The Catholic girl who was too Jewish

‘So, how Jewish are you?”

That’s what he asked, leaning in provocatively while I sipped my gin and tonic. It was our second non-date. He had asked what my background was. I had proudly told him my mix.

I said, “well… I’m like Jew-lite.”

He nodded, pursed his lips and ordered another drink. He was intrigued, which made me all the more put off and embarrassed for having just called myself that.

I have both the blessing and curse of being from an interracial/interfaith household. My mother is Mexican/Catholic, and my father is an Italian Jew. My dad calls us “Jew-lite” or “convenient Jews,” the kind that celebrate major holidays and their status as an excuse to cut off the Jehovah’s Witnesses mid-speech when they come knocking.

When I was a little girl, it occurred to me that not everyone was so lucky to celebrate two facets of religious opinions or cultures. It also occurred to me that while everyone else knew exactly what they “were,” I was torn between which “side” best represented me.

I often wear both my crucifix and Star of David together on a delicate white gold chain my mom gave me. It draws attention and questions like “Are you confused? Because you’re wearing conflicting religious symbols…” or “How can you be both?” I know that religion is passed down through the mother, but I refuse to consider myself a shiksa. I grew up acknowledging both sides equally and I claim them both — to not do so would be disrespectful to my parents and denying a piece of myself.

Neither of my parents is particularly staunchly religious but they did name me in the synagogue — Peninah Shoshana. When I was growing up, the general consensus in our household was that my sister and I would be educated about both religions, and we could either choose which one suited us best or find a mutual blending point.

My sister (aka: Super Jew) from an early age firmly identified herself as Jewish. She has a beautiful traditional name (Sarah), big curly hair, and a prominent nose — she fits every stereotype. She also has excellent Jew-dar, as we call it, and can spot a fellow Tribe-member from a mile away. She has never doubted or waivered in her conviction that she is Jewish. The Catholic side never once fazed her.

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How One Interfaith Marriage Saved the Jewish Community

On February 23rd the Jewish community will come together to celebrate Purim by listening to a reading of the Megillah - the Book of Esther. It’s a joyous affair where children dress up as characters from the story to celebrate the courage and heroic deeds of Queen Esther and her uncle Mordechai, and many adults drink until they can’t tell the difference between Mordechai and Haman (Boo! Hiss!). Some synagogues and Jewish community centers will also stage carnivals, and everyone will have a good time.

But the holiday is about more than carnivals and costumes. It’s also a story about a successful interfaith marriage. The Jewish community was on the brink of annihilation, but when Ahasuerus, the King of Persia, found out his wife was Jewish, he cast his lot with the Jewish people and we were saved from destruction.  

Purim reminds us of the importance of embracing our Jewish heritage, and it also offers an opportunity to reflect on the state of inclusion for the thousands of interfaith families around the world. Many institutions still put up barriers, treating intermarriage like treason. This is counter-productive to Jewish growth – we need to engage these families, not keep them away. It’s time we welcome interfaith families into the Jewish community, where their presence will add to the strength and diversity of the Jewish people.

Jamaica Kincaid Is Still Jewish

The author, publishing a new novel this week, talks about conversion, suffering, and life in Vermont

 “I need socks,” Jamaica Kincaid said, standing in the doorway of her clapboard Vermont home, barefoot and clutching her laptop. She went upstairs to fetch a pair and asked that I wait in her living room, which was cluttered in a cozy way, the walls filled with books and every surface covered with tchotchkes—menorahs and tropical-colored paintings and miniature brass sculptures. It was the kind of room that would make it difficult to leave the house. Beside the couch was a tall table with an array of crudely made ceramic artifacts—a pizza, a duck, and more than a dozen uneven baskets, as if a summer-camp bunk was waiting for their creations to dry.

Kincaid returned, still barefoot, but with a pair of Smart-Wool socks in hand. She wore black stretch pants and a pinto-bean-colored headscarf. “I was up all night long, working on a sentence,” she said. She hadn’t finished it yet.

Kincaid, a novelist and a former writer for The New Yorker, recently finished her first novel in 10 years, See Now Then, out this week. Kincaid bristles at the notion, implicit in the way the book is being marketed, that 10 years is an unusually long time to wait between books. She does not write every day and dislikes the notion of committing to a novel as one does a job. The desk in her office is strewn with papers in a manner suggesting that she doesn't spend very much time there. “If I had a book every year, I would keep it to myself,” she said. She says she still marvels at the fact that she’s a published author. When she moved to New York from Antigua in 1965 to work as an au pair for a family on Madison Avenue, she never expected to be able to publish a book, and certainly not 13 of them. “It’s harder now for an unconnected black woman like I was,” Kincaid said. She famously got her first assignment, for Ingenue magazine, by walking into their office from off the street and pitching an interview with Gloria Steinem. That opened the door to pieces for The New Yorker and The Village Voice and the parties and readings of New York’s literary scene, of which Kincaid was a fixture. It’s a time she remembers fondly, and hasn’t fully abandoned.

See Now Then is about the failing marriage between a writer and a composer living in a small New England village. The writer, Mrs. Sweet, is black and from the Caribbean, and her husband, Mr. Sweet, is white and comes from a princely faction of New York “entitled to doormen, no matter what.” The book’s premise appears to be borrowed from Kincaid’s own life: In 2002, her 20-year marriage to the composer Allen Shawn ended in divorce. Kincaid continues to live in the Bennington home they shared.

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An Extended Love

Originally published on InterfaithFamily By Heather Subba

Cultural and religious differences were not a prominent concern of mine when I married my husband six years ago. As a new bride brimming with love, floating on hope, and overflowing with pride, I thought that we only needed love and that everything else would take care of itself. But the truth is, no matter how much I wish love answered all questions and easily solved all problems, bridging cultural and religious gaps takes strength, courage, communication, effort, dedication, patience, understanding, and empathy.

As a partner in an interfaith and intercultural marriage, I have to continually ask myself if I can open myself up to living in a way that's different from how I am used to living and if I am non-judgmental enough to adapt to change. On the surface, I would like to believe it's easy to change, but adjusting to a communal culture has made me realize that I'm not as flexible in my way of thinking as I had once thought.

The adjustment comes in the form of extended visits. My husband's parents come to California from their native Nepal for long stretches of time. They typically stay with us in our apartment for six months or more. Showing hospitality remains a central priority in Nepali culture. In spite of social and economic means, Nepali families always stay together whether visiting family members or friends. For me, communal living falls to extremes; it is both an amazing blessing and a great personal and cultural challenge.

To navigate the complexities of our differences, we are always trying to find the balance between what works best for each of us.

One challenge relates to food during holidays. When I hosted a recent Hanukkah party with a variety of guests, I struggled between preparing latkes, a lox platter, and noodle kugel or making rice, vegetables, and dal (a bean soup). The truth is that either way would not have suited our family and guests. If I gave up the Jewish foods, I would not have honored my own tradition and I would not have passed on my culture to my young son, but if I neglected my in-laws' preferences, I would have forsaken their needs. Ultimately, I made the latkes, lox platter, and kugel at my husband's urging and my mother-in-law made the Nepali food. Similarly, on Thanksgiving, we did not make the typical American dishes due to taste preferences and we served mainly Nepali food. These seem like trivial episodes, but constantly negotiating how to fulfill everyone's preferences requires adaptability, understanding, and willingness to compromise.

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