deceased mother’s tent and “took Rebekah, and she became his wife.” I sailed through the course and before long, it was time to take a dip into the Jewish Jacuzzi on West 74th Street. I grabbed my rabbi, my best friend, and my nail-polish remover because nothing should come between your body and the water. Once the mikvah lady, Mrs. Landau, and her sheitel appeared, I knew there was no turning back and I would be leaving Jesus at the door.
After twelve tries at completely submerging my body, (I have a fear of water) the ritual was complete, and we were off to H&H to celebrate over a bagel and lox. The event was anti-climactic overall. I still felt like me, only with more chutzpah (audacity).
A few days later, as I stood before three witnesses, my conversion became official, and I was now marriage-ready and mother-material.
A year and a half after the wedding, my son was born. To cut or not to cut was never the question and eight days after his birth, we waved bye-bye to Aaron’s foreskin and buried it underneath the Japanese Split-Leaf Maple. There I was, a brand-new mother with no idea of how to care for a wounded schmeckle. Thankfully, membership into the Jewish Mom’s Club included a baby nurse and before long, Baby Aaron’s little penis was good as new.
Today, I am a divorced Jewish woman and my son, now a teen, takes his penis into his own hands. His father and I alternate holidays with our son and this year, I was passed over.
So tonight, it’s just me, matzoh-less and free, looking forward to some peace, and my sushi delivery.
—
This post was previously published on MEDIUM.COM.
***
You Might Also Like These From The Good Men Project
Join The Good Men Project as a Premium Member today.
All Premium Members get to view The Good Men Project with NO ADS.
A $50 annual membership gives you an all access pass. You can be a part of every call, group, class and community.
A $25 annual membership gives you access to one class, one Social Interest group and our online communities.
A $12 annual membership gives you access to our Friday calls with the publisher, our online community.
Register New Account
Need more info? A complete list of benefits is here.
—
Photo credit: Shutterstock
