Critics have denounced Downton Abbey as gaudy, a-historical, and a bit too apologetic about the fusty elitism of Britain’s upper crust. But to fans of the period drama—and I count myself among them—Downton has been four solid years of soapy goodness, topped off with surprisingly incisive writing and some seriously fabulous hats. Those of us who have remained loyal to the Grantham clan are in for a special treat this season: the show’s first Jewish character is about to make an appearance at Downton’s stately halls.

This past Sunday night we were introduced to The Honourable Ephraim Atticus Aldridge (played by the very gentile and very hunky Matt Barber), who strikes up a romance with Lady Rose as she is fetching cake to serve to exiled Russian aristocrats. We learn that Aldridge’s great-grandparents settled in England after fleeing the Odessa pogrom of 1859, and went on to amass a considerable fortune in their new home. Upon learning the year of the Aldridge family’s arrival in England, one of the aristocrats is livid. “He’s not Russian!” he shouts, storming off down the dank church basement, presumably to dust off his copy of The Protocols of the Elders of Zion.

Downton has skirted around the issue of anti-Semitism in previous seasons, but the prejudice comes out in full force once an overtly Jewish family starts showing up at the Granthams’ dinner parties. I don’t want to spoil any more details, so I’ll just say that plenty of stiff upper lips curl at the prospect of an inter-faith union between Atticus and Rose. And of course, in true Downton fashion, the couple’s love affair is rife with melodrama, gooey sentimentality, and epic one-liners courtesy of Maggie Smith’s Dowager Countess.

(Image: Lady Rose MacClare meets Atticus Aldridge on Season 5, Episode 5 of ‘Downton Abbey.’ Courtesy of ITV.)

The post ‘Downton Abbey’ Gets a Jew appeared first on Jewcy.

As I traveled from Brooklyn to downtown Philadelphia earlier this month, I didn’t quite know what I was getting myself into. Here I was, an Orthodox girl from a staunchly Chabad family, on my way to the Muslim-Jewish Women’s Leadership Conference, the inaugural event of a growing organization, the Sisterhood of Salaam Shalom (SOSS). It would be the first conference of its kind in the Unites States specifically for women, and also my very first involvement with an interfaith program.

Growing up in a strictly observant community in Australia, interfaith work was mostly shunned and viewed as somewhat dangerous, but also pointless. My home was essentially anti-Zionist in ideology, yet vigorously supportive of Israel in practice. I attended a decidedly Zionist, right-wing school. This all left me a little confused as to my own political proclivities—and living and studying in Israel as an adult only served to further confuse me. Right-wing, with a touch of disillusionment? Left-wing, with a lot more heart and less apologetics?

But while my love for Israel has always been boundless, it hasn’t much been challenged. I tend to steer clear of political debates, and I’m usually surrounded by people who follow the pro-Israel, all-Israel line.

One thing my school did leave me with was a thorough knowledge of the history of the state of Israel and the Israeli-Palestinian conflict (at least from an Israeli perspective), and, along with it, a hearty dose of skepticism about the possibility of a lasting peace in the region.

So when Sheryl Olitsky, the Executive Director of SOSS, called me a few months ago inviting me to the inaugural conference, I didn’t know what to say. On the one hand I was excited about this new opportunity. Then, as I imagined my family’s collective gasp and the closing rolodexes of every shadchan (matchmaker) in Chabad, I thought no, there’s no way I can attend. I hemmed and hawed until I got the green light from a Chabad rabbi who told me that although the Lubavitcher Rebbe had warned against getting into interfaith debates on theology or religion, he was supportive of endeavors that focused on building civil and economic goodwill across communities.

So, on the bitterly cold Sunday of November 2, with the rabbi’s blessing ringing in my ears, I traveled to Temple University where the conference was being held. As scores of spandex-clad runners braved the wind to get to Staten Island for the starting line of the New York Marathon, I headed further uptown to catch the train to downtown Philly.

As I sat on the train, I pondered my reasons for participating. Was I anxious? Not really. Hopeful? Nope. Curious? Absolutely. My curiosity is what finally swayed me, along with the excitement of participating in an event run solely by and for women.

Four hours and a Subway, Amtrak, bus and cab later, I arrived at Temple University. (The conference was organized in conjunction with the Foundation for Ethnic Understanding and the Dialogue Institute of Temple University.) When I entered the hall, the attendees—about 100 women in total, wearing hijabs, abayas, pants, and skirts—were already forming groups around tables, getting acquainted. I sat between a Sufi convert in her 60s, garbed in an intricately detailed pale green abaya and headscarf, and a more secular, bubbly, young Muslim woman on my left.

It was confronting to realize that though I’ve interacted with Muslims many times—on the light-rail in Jerusalem, in the halls of Hebrew University, haggling over produce in the shuk (market)—I’d never had a proper, in-depth conversation with anyone of the faith.

Yet, here we were, chatting like old friends, complaining about the blustering wind outside, and the commute from who-knows-where America.

Sheryl Olitzky founded the SOSS in 2011 after a trip to Poland in the early 2000s, where she was horrified to witness high levels of outspoken hatred directed at all other ethnic groups. “The hate was incredible and targeted towards anyone considered ‘non-Pole’,” she explained. “It spread to anyone gay, lesbian, Jewish, black, Muslim, Asian—anyone considered ‘other’.”

She returned to the United States, convinced that she had to do something to dispel the hate. She decided to begin close to home and turned to her local community which had fairly large Muslim and Jewish communities. While there were no overt negative feelings between the two groups, she says, there was little interaction at all.

Olitzky contacted a local Imam who put her in touch with Atiya Aftab, an adjunct professor at Rutgers University’s Department of Political Science, who now sits on the Sisterhood’s board. Together, they recruited a group of about 12 women—half Muslim, half Jewish—to get together for monthly discussions. Thus began the pilot program for what has now grown into a network of ten chapters across the East Coast and Midwest.

Linda Tondow was part of the pioneering chapter and now sits on the Sisterhood’s Advisory Board. She says that she always had an interest in interfaith work and it seemed to align with her professional work as the president of her local conservative synagogue, Congregation Anshe Emeth of Highland Park, NJ.

Tondow says the women would bond over common issues such as parenting and the practice of religion in their communities. They shared their concerns over sending their children to religious school, and the accompanying rules regarding attire and modesty. “The issues were really the same, even if the venues may have been different,” she said. She hosted the group for Sukkot, and joined the Muslim members for Ramadan celebrations.

The SOSS doesn’t recommend tackling political discussions until the groups have been meeting for a long time and are comfortable with one another. Once solid friendships have been formed, they then provide workshops to facilitate conversations around hot-button issues such as the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

But for most of the members, the goal is not to win a political debate. “I personally never went in wanting to change people’s minds on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict,” said Tondow. “I went in wanting to know what some of our similarities are… and to create bonds and relationships which are really critical for understanding.”

And if anyone has the skills to build these kinds of relationships, Olitzky believes it’s women: “Women are much more effective at forming relationships [than men], just based on how their brains are wired.” She and Aftab based the chapter model on Gordon W. Allport’s Intergroup Contact Theory, which argues that by forming close relationships with people from a different group, your views on the group as a whole can be changed.

With virtually no promotion or marketing other than word-of-mouth, these groups have proved increasingly popular. This year the Sisterhood is expanding to Minneapolis and Kansas City, and women in many more cities have expressed interest in forming local chapters of their own.

The organization wants to bring the skills acquired by members in local chapters to a larger audience around the country, and the conference at Temple University marked their first foray into a larger initiative. Panels were hosted by renowned scholars and activists such as Blu Greenberg, co-founder of the Jewish Orthodox Feminist Alliance; Daisy Khan, the executive director of the American Society for Muslim Advancement; and Rabia Chaudry of Serial podcast fame—who is also the president of the Safe Nation Collaborative.

The workshops and panels delved into more theoretical discussions on how to strengthen ties of communication and cooperation between the two faith groups, but also touched on practical tips such as how to use social media for peace.

While many attendees expressed great satisfaction with the event, calling it “invigorating” and “beyond fabulous,” some thought there was a concerted effort to steer clear of the more contentious topics.

Jessica Deutsch, a 23-year-old recent college graduate from New York, attended the conference hoping the conversation would delve a little deeper.

“Everyone acknowledges that with interfaith dialogue there are elephants [in the room] that need to be addressed,” she said. “I didn’t feel like these were really spoken of at all. The focus seemed to be more about learning about the other and through that creating a hopeful future, which is beautiful, but I thought we would confront the more uncomfortable topics as well.”

But as with their chapters, SOSS doesn’t encourage this sort of heated discussion on a larger scale until a strong bond has been formed. “Once you have built the trust and respect, then you can have those discussions, and they are very productive,” said Olitzky.

Internally, I breathed a sigh of relief. I wasn’t interested in getting into political debates. I’m more than happy to leave that to the experts in D.C. And while I really enjoyed meeting the other participants and learning about their lives, that came more from a curiosity about human nature than a determined belief that by doing so we’ll solve any big issues. Will I attend the conference next year, go on the peace mission trip in 2015, or get involved in the chapters that are soon to open up in New York? I still haven’t decided. One thing I do firmly believe is that there should be a stronger representation of Orthodox Jewish women in these kinds of initiatives. I was given one of only four kosher meals at the retreat, and I think it’s safe to say I was the only ultra-Orthodox Jew in the room. There seemed to be more religious diversity among the Muslim participants.

As I left the hall with a friend, we bumped into a young woman wearing a long black abaya and hijab. Israa* looked to be in her late teens or early twenties. We got to talking and she told us she was a refugee from Iraq who was seeking asylum in the United States with the help of some of the women at the event. She had come to America to study, but now her life was in danger should she return home. Her crime? Sharing pictures of her time in the U.S. online.

Traveling back to New York, I found myself reflecting on that young woman’s perilous journey. We may not have solved the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, but perhaps there other, more tangible progress was being made. The women I met—Olitsky and Aftab, and all the panelists and participants—are working in their own way to promote goodwill and positivity in a political climate that can often feel clouded and despairing. When I reflect back on the event, I don’t think first of what was discussed at the workshops, but rather the people I met and the warm, friendly, hopeful atmosphere that pervaded.

*Last name redacted.

Australian native Miriam Groner is a blogger and writer living in New York. Follow her on Twitter at @Mim_G.

The post What’s a Nice Chabad Girl Doing at a Jewish-Muslim Interfaith Conference? appeared first on Jewcy.

I was 17, I had overslept, and I was late for my boyfriend’s brother’s christening. The service was just beginning as I slipped into the church and quickly sank into an aisle seat toward the back.

I looked around—this was my first Catholic service, and I was curious as to what I would see. People stood up; I stood up. People sang hymns; I read along in the hymnal. People knelt; I stayed seated, hoping I wasn’t offending anyone.

Everyone stood up again and, row by row, filed into the aisle leading toward the front of the crowded church. I hadn’t quite heard—or understood—the priest, and for whatever reason, I failed to ask anyone around me what was going on. Uneducated as I was about Catholicism, I actually thought, “This must be the part in the service where everyone goes up to look at the baby.” When it was my row’s turn, I led the way into the aisle.

I was almost at the front when the truth revealed itself to me: everyone was presenting themselves to the priest to receive Communion.

The Holy Eucharist is one of seven Roman Catholic sacraments, or sacred ceremonies.  Catholics believe in the doctrine of “transubstantiation,” which states that when the priest blesses or consecrates the Communion, that bread and wine mystically and miraculously become the body and blood of Jesus Christ. I didn’t know that at the time, but I had seen enough movies to know that this was a very holy ritual. I had also learned in history class and Hebrew school that Catholic Communion was a symbolically weighty thing for Jews—many have died over the centuries for refusing to take it.

Now, no one was forcing me to take it, not even a little. But by the time all these thoughts  had swirled together in my mind, I was face-to-face with the priest’s kind smile, his hand extending a wafer to my inexplicably open palm. I glanced back at my boyfriend, his parents, and his six younger siblings, and my memory is that their shocked faces matched my blanched one. Still holding the wafer, I took a step away, thinking, “I can’t eat this.” But then, panicked, I realized I couldn’t keep it or throw it away either. I took a breath.  I put the wafer in my mouth. It was smooth, flavorless. It dissolved instantly.

When I told my parents the story later that day, my mother urged me not to worry about it. I had erred on the side of politeness, she said—a better course of action than making a scene (i.e. trying to return the wafer, saying “No, thank you” to the priest, etc).

But my father, who rarely lost his cool about anything, went berserk. The fact that it was an honest mistake didn’t change the shamefulness of it in his eyes. I was a Jew, and I had taken Catholic Communion. With that one action, I had violated the most fundamental principles of Judaism, and validated a set of beliefs that are absolutely outside the boundaries of Jewish thought. Just as upsetting to him—if not even a little more—was that I had insulted Catholic belief and practice around one of the religion’s most sacred rituals.

In the wake of that dramatic conversation, I felt the responsibility of being a Jewish adult in a new way. I now understood that I’d need to be more upfront about what I was and wasn’t willing to do in religious contexts. Being polite and respectful was still a high value for me, but not mutually exclusive with the fact that I might need to say no to some things, or make special arrangements at certain events to find a way to be part of someone else’s celebration without betraying my own faith.

*

That was 23 years ago, and since then I’ve attended Harvard Divinity School, became a professional religion writer, and developed a solid hold on how to be true to myself as a Jew when attending the religious observances of another faith. But it hasn’t always been easy to find ways to assert my comfort level in the context of another faith when I’m being directly asked to participate.

After all, most religious participation situations involve the joyful life events—specifically weddings and baptisms—of people I care deeply about, and who have honored me by asking me to be part of their celebrations as wedding attendants or godparents. Saying, “Wait, I can’t do ______ because Jews don’t, plus I want to be respectful to your faith,” can come off as disingenuous, or at least annoying, when a friend just has you down for ‘Bible reading’ at their church wedding.

My very first time as a bridesmaid, the presiding Lutheran pastor required that attendants bow before standing beside the bride and groom at the altar. This was many years ago, and the Communion mistake was fresh in my mind when I told my friend I wasn’t comfortable participating in that part of the service. My objection prompted a one-on-one meeting with the pastor, during which I offered to withdraw from the wedding party if necessary because I wasn’t going to be able to bow at the altar. Happily, the situation was resolved smoothly, and I was allowed to pause respectfully instead of bowing before taking my place beside the bride.

Positive outcome—and a friendship that’s now entering its third decade—notwithstanding, that dialogue was strained, and I still feel bad I brought stress, or at least one more thing to deal with, into the wedding planning. But I don’t feel bad for declining to take part in that ritual. I could have just done it and told myself it didn’t mean anything, but I had learned that religious behavior is inherently meaningful. For me, in the shadow of my Communion moment, the decision to take a religious action would either matter all of the time or it never would matter at all. I felt pulled toward the former.

A few years after that wedding, the same pastor baptized my friend’s son, with my husband and me as his godparents. We had reviewed the text of the ceremony beforehand (and consulted our rabbi), and felt like it was something we could feel comfortable and proud doing. Almost 13 years in, our relationship with our godson has become both broad and deep, and entirely devoid of interfaith discomfort. If anything, our different perspectives have enriched our conversations about things like family, friendship, and honesty.

Some other simchas I’ve participated in have required similar negotiations, but people celebrating joyous life events almost always have an open attitude toward, for example, assigning me the “Old Testament” reading at a Catholic wedding; or, as when my husband was the best man at an Episcopal wedding, inviting him to stay standing when the other members of the wedding party knelt to receive Communion.

*

Sometimes, though, there’s no time for advanced conversation about the religious content of a service. Sometimes you’re 17 years old, propelled forward by the Catholics queued up behind you. Sometimes you have to make a decision in real time. And sometimes you make the wrong choice.

But I’m actually grateful for the Communion incident, because it taught me to take religious rituals—both my own and others’—seriously.  It motivated me to learn to articulate my understanding of what Judaism asks of me, and to really listen to what others’ faiths ask of them. And most meaningfully of all, it put me on a path toward being truly able to celebrate life’s blessings—in good faith.

Holly Lebowitz Rossi is a freelance writer based in Arlington, Massachusetts.

(Image: Shutterstock)

The post Once, I Accidentally Took Catholic Communion. Is that Bad? appeared first on Jewcy.

Sitting opposite my Jewish Agency shaliach—my personal aliyah liaison—in his cramped but cozy New York City office last spring, I seemed to be doing pretty well. Sure, I was missing a couple of documents, and I had no employment plan for when my yearlong internship at a Middle East think-tank in Tel Aviv was set to end (“probably grad school, I guess”), but I already spoke pretty good Hebrew, which is a start.

Finding a place to live would be easy, he assured me, and I had friends and family there for support along the way. He went puppy-eyed when I mentioned that my boyfriend already lives in Israel (“Now I get it!  You’re moving for love!”), and smiled sympathetically while I tried to explain that I’m an independent woman and I’m moving for me. The documents I had carefully tucked into a manila envelope the night before were now spread haphazard over his desk, their margins filled with tiny Hebrew scribbles. He dislodged one loose piece of paper and carefully examined both sides, eyebrows raised.

My heart sank. It was my financial affidavit. If you want to apply for financial aid for aliyah, you need to present the Jewish Agency with a picture of what you’re working with—or without. I was in the final throes of my senior year, weighed down by student debt, I had no assets, and I’d just burned through half my checking account on a semester abroad and unpaid internships. My financial situation was less than robust. “You need money,” he said, looking me in the eyes. “There are people who can help you with that. They’ve been known to give big grants. Up to $1000. It looks like you’d qualify.” He began furiously typing on his computer, turned towards me again, and without even a dramatic pause, dropped the bomb: “They’re an Evangelical group.”

I have always looked at Evangelical Christian Zionists the way I hope pro-Palestinian activists look at the Neturei Karta; I appreciate that they’re there for us, but their ulterior motive is just too distasteful to overlook. Sure, they’re very enthusiastic about Israel’s right to self-defense and her frequent games of foreign policy hardball, certainly more than I am. But the fact that they’re only really into it because they believe that Jews need to return to Israel in order to bring about the End Times, in which all Jews will either be killed or converted, leaves me a little hesitant. I remembered a scene from a few months earlier, sitting in my kitchen chair as my mom told our very opinionated Italian hairdresser that I was moving to the Holy Land. Brandishing a steaming flatiron, she declaimed that the Jews were the true chosen people, and that they would always be defended by God Himself, and they shall not be harmed as they battle the nonbelievers, so says the prophecy. My mother, hair half-straightened, could only tersely nod.

The website of Operation Exodus makes no pretenses. It clearly states that the group was founded after God Himself spoke to its founder, Gustav Scheller, urging him to return the Jews to the land of Israel.  This is good for the church, too, it argues, because it fulfills the prophecy of the New Testament. I was glad to see that they don’t downplay the Christian connection–this is no Jews for Jesus “synagogue” front. The message is couched in Christian language; part tract, part time-share brochure. And for the supporters themselves, it offers myriad ways to get involved. There are opportunities for volunteer work, monetary donations (naturally), education, and the chance to join the most important force of all: the prayer network.

From my time browsing the site, I learned two things. The first is that this group is not kidding around. They are 100 percent dedicated to the cause of plucking me from my house in suburban New Jersey and bringing me “home” (or to “the Land,” as Israel is continuously referred to, a Hebrewism I found at once unsettling and endearing).  The second is that this group has no intention to convert or secretly baptize me, at least until I touch ground at Ben Gurion airport. They need me, and they need me Jewish.

“Don’t do it,” my mother said. “Who knows what you’re going to do in the future?  You might work for the State Department”–a fantasy of hers, where I work in Washington instead of Tel Aviv–“or as an international journalist. They’re going to dig up all the dirt they can find on you, especially who you took money from.”

But I have no plans to work in Washington, no aspirations to be a solemn journalist, and no funds with which to pay back my student loans. I started the application process. “I’m working a system that was built to exploit me,” I told her. “They’re paying me because they want me to die so that Jesus can come back. But he won’t. I’m going to get an apartment with my boyfriend instead. And if Jesus does come back, well, I think it’ll take a lot more than that to bring down Tel Aviv rent.” She wasn’t convinced. I retroactively justified my application with a caveat: if I take the money, I need to write about it, to publish the fact that I did it, with my name on it.  I need it to be out in the open.

I put my heart and soul into that application.  I cited my hopes and fears, my reasons and rationales, and my glaring need.  The woman I was working with asked me to call her when I received my flight confirmation, and when I did, I nervously dialed the number. I expected a Stepford wife, an uptight Church Lady, a Jesus Camp mom who kept invoking “the Land,” but she wasn’t. She was sincere and sweet and bright, reminiscent of my Minnesotan freshman roommate. She read in my file that my family was from Syria, and asked with panic if they were safe. (I assured her that, mercifully, we had all emigrated.) She told me that my money was on its way, and that my first name had been given to a number of people who devoted their time to prayer. “Especially in the absorption period, those first six to twelve months, it’s so hard for olim, new immigrants. So just know that you’re in people’s thoughts, people who want you to succeed.”

I couldn’t thank her enough. I even got choked up. In the year since I’d started my immigration process until that day, I had only told the people I was close to—or religious Jews—exactly where I was going after graduation, and that it was going to be a permanent move. In the past, stories beginning with “when I was in Israel,” were met at my small liberal arts college with the sorts of glares you’d shoot at someone who casually mentioned brunching with Bin Laden. And yet, there are people hundreds of miles away who are thinking positively of me in Israel when they pray.

My check came with a logo-ed tote bag and a letter of support from the representative I had been emailing with, including a quote from Jeremiah and addresses and phone numbers of offices in Israel if I needed further support. “All the best, Linda!” read a handwritten note scrawled in the margin. Also included was a small postcard, part of their “words of encouragement” campaign. A woman named Wendy affixed two stickers in opposite corners; one of cherry blossoms, another of the American and Israeli flags blurring together, an image that usually makes my inner leftist cringe. Wendy thanked me for giving her the opportunity to help “one of G-d’s chosen to return home,” the Jewish strikeout of the “o” all her own, a sentiment that would have made me wince were it not for the earnestness in each looping, handwritten letter. She also included a blessing, and a reminder that I’m in her prayers. I found it charming. She put her time and energy into this note, and to be honest, in a time of war and uncertainty, in a time when support for my move was scarce, her words were needed.

There has been a perceptible shift in the way I say “the Evangelicals” now.  I’m not quite prepared to embrace the movement as a whole—I’m still not cool with the fact that they’re limiting my rights as a woman in America, for instance—but my political disapproval has been tempered by the generosity of this particular group. Sure, they might only want to help me because they foresee a future where I’m a casualty in a prophetic war, but they also sincerely want me to thrive here and now. If they can help me make ends meet as a broke 21-year-old starting a new life in a foreign country, I can forgive their apocalyptic visions. They’re doing their Christian duty facilitating my return to “the Land,” I’m allowing them fulfill it by accepting their help: it’s a mutually beneficial gesture, in its own way. An interfaith mitzvah.

Linda Dayan is a writer and Middle East researcher living in Tel Aviv, Israel. You can follow her on Twitter at @tiredestmeerkat.

(Image: Peter Gudella / Shutterstock.com)

The post Making Aliyah—With a Little Help From Some Evangelical Christians appeared first on Jewcy.

The first time my partner asked me to come home with him to meet the parents, I couldn’t have been happier. A relationship milestone so soon after we’d started dating held such promise. Plus, I had it on good authority that his previous girlfriend, whom he’d dated on and on-and-off for nearly two years, had never had the pleasure. So, when we packed our bags for that first Thanksgiving in Florida, I felt far more excited than nervous. Parents tend to like me. Except this time, it occurred to me, I already had one strike against me: I wasn’t Jewish.

When my partner and I began dating, I was only vaguely aware of his Jewish background. Unless the name ended in “Stein” or “Berg,” I didn’t have a clue. I’d grown up in a suburb of Buffalo, NY and I simply didn’t have a lot of exposure to Jewish people. Of course, it didn’t help that I’d attended Catholic schools from kindergarten through twelfth grade.

My friends and family were a bit taken aback when I announced that I was dating a Jewish guy from Long Island, given that my past serious relationships had been with men of African descent. Steve was short, funny (funnier than anyone I’d ever met) and extremely ambitious, and sometimes, when he grew animated, he’d adopt a Brooklyn accent, learned from his father and perhaps leftover from his first few years as a boy in that borough. I remember early on in our courtship a friend remarking that Jewish guys were great “because they really know how to treat a woman well.” I learned that they were also stereotypically regarded as ‘mama’s boys.’

I became fascinated by the all of the ways in which Jewish culture is characterized and defined—especially since some secular Jews offhandedly dismiss the religious component. My partner is not a serious practitioner of his faith, which I am grateful for, I suppose, not that I would’ve minding his going to temple regularly or seriously honoring the Jewish holidays or even fasting—though keeping a kosher kitchen would’ve been a big adjustment for me. Since I’m not a practicing Catholic, the two of us on the religious fence somehow seems more manageable than one or both of us strongly devout.

Eventually, as the relationship progressed—that first meeting of the parents behind us—we began speaking in earnest about our future. It had been clear early on that the relationship had legs, and as we both wanted to get married eventually, I started pressing him about what that would mean for us, a Jewish boy and a Catholic girl: What kind of ceremony would we have? Where would we do it? Would he want me to consider converting for him? I assumed I knew the answer to the last question—no—since my partner’s belief in a higher power is more muddled than my own fluid thoughts on the subject, but when we got to discussing how a non-denominational ceremony would affect our parents, he nonchalantly told me that on the day his sister had married her husband, who was raised Catholic like me, his mother had said, “Well, he’ll never be one of us.”

His mother, tiny and chatty and sweet, but not effusively so, could also, apparently, be quite cutting. I had spent little time with my partner’s family, but I hadn’t sensed anything odd or off about his brother-in-law’s interactions with the Jewish family he’d married into.

Anyway, what did that even mean? ‘Not one of us’? I reasoned that converting to Judaism was a moot point for me—for us—unless we decided to have kids, and neither of us wants children. In my few visits to Florida, I’d never received the cold shoulder from his mother, but neither had I gotten a sense that she was interested in me all that much either. Was she just waiting for him to settle down with a nice Jewish girl? Perhaps she saw me as temporary.

As it was obvious to both of us that I wasn’t going anywhere, I boldly broached the topic with my partner.

“So, were you supposed to marry a Jewish girl, or what? Did you parents ingrain that in you when you were growing up and started dating?”

Accustomed to my out-of-the-blue questions, he simply looked up from his laptop and said that although it wasn’t an issue that had been discussed directly, it was implied. “I don’t remember anybody saying this outright,” he admitted, “but it was definitely the model I grew up with.”

Uh huh. Seeing the confused (and, I don’t know, hurt?) expression on my face, he pulled me onto his lap and promised me that he didn’t care, that he wouldn’t be disowned or anything like that.

“You’re my little shiksa,” he said affectionately, and though I understood the root of the word to be derogatory, I heard it as a term of endearment.

I began to wonder if his mother had simply given up on his marrying one of his own, or if perhaps I was just fooling myself. While I was happy to celebrate Hanukkah with his family last year (when the first night of it happened to fall on Thanksgiving), I don’t really get it, nor, if I’m being honest, do I care to. And yet, maybe that was the exact problem. The not caring would certainly peg me as an outsider. If he were any more invested in his faith though and wanted me to take the same interest in it as his other passions—baseball, Marvel comic book movies, barbecue—I certainly would.

On Christmas Eve at my house, when my large, boisterous family partakes in a meatless Polish meal as is tradition on this holiday, and my meat-loving man says he thinks the pierogis should be stuffed with pork or beef and not just potato, cabbage, or cheese, I patiently try to explain that that’s our way. There’ll be a roast on Christmas day, I assure him. There, he’s the outsider, but it’s in such a small way and on a such a small, insignificant level (to us, at least) that I hardly think it matters or even really affects him.

My family has embraced him as far as I can see. There was a time when my parents would have been adamant about my marrying a Catholic man (or at least a Christian), but as time’s gone by, and my faith has lapsed, it’s been years since my father has threatened not to pay for a wedding if it’s not in the church. My sister, who married a Presbyterian three years ago, chose to have a traditional Catholic ceremony because she says, “Mom would’ve been crushed if I hadn’t.” It was just easier that way.

Converting to Judaism, however, would not be so cut and dry. The little I’ve read on the subject is enough to tell me that it would require a great amount of discipline and education, not to mention a renunciation of the religion I’ve been immersed in since I had water pored over my head in a baptismal ceremony 33 years ago.

When the time comes for us to take that next step, we’ll have to take a united front. Our wedding will probably be in Brooklyn—not in my hometown or in his family’s current place of residence, but in our home. The slight sting of not being “one of them” according to his mother may always be felt, but as long as my partner’s on my side, it won’t matter.

Stacey Gawronski is an editor at Refinery29. Her work has appeared in The Huffington Post, New York Family, Yahoo Shine!, The Billfold, xojane, and more. She lives in Brooklyn with her partner and their dog, Odie.

Related: I Hid My Non-Jewish Boyfriend From My Family For Over A Year

(Image: The OC‘s Seth and Summer, one of the most famous interfaith couples of all time.)

The post Interfaith Dating: I’m Catholic, He’s Jewish—And We’re Just Fine With That appeared first on Jewcy.

You know it’s Monday night when The Bachelorette is trending along with Gaza on Twitter. Keep being you, world.

Chris Harrison introduces the final episode of an overall tepid tenth season in front of a live studio audience. Wait, did he just say it’s a three-hour show? Good lord. I get some dark chocolate peanut butter cups and settle in for a long night.

“This is the first week [where] I don’t know what could happen,” chirps Andi. Oh, well, it’s not a major week or anything, so that’s good. I’m glad uncertainty has only reared its head during the most important episode of the season, and possibly the most important moment of her life.

It’s time to meet the Fockers—dad Hy, mom Patti, and sister Rachel and her husband—only Andi’s family isn’t so Focker-ish. Their Jewish heritage has barely gotten a peep all season (more on this later). Nick’s up first, and he exchanges the most awkward hug of the season with Patti. Everyone remarks on Nick’s obvious nerves. “He seems a little reserved,” says Patti to the camera, moonlighting as Captain Obvious for the episode. He stumbles over recounting his feelings of true love, but goshdarnit, he does seem genuine and Patti agrees. “For someone to say that about my daughter is very special,” she says, tearing up. Get your tissues, Patti, because someone else is about to say the same exact thing to you tomorrow.

But first, it’s time for a sisterly heart-to-heart. “He makes me feel like a woman,” Andi tells Rachel, and I half-expect Aretha Franklin to break out in song here, but no dice. Nick and Hy speak next. “My whole job is Rachel, Andi, and Patty,” says Hy firmly. “I got one daughter taken care of. My job now is Andi.” If this is supposed to sound sweetly paternal, it doesn’t. It makes Andi sound like a helpless floundering female waiting for her father to secure her a husband—not a self-sufficient woman with a kick-ass career. “It would mean a lot to me to have your approval,” Nick tells Hy nervously. Hy falls silent for a moment. “I feel exactly about Andi the way you do,” he begins (I hope not exactly the same way, considering last week’s fantasy suite shenanigans), and then reluctantly gives Nick his seal of approval should Andi choose him.

I must interject here to make mention of the worst installment of the weekly Suave shampoo commercials featuring the Bachelorettes of Christmases past. This week’s ad features Andi talking stiltedly with Catherine and Desiree, who literally squeal when they wave around their ring fingers, appropriately adorned with baubles, so that Andi can see what her future might hold. Betty Friedan, I’m glad you’re not around for this.

Next up is Josh, and Andi’s family just loves him. Josh, who has thus far shown himself to be loud, dim and hot, is appropriately charming as only former athletes can be, and he lays it on thick for his one-on-one with Hy. “She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my entire life,” enthuses Josh. (Really? She’s cute, but in the way that my cashier at Pathmark is cute.) Hy tells him that marriage is sometimes hard work, and wonders if Josh is prepared for that. “It already hasn’t been all roses,” Josh assures him quickly. From a sharper man, this would be a quippy one-liner referring to the show’s recurring motif, but I’m afraid any wit is wholly incidental here.

On their final date, Andi and Josh muse aloud about their confidence in each other. “I have no questions,” Josh coos. “What, you have no thoughts?” exclaims Andi. Yes, that’s it, Andi: no thoughts whatsoever! Absolutely inane conversation ensues for five minutes and is concluded when Josh reads her a letter and hands her a baseball card with her ‘stats’ on the back. “Drafted: first pick,” Andi reads, giggling. It sounds cheesy but it’s actually kind of cute.

The final date with Nick involves fewer giggles, and finally, at long last, there’s a mention of religion: “We’ll figure out whatever it is, where to live, religion…” he says obliquely. It’s the first time in the season, to my working knowledge, that Andi’s Jewishness is even referenced.

It seems bizarre that The Bachelorette never shows potential couples discussing the sorts of things marriage-minded people speak about, like religion or politics. Obviously, there’s a good chance such discussions would alienate large swaths of viewers, so the choice not to air these moments—if they happen at all—is undoubtedly calculated by ratings-minded producers. But for a show that purports to be all about helping the lovelorn find their true match, these are glaring omissions of substance, and it’s disingenuous to exclude mention of major issues that actually impact the longevity and ultimate success of any resulting relationships. However secular and non-practicing a Jew Andi might be, one would think it would behoove a woman on the cusp of marriage to someone who is not Jewish (Nick) or someone who is Jewish but was raised Catholic (Josh), to at least initiate conversation on where she stands in terms of her Judaism. No?

Nick gives Andi a necklace with a vial of sand from the beach where they had their first date, which is simultaneously creepy and thoughtful. And like sand through the hourglass, so is this day of my life: When is this freaking show going to end? Good god, there’s 45 minutes of self-doubt to go before we even get to After The Final Rose. I get more chocolate.

Back from commercial break. “It’s coming down to the final moments,” says Chris. Promise? Andi awakes on the day of reckoning. Josh meets with Jeweler-to-the-Stars-and-Trashy-Reality-Show-Contestants Neil Lane to pick out a ring. When Nick gets a knock on the door and we assume it’s his turn to meet with Neil, it’s not Neil at all but… Andi!? This can’t be good. And it isn’t: Andi proceeds to tell Nick that something didn’t feel right when she woke up that morning—and it wasn’t last night’s sushi. Nick looks stunned, and they bid each other farewell. It begins to rain as Nick looks pensively out on the patio, unless that’s actually a producer pouring down buckets of water from the roof. Either way, we get the point: Nick is a sad panda right now.

Back at the live studio audience, Chris elaborates on Nick’s shame by telling the world that he’s tried repeatedly to sit down with Andi “to chat” since filming ended, but she’s always refused—until now, because she is contractually mandated to. “But first, let’s see how the show ends,” he says, but duh, we already know how this ends. Josh approaches Andi and offers a fast-paced hodgepodge of tidbits pulled from romantic movies into one mawkish speech. Andi tells him she loves him, he proposes, and she happily accepts. And they’ll for sure live happily ever after, or at least until after she finishes filming a season of Dancing With the Stars. The end.

Note: There was an After the Final Rose special, but nothing of note happens except for the continued exploitation of a wounded man (Nick), who also tells Andi that it was wrong of her to make love with him if she wasn’t in love with him. Despite the fact that we all know they’re not crocheting in the fantasy suite, such a direct admission of its inner workings is actually (and literally!) “hitting below the belt,” as Andi tells Nick, looking positively green. The audience lets out a collective gasp and Twitter explodes. Okay, now it’s the end.

Catch up on all the previous Bachelorette re-caps here.

Image: ABC/The Bachelorette

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Wanna feel old? Consider this: ‘Sex and City’ premiered sixteen years ago today.

Now, I know it’s cool to hate on Carrie et al these days, what with Girls and Broad City bringing the sexting, q-tips and authentic Brooklyn hipster poverty to the small screen. But I still have a soft spot for SATC, and I have a feeling you, dear reader, might feel similarly. Before it descended into the slavish consumer-fest of the later seasons (and the movies, of which we shall not speak), it was really, really good. Edgy! Risque! It’s where I learned about anal sex! And vibrators! (Ah, the sheltered decade of dial-up internet: we were such innocent teens.) Don’t pretend you don’t stop and watch an episode when you’re channel surfing/illegally downloading in the liminal hours between updating your OKCupid profile and falling asleep. You do, and you love it.

Anyway! SATC had a number of good Jewish moments, mostly focused on Charlotte’s conversion to Judaism for husband #2, Harry Goldenblatt, who woos her with his menschy, honest charm—one of more engaging plot-lines in the harried, lackluster final season. Wrote Sala Levin in 2012:

Nebbishy, lawyerly Harry certainly seems to be cut from the same cloth as his anxious, uncool brethren. Harry knows that the “shiksa goddess” Charlotte seems to be beyond the reach of “a putz like me,” as he puts it. But while the stumbling nerds of the popular imagination typically win the affection of their crushes despite not knowing how to interact with members of the opposite sex, Harry gets the girl with his brazenness, a forthrightness that Charlotte finds difficult to resist. It’s his openness about his desire for her—coupled with a talent for coupling—that distinguishes Harry from his geeky cohort. Like the female characters of Apatow’s movies, Charlotte ultimately develops feelings of real depth for Harry, noting that if his warmth and kindness are part of his Jewishness, being Jewish might be something she would want for herself. But—unlike in Apatow’s films—these feelings emerge only after the ignition of a sexual spark.

Charlotte and Harry’s love affair is served up with a generous dollop of borscht belt vernacular—a lot of putzing and schvitizing on Harry’s part, which feels tonally off for a 30-something man in the early 2000s—but underneath the schtick, theirs is a love affair of equals: two people who really understand and accept the other for who they are, hairy back, WASP-y affectations and all.

The depiction of Charlotte’s conversion is fairly accurate by sitcom-land standards: she’s thrice turned away by the rabbi before being accepted as a candidate for the “Jewish faith,” she and Harry bicker over differing levels of religious commitment, and eventually we see her take a dip in the mikvah to complete the process. There are a few anomalies—i.e. the rabbi’s family members seem to have confused Shabbat and funeral attire, and the rituals are overly-formal, almost robotically executed—but for the most part it’s a faithful (if abbreviated, sentimentalized) depiction of a non-Orthodox conversion.

Back in 2003, Samuel G. Freedman wrote that Charlotte’s conversion to Judaism radically redefined interfaith relationships in American popular culture:

Until the HBO series, no television show had ever presented a conversion with such visual and theological detail. Even more important is what the approving portrayal represents: a reversal of the entertainment industry’s tradition of viewing Jewish identity as something to be shed in the quest to become American.

For nearly a century, ever since the Broadway comedy Abie’s Irish Rose, the standard narrative of love between a Jew and a Christian has pointed toward interfaith marriage, and the implicit abandonment of Jewish observance and continuity, as the epitome of the melting pot… Unlike all of those Jewish characters of yore, who were so ready to reinvent themselves with a gentile wife, Harry insisted that Charlotte convert; he wanted their children to be fully Jewish.

And Charlotte wanted to be fully Jewish, too: from the very first heartfelt ‘shalom’ she offers to the custodian of the synagogue, to her decision to stop celebrating Christmas (a ritual she loved), she’s in it 110 percent—she even chastises Harry for watching baseball during Shabbat dinner, leading to a massive fight and temporary break-up. But it’s OK! They reconcile at a depressing singles’ event at shul, and have a big, fat, disastrous (but happy) Jewish wedding.

http://youtu.be/GKKau5XVF7k

So happy birthday, Sex and the City. I still love you, and I’m not ashamed to say so on the internet.

Image: HBO

The post Happy Birthday, “Sex and the City”! appeared first on Jewcy.

Well, here’s a story to warm the cockles of your heart.

Jewish actress Ginnifer Goodwin (who rose to fame on the cult HBO show Big Love) just tied the knot with her Once Upon a Time co-star Josh Dallas. But as Goodwin explained on Jimmy Kimmel Live last week, their wedding plans almost went awry the morning of the big day, when Goodwin’s wedding planner called her in tears, informing her that her car had been broken into and the couple’s ketubah (Jewish marriage contract) had been stolen. The star was all set to draw up a makeshift document, when fate—and two random Jews in Hollywood with really good Hebrew skillz—intervened. And they all lived happily ever after.

Get the full story here:

http://youtu.be/0s_xHJXDGuQ

The post Ginnifer Goodwin’s Amazing Lost And Found Ketubah Story appeared first on Jewcy.

“You’re allowed to go right up to him, yeah. You just can’t touch him!” So says one yeshiva student, holding a camera pointed to another, about a guard stationed outside one of London’s royal buildings.

The young man pictured moseys—yes, moseys—toward the soldier, then stand next to him. The difference between the two is obvious, palpable, already comic: a yeshiva bochur in black and white with jaunty payos and a big black yarmulka, pictured next to a becloaked, behelmeted guard, the strap under his chin both infantilizing him and preparing him for battle.

While posing for the camera, the young man starts to weave an entire narrative about his relationship with the soldier, docu-drama style. “We went to school together,” he says, gesturing towards the soldier. “He went his own way.”

At first, the guard seems in charge of himself, quite capable of fulfilling his duty to not laugh. The yeshiva student speaks of their days at school together, choosing the guard’s school as the context for their shared past, where they studied martial arts. He starts out with a questioning kind of tone, as though he isn’t sure whether the soldier is the person he is describing, but as the narrative progresses he grows more confident.

“He was never talkative,” the yeshiva student says, and starts to describe the guard as a youth. At this point, it is clear that the guard is listening, and moreover, struggling to maintain his composure. As the student launches deeper into his fiction, things get worse for the guard, until the final epic breakdown. The student interrupts his own narrative as he alights on the perfect weapon: “His mother always picked him up from school. You know, he was that type of guy, until he was twenty, his mother always picked him up from school.” At this point, the guard breaks. And I mean, breaks. He doesn’t just smile, or grin, but breaks into a full-on giggle, halted as quickly as possible by a shake of his head and a blush. The students dance away, ebullient.

What’s amazing is that the thing that finally breaks the guard is a shared experience which totally dissolves the distance between them: they both can relate to making fun of the guy whose mother picks him up from school, “until he was twenty.” While it is possible to find two people more different than these two, they are different enough that their shared experience—and the humor that derives from it—is touching, as well as hilarious.

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After twelve plus years of Yeshiva education, I was dating a Catholic-raised atheist and lying to my parents about it. I met Brian during my freshman year at Binghamton University. He was the type of boy I was always warned about—a gentile. Before I left for school all I heard was, “Be careful. Stay away from those goyish men!” It was mostly my grandmother and concerned aunts and uncles talking. My parents didn’t think I needed the warning and, truthfully, neither did I: the idea of dating outside my religion never even dawned on me, and Brian and I never dated at Binghamton. I transferred to Baruch College after my freshman year. There were more Jews in New York City than upstate New York; everyone thought I’d dodged a bullet.

I grew up in a Modern Orthodox family and community in Staten Island. More modern than orthodox—my Mom wore pants and we ate dairy out—but observant nonetheless. Shabbat was spent at home with televisions and phones switched off. Thousands and thousands of dollars were spent on private Jewish education. All my neighbors were Jewish. During my year away at Binghamton, I was getting up early to pray and staying home on Friday nights while my floor-mates hit the bars downtown. The kids I grew up with all went off onto their proverbial roads of observance or non-observance, but the thing we all shared was the undeniable fact that we would never, ever bring a non-Jew home to meet the parents.

Almost two years ago, Brian decided to visit New York for a weekend. It was the summer before he started law school and the summer before my last semester of undergrad. On a blistering Friday in June he took a train down from Albany, where he lived, and I met him in front of Penn Station. We had been keeping in touch since I left, and it was easy to have a platonic relationship with him because I never thought of him as a potential partner. After all, he wasn’t Jewish.

That first weekend visit started out weirdly. There were some pauses and searches for small talk. We tried to chase away awkwardness with shared beer pitchers over bar tables. I showed him all my favorite haunts and he spoke to me about starting law school. Somehow, amidst a sea of neon bar lights and college memories, a switch got turned on. The years we spent talking, before dating, we shared a lot, which made slipping into something more than friendship easy. The night before he was due to go back home he said to me, “I think if I was here, I’d pursue this.” Without asking, I knew what he meant. But I left it alone.

My battle with religion had hit a point of almost complete non-observance at the time. Before Brian, I hadn’t thought about my religion in a while. I was describing myself as culturally Jewish, which to me meant that I didn’t believe in God or religious observance, but I did value my heritage. I had gotten over the fear that if I turned on a light on Shabbat I would be punished in the world to come. I was going out on Friday nights and spending Saturdays watching Netflix in my Manhattan studio. Still, I was only eating kosher meat and had no intention of ever being with someone of a different faith. I reached a point of simple living.

When Brian and I started dating, I had to rethink it all. We officially became a couple in November 2012, a few months after his first weekend visit, but we counted our anniversary from our first date in July, when we saw the Woody Allen film To Rome with Love. We climbed up the stairs of an old Soho theater. I still have the stubs in a box of things I hid that year.

The first few months of our relationship, I kept telling him that it could never go anywhere. After that, I spent the next few months convincing myself that it wasn’t going anywhere. It was just young love, it would fade. But before I knew it I was twenty-two and we were exchanging I love yous and having our one-year anniversary. And in all that time I was lying to my parents and everyone else I knew.

Because Brian was in law school in Albany, it made running around the truth a little easier. My parents knew that we were very good friends but didn’t think anything more of it—at least, that’s what I thought. Brian would visit about one weekend a month and I would tell my parents I was spending the weekend with other friends, offering names and lies and false locations with ease. My parents had always been my best friends and I felt that I was betraying them. And with the guilt of deception came worries about the future: I always loved Friday night dinners and holidays with my family, and I wanted to raise my kids in an environment similar to the one I grew up in. Brian, being an atheist, didn’t care much about his own religious holidays. But could I convince him to partake in mine? He was careful of how he approached the topic of my faith and my family, but some nights I watched his face contort in a mess of anger and our time would end in yelling. He knew that I was holding back.

Ultimately, eleven months into our relationship, Brian and I had The Talk. I told him everything I needed from him if our relationship was going to continue, and he agreed to convert. To take on my life. I always thought he did it too quickly, but I was so grateful. “It’s a small price to pay, “ he said, “to have you.”

Though Brian was on board, the idea of a life with him was eating away at me. My parents were asking about other men. And every Friday when I phoned my grandmother to wish her a Shabbat shalom, she would say “Yeah, yeah, thank you. Meeting any nice Jewish men?” Usually I just told her I was working on it. Other times I asked if she’d prefer a lawyer or a doctor. While all this was whirling around me, my nights were consumed by panic attacks.

A year and two months after Brian and I started dating, on the first night of Rosh Hashanah, Mom and I took a walk. As a group of black-hatted Orthodox men walked by, she told me she knew about my secret life. She had been letting me lie to her. I rushed to explain, through tears, that I never meant to lie. That I had spoken to Brian about converting. I let the story of the past year vomit out of me, and Mom listened. She had sensed my anxiety, and wanted to help relieve the burden. All she said was, “This is obviously not the life I want for you, and it won’t be easy, but if he cares about you, then who am I to stop it?”

Brian and I are no longer together. A few weeks ago, after almost two years of dating, we decided to take a break. I’m in the second semester of my MFA writing program in New York and Brian is still in law school, in Albany. In a way, my parents knowing about us took the focus off our religious differences, and put it onto the actual relationship. So the break was not about Brian’s being Jewish or not Jewish, it was about us, together. I don’t regret being with him. Though at the time I felt panicked about all the lying and secrets and the kind of future Brian and I would share, it taught me a lot about myself. I learned that who I date is not nearly as important as what I am.

Daniella Bondar is a MFA Creative Writing Nonfiction student at The New School. Wandering New Yorker. Insomniac. She’s working on a memoir about her gold dress phobia. Follow her on twitter and find her writing at DaniellaRobin.com.

(Image via Shutterstock.)

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