Who is a Rabbi? (In which I throw in my two cents.)

The New York Times ran an article today titled “Who is a Jew? Court ruling in Britain raises question.”  It tells the story of a 12 year old boy, an observant Jew, whose father is Jewish and his mother converted to Judaism.  However, because she had a “progressive conversion” (as opposed to an Orthodox one), the boy was denied admission to a Jewish high school in London, which did not consider him to be Jewish.

[Note:  Judaism traditionally defines a Jew as someone who was born to a Jewish mother, or has converted under the guidance of a Rabbi, which generally involves a mikveh (or ritual bath) witnessed by three Rabbis, and a ritual circumcision for men.]

The family sued, and lost, but the decision was overturned on appeal.  (The Supreme Court is currently considering the case, and should render a decision by the end of the year.)

The decision of the Court of Appeals was described as follows:

In an explosive decision, the court concluded that basing school admissions on a classic test of Judaism — whether one’s mother is Jewish — was by definition discriminatory. Whether the rationale was “benign or malignant, theological or supremacist,” the court wrote, “makes it no less and no more unlawful.”

The case rested on whether the school’s test of Jewishness was based on religion, which would be legal, or on race or ethnicity, which would not. The court ruled that it was an ethnic test because it concerned the status of M’s mother rather than whether M considered himself Jewish and practiced Judaism.

This article is directly relevant to me, and my family.  My father is Jewish, and my mother is not (although she has some Jewish ancestry).  My husband and I belong to a Reconstructionist synagogue, one that is decidedly, and proudly, progressive.  (Almost 30 years ago, the Reconstructionist and Reform movements in the United States decided to recognize patrilineal descent, if the child was raised in a Jewish home.  This decision has a number of benefits, but also a number of problems.  On the one hand, the number of children being born to interfaith families who identify as Jewish is increasing, presumably because their families are more welcomed in Reform and Recon synagogues.  On the other hand, there is a whole community of young Jews being raised with Jewish identities and presumed Jewish status, but who may not be recognized as Jewish in more conservative communities. )

Back to the current situation – this boy was not claiming Jewish status based on the patrilineal descent ruling.  His mother did convert to Judaism, but she do so in a liberal Jewish community, presumably under the aegis of a Rabbi who was not recognized as such by the Orthodox leaders of the school from which the boy was rejected.  Thus, the question posed by this article is not necessarily one of who is a Jew, rather the question at hand is “Who is a Rabbi?”  Who has the authority to perform conversions, thereby creating Jews?

Generally, the way it works is that Rabbis recognize conversions of their own movements, and those movements that are more conservative than theirs.  Furthermore, most Rabbis don’t accept conversions of Rabbis from more liberal, or progressive denominations.  (Please keep in mind that each Rabbi is different, and if you have specific questions, you should speak with your Rabbi directly.)

Ok, so now we get to my story, and perhaps more importantly, my opinion on the matter.  (You knew I had one, didn’t you?)  About four years ago, I started thinking seriously about converting, primarily because I knew that Josh and I were heading down the path to babyville, and as the mother, I felt like I needed to have my Jewish status figured out before we had any children.  (The thought of having to convert at all left me with a bad taste in my mouth, as I had been an active part of Jewish community, living in a Jewish home, and identifying as a Jew for several years.  More importantly, traditional conversions speak of shedding your old identity and family, and adopting a new one.  I’m proud of my mother’s family, and grateful for all of my cultural and religious backgrounds, not just the Jewish parts.  I had a hard time with the concept of rejecting any part of it, even if only by repeating traditional liturgy.  It just didn’t work for me.)  Nonetheless, I did a lot of studying, a lot of consulting, and even a bit of therapizing.  Initially I had wanted to have a conversion with three of the most conservative male rabbis I could find, even though Josh and I are not Orthodox, and unikely ever to be so.  It’s not that I have a problem with the observance – I have a problem with the values.  I don’t think I could ever be part of a community that wouldn’t offer the women, gay men, and lesbians, in my family every right, obligation, and opportunity as the straight men.  But I wanted an Orthodox conversion, if possible, because it would be more likely to be recognized in more communities.

The more I thought, and studied, and discussed, I realized that I couldn’t relegate such an important decision to the realm of vague worries about the future.  A step this meaningful had to be based in my values, and ultimately it was.  My affirmation ceremony was witnessed by three female Rabbis (including my own Rabbi) who I know and respect, not only for their incredible leadership, scholarship, and commitment to Judaism and the Jewish community, but also for their support of my process and decision.  It was a private affair, with only Josh and the Rabbis there, and it was very meaningful.  Ultimately, I’m pleased with the decision I made.  I know that it may mean that my daughter (and any other children we may have) may face the same challenges as the young man in the NY Times article, but such challenges won’t make her any less Jewish – if anything, I hope they will strengthen her sense of self, her awareness of her values, and her willingness to make difficult decisions for the right reasons.

Ok, time for my opinions.  As you read these, please bear in mind that I am still sorting things out in my mind, and I’m open to friendly feedback and opinions.  I agree with the decision made by the UK Court of Appeals that the school cannot reject the boy’s application; however, I disagree with their reasoning.   Like the Orthodox, I do not think one’s Jewish status should be based on their religious observance or involvement.  I don’t think someone is a bad Jew, less of a Jew, or not worthy of Jewish status if they don’t keep kosher, or do work on Shabbat, for example.  The thing is, I’m actually ok with traditional Jewish law about Jews being born to Jewish mothers or converting.  What I’m not ok with is the way in which those in power (religiously speaking) make decisions about who is a Rabbi worthy of performing conversions, and who isn’t.  From what I can tell, the decision is entirely political, and that’s a big problem.

Smicha, or Rabbinical ordination, should be not be given based on one’s denominational affiliation, personal connections, or level of observance.  It should be based on one’s commitment to Jewish life, Jewish education, and Jewish values.  There should be a willingness to accept Jews of different genders, sexualities, and backgrounds.  There should be a tolerance for the struggle, in the context of commitment.  Judaism isn’t about just one thing, and as much as there are those who may vehemently disagree with me, it definitely isn’t about unwavering commitment to halakha, or Jewish law.  As Rabbi Yitzchak Schochet, chairman of the Rabbinical Council of the United Synagogue was quoted in the NY Times as saying, “having a ham sandwich on the afternoon of Yom Kippur doesn’t make you less Jewish.”

In the meanwhile, I’m going to raise my daughter in a Jewish home, as part of a progressive Jewish community that challenges me to make decisions each day based on my values.  It’s not always easy, and I don’t always get it right, but it’s definitely worth the struggle.

Happy Halloween!

(Click on any picture to see a larger image.)

The Chooch’s First Word

Choochie’s first birthday was two days ago, and I had a plan to write the big “We survived the First Year” post, complete with thoughtful, funny, and decidedly not-boring reflections on the past year and all the ways in which this lovely baby has changed my life.  I was going to tell you about how she has developed a personality, and preferences, interests, and even a few skills (not many, but a few).  But life is busy, and it got really busy this week with class and work and my Mom visiting for the Big Day, and planning for (and pulling off!) various celebratory activities, so the post never happened.

Fortunately, something more interesting did.  The Chooch said her first word.  (We think.)

Just to be clear, she’s been making noises and sounds for quite awhile now.  I think we’ve heard all the vowels and many consonants in a variety of combinations.  She’s even said “Dada” to Josh and “Mama”  to me and looked at her bottle and said “Baba”.  However, these words happen inconsistently, and she’s also Da’ed at the chair or a toy, or Ma’ed at the cat or her shoe, and so we didn’t count the few times that she got it right as words.  According to our rules, saying a word means saying the right word at the right object (and not other objects) on more than one occasion.  Not surprisingly, we thought for sure that her first word would be Dada or Mama.

Wrong.

Her first word was “Eeeee!”  Now, Eeeee! might not seem like a word, but you must consider that it was directed at EeBee.  EeBee was a birthday gift from some dear friends, and Choochie’s affection for this plush doll was quite a shock to Josh and me.  Chooch has expressed little or no interest in any stuffed animals or dolls until the arrival of EeBee.  I must confess that my initial reaction upon opening the package was, “Great.  Another toy that Choochie will completely ignore.  It has no zippers or buttons or snaps or straps, and it’s not even wearing shoes.”  (The Chooch’s interest in shoes is consistent and long-standing.)  The thing is, she loves it.  Really loves it.  She grabs it around the neck, squeezes it, and drags it around.  After Josh and I called it “EeBee” a few times, she began shrieking “Eeeeeee!”  (I think she even got the Beee in there a few times, but I might be wrong.)  If I asked her where EeBee was, she would crawl over to it, put it in a choke hold, and once again, “Eeeee!”

So, there you have it.  Two days after her first birthday, Choochie has her first word.  And EeBee, even though you are an “eccentric looking toy,”* Chooch loves you, so welcome to the family.**

* My mother’s description of EeBee.
** After months of trying to get Chooch attached to a small toy or blanket, it would be just my luck that she would choose a 17″ plush doll as her attachment object.  Great.  Well, it hasn’t happened yet, but I’ll keep you posted.

The Chooch’s 1st Birthday Party

Choochie got to ring in her first birthday a little early with a family dinner tonight… and she raked in the loot, including her beloved Radio Flyer.

Admiring the first snow

A long night

The Chooch woke up last night around midnight, and didn’t really fall back asleep until about 2 am.  This is completely unheard of for her, and as a result, Josh and I were totally unequipped to deal with the situation – which is why it took us two hours of trying various interventions (snuggling, rocking, shushing, changing her diaper, etc.,) before we got her back to sleep.

The night went something like this:  Choochie cries, one of us gets up and snuggles her back to sleep (or at least a relaxed state in which her eyes are closed, she is quiet, and we are led to believe she is asleep), Chooch goes back to the crib, parent sneaks back to bed, is questioned by other parent, status update is shared, and all is quiet.  For about five minutes.  Rinse.  Repeat.  For over an hour.  In the middle of the night.

Finally, around 1:30, I decided to make her a bottle.  This may seem like an obvious step to take, and you may be wondering why I didn’t try it earlier.  No, it’s not that I was worried about creating a little monster who wakes up in the middle of the night wanting to eat.  The reason I didn’t give her a bottle earlier was because I just didn’t think of it.  I’d like to blame my stupidity on the fact that it was the middle of the night and I was half asleep, but the truth is, that’s just how I am at times.  I’m the person who will wander around in a haze of snot and headache and coughing for hours before it ever occurs to me that I should take cold medicine (and even then it’s usually Josh who reminds me.)  Sometimes I just don’t think of things.

Anyhow, back to the kid.  I take her down to the kitchen, start making the bottle, and as I’m bouncing her on my hip while I shake the bottle, she makes the tiniest little burp, stops fussing, and looks up at me through her teary eyes with a smile.  I instantly remembered a story my mom told me about my younger sister as a baby.  Apparently she had been screaming for quite a while, and nothing my mom tried soothed her at all.  My mom finally called the doctor, who agreed that perhaps they should come into the office.  As my mom was strapping her into the car seat, blerp!  My little sister emitted the most pathetic little burp and immediately stopped crying.  As I stood in the kitchen last night, I kicked myself for not thinking of it sooner.  Obviously it was the burp.

I took Chooch and the bottle back up to her room, and she fell asleep in my arms, so I put her back into her crib and tip-toed back to bed.  “It was a burp.  A tiny little burp,” I proudly informed Josh.  I felt triumphant.  For about 90 seconds, until she started screaming again.  “It’s not the burp,” Josh grumbled at me as he stumbled back into her room.

Josh gave her the bottle, which she inhaled, but I could hear her fussing for several minutes.  Finally she was quiet, and Josh came back to the bedroom.  Minutes later she was crying again.

It was my turn again, so I went back and got her.  She was fussing and uncomfortable, and my attempts to snuggle her just seemed to make things worse until she was just flat-out crying, so I decided to try something different.  I turned on the small light on the bookcase and started reading her a book.  By page 2, she had stopped crying and was riveted by the blue blueberries and blue ball and orange fish and orange towel and red shoes and red apple.  We read the book twice.  Then she laid back into my arms, fell asleep, and stayed asleep.

I have no idea what was keeping her up.  Possible suspects include teething, gas, a foreshadow of the cold that came on in full force this afternoon, or some weird developmental thing keeping her up.  I also have no idea what ultimately put her to sleep.  Was it the book?  (I know I find that particular book incredibly boring after only one read – perhaps two readings were enough to get her back to sleep.)  The bottle?  The bottle and the book?  No idea.

Speaking of boring reads, you may wonder why I just wrote an entire blog post about the Chooch being up in the middle of the night.  Well, to be honest there’s not much more going on in my life right now, and besides, that’s what parenting is – trying to solve a problem when everyone involved is exhausted, coping and problem-solving skills are low, and communication skills are essentially non-existent.  You have little or no idea what the hell is going on, so you fumble around, try one thing after another, and eventually, if you’re lucky, you stumble onto something that works, and then you stumble back into bed.

Possible Halloween costume #1: Pink fleece monster

Photographing children (and a shameless plug)

Remember that time I wrote endlessly about photographing babies?  Yeah, forget that.  Instead, check out “How to photograph children and other ways to entertain kids for half an hour” by Tobia Imbier.  (There’s a reason why she’s the professional and I’m not.)  Anyway, Tobia is a good friend of mine, and an amazing photographer.  Her advice is great, and her pictures are lovely.  You should also check out her business website, and if you’re looking for someone to shoot your children (no, not that way, silly) or family event, you should give her a ring.  She’s terrific.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Today is my Mom’s birthday, so I’m going to tell all you loyal readers a little bit about this amazing woman (who probably just read that first sentence and laughed out loud at someone describing her as “amazing”).  Now, there are lots of things I could tell you about her, like how she makes THE BEST PASTA EVER, and does all the voices when she reads stories out loud, and has read Dante’s Inferno in the old Italian (which is actually more freakish than it is cool, but I’ll leave it in nonetheless), and busts out with stories about hiding under a bed during the Six Day War (and yes, she was in Israel at the time) and sweet-talking Mexican banditos (yes, in Mexico), and how she kept chickens in her suburban yard long before it was cool, and how when my sister and I were younger she once let us draw all over her legs with magic markers (washable, of course) and we though it was the best thing ever, and… well… you get the point. She’s awesome.  But that’s not what I want to write about today.

What I really want to write about is how my Mom has been such an important, and wonderful part of my becoming a new mother.  Mommy (yes, I still call her Mommy) is absolutely devoted to her four children and three grandchildren, and the Chooch and I are no exception.  Which leads me to my first tangent.  Awhile ago, one of my commenters asked how Chooch got her nickname.  (I do hope you all realize that “Choochie” is not my daughter’s given name.  Yes? Good.)  Well, the name came from my Mom, who was holding a fussy 3 day old baby, and as she was shushing her to sleep (as only she could do in those early days), she started calling her “Choo Choo Bella”.  The nickname stuck and has become a huge part of the lexicon in our house.  She’s the Chooch, Choochie, Chooch-a-Pooch, Choochie-Pot, Choocharina, Choocharella, and on very special occasions, Choo Choo Bellarina.  (We even have a little song based on the name, and no, we will never sing it for you, so don’t even ask.)  My mom has given just such fabulous nicknames to all of her children and pets, but if I share my sibling’s monikers with you here, they will likely never speak to me again.  And that would make me sad.

Back to the point.  My mother spent just about a month with us when the Chooch was born.  She did all of the stuff one would hope a grandmother would do when her daughter becomes a new mother – she cleaned, she cooked (oh man, did she cook), she ran errands, she held the baby while I showered, she scolded me if I was holding the baby too long and not sharing her, and most importantly, she watched (and enjoyed and discussed) endless episodes of NCIS with me.  Fine fine.  None of that is terribly interesting.  What is most interesting is what she didn’t do.

She didn’t give me any advice.

Close your gaping mouth, clean up your spilled coffee, and read it again, because it’s true.  My mother came over to help after my daughter was born, and I can honestly say I don’t think she gave me any advice.  (Ok, she did say things like, “Don’t worry, you’ll figure it out” and “Well, if you’re really worried, call the doctor”.  You might call that advice.  I don’t.)  Now, it’s not because my mother doesn’t have advice to give.  She has years of experience with babies, and LOTS of opinions*, but somehow (and I have no idea how, as I have not yet mastered this skill, although I am trying) she managed not to share any of them with me, unless I asked.  If I asked, she offered her thoughts.  If I didn’t, she went off to find another Diet Coke.  Seems reasonable to me.

The advice my mother didn’t give me really set the stage for my experience of myself as a mother – it gave me the confidence I needed as I fumbled around in a haze of new mom fatigue.  The underlying message my Mom was sending me every time she kept her mouth shut was “I trust you. You can do this.”  More than anything else, that’s what I needed.  Even now, almost a year later, I know that even if I don’t know the answer to a particular parenting question (When do I start weaning the baby off her beloved bottle? When do we switch her from family day care to a proper pre-school?  What kind of warm winter coat is best?  How do I get the kid to keep mittens on?), I will figure it out, and we will both survive just fine.  It’s an amazing gift, and one that I will be grateful for for the rest of my life.

So, thanks, Mommy.  Happy Birthday, and I love you.  The Chooch and I can’t wait to see you next week!

* My Mom has given me approximately three pieces of unsolicited advice in my life.  I think they’re all fairly reasonable.
1) Don’t layer your hair.  (Keep in mind this gem came out in the 80’s, the high point of terrible layered haircuts, and long before Jennifer Aniston’s long luscious layers.)
2) Never eat in restaurants that don’t have any windows.
3) You can judge a town by the quality of its bookstores.

Follow up to my previous post

The New York Times ran a second article today about the immensely painful challenges associated with fertility treatments titled “Grievous Choice on Risky Path to Parenthood“.  I have no commentary on this one, other than to say my heart goes out to the families profiled in this article, and to all families facing this unbelievable choice.