Jewish High Holidays

I was overwhelmed when I received the call from one of the members of the shul to bestow the honor upon me of opening and closing the Torah ark on Day 1 of Rosh Hosanna 2010. Though I am a card carrying atheist, my cup runneth over. It was a complete shock to me and I was elated to know that the caller had my work cellular number since the iPhone 4 has been a debacle of great depths. (Insider story for those who know that fiasco of epic proportions.)

I called my biological mother shortly after to share my good news. (The Jewish mother will see me there in my adorable Calvin Klein number that I picked up on mega sale in NYC recently. Yes, the outfit information is important, dear reader.) Judaism is an odd topic in my biological family. A topic I have never really shared with anyone, not even my best friend. Until today, as I open my ark to share something deeply personally about AG.

I have never told my story in great detail because of the shame and fear that Judaism carries in my family. We wear our Stars of David with great shame and agony. And to that end, I have had a small gold Star for more than 20 years and only began wearing it two years ago. For you see, there was a lot of anti-Semitism experienced by my Italian grandparents when they came to America from both Jews who told them they did not belong and Christians who told them to go away. I still endure the subtle comments today that remind me I am a sorta, maybe. Comments like, "Italian Jews? There is such a thing?"

As such, we grandchildren were taught to never speak of being Jewish outside of the home. Some of the grandchildren were never told the truth by their parents and they hide out in various churches or arcades (The other atheists rocked the arcade on Sundays.) I have been warned to not go there by my parents. A request I respect, but one that hurts me deeply when my cousin's husband makes insensitive comments like, "Honey, I don't think I ever met a Jewish person before AG." My heart sinks deeply and the pain fills quickly whenever he says that and believe me, it's more frequent than I wish to remind myself.

My immediate family took countless steps to deny our Judaism from having the twins and me baptized as Christians to having Passover dinner in the basement of my grandparents home but never with any Haggadah present in the event we were interrupted by my grandparent's friends or business colleagues to sending us to boarding school where we could become good little WASPy children who go to medical school or law school to become leaders of tomorrow. I wore countless Brooks Brothers outfits and possess myriad forms of plaid. Yet, I never owned a kippah until I received one at a bat mitzvah in 2006. A good little WASP in the culture war for Christian Upper Crust America, was I.

Enduring this fragmented cultural and religious experience was a nightmare for me as I came of age. I remember wanting to go to the Hillel at Amherst, but too afraid. Petrified I'd disappoint my mother and scared my Bubie would never speak to me again because I caused problems for my mother and father. You see, my family was a political family, as was my mother's and you don't rock the boat during election years. There were so many election years that I all I learned was to rebel against politics like my uncle had done in the generation before me and refute the rules of proper English and no elbows on the table at dinner. If I never see a campaign poster in my home again -- it could not be soon enough.

Several years ago, I made the official decision that I was going to come out as Jew to everyone. Even though I had only the faintest clue of what being Jewish meant, I was ready to declare what I was born and who I really was. I took my place at the mikvah to reclaim who I was born. Malka. A Jew first. An American second. I even went so far to make the decision to address the baptism issue privately with a rabbi and more publicly, with the Jewish community.

Still though, I never felt Jewish the way I thought I would after such a profound ritualistic experience. I have a mezzuzah on my doorpost, I keep kosher style (No pork, no mixing of meat and dairy on ceramic plates) in my home, I do the all night women's study of Shauvout, and will be in Israel later this year -- but still I felt like the angry and resentful young girl with her face pressed to the glass of the Volvo wagon windows as we rolled along to Christmas services year after year. I felt as lost as I did then, but with a different ache in my heart.

But that all changed.

Something changed when Selina called to inform me of this great news.

I have not only accepted myself in the community, but the community has accepted me.

I am honored to be called to the Bimah this year for this special recognition. I will stand there amongst my community as I carryout the duty that has been given to me. The only regrets or confusion I will carry forward with me is the sadness of knowing Bubie Claire could not see this day. She would have been so silently proud and pulled me aside several days later on my birthday to whisper in my ear what she often did: "You will be the Jewish girl someday that your Bubie was never brave enough to be. Someday when we are safe and your parents can be at peace with this. Now go, study and make your parents proud and move out of their house before you're 30." more...