Friday, April 10, 2009

Jew Confewsion

My husband is a Jewish Fernandez. This is in contrast to his two sons, who could only count as Jewish in certain very reform Jewish synagogues in the most liberal cities in the United States. This is due to my thinning of the Jewish bloodline. And this non-qualification remains steadfast, despite the fact that their tiny perfect penises were circumcised within the first week of life by one of the busiest and most Orthodox Jewish moiles in Los Angeles.

Jonathan, on the other hand, counts as a Jew by any criteria. He could move to Israel and join any temple he wants. His mother is Jewish--a Hoffman from the Ukraine. Despite his Jewish street cred, all his life he has confused people. He looks Irish, has a hot Latino last name (and yes, he does speak Spanish) and a Jewish heritage that is real. No one ever knows what to make of him, and he is tired of explaining.

I, on the other hand, think it is all cool. I love his Jewish blood, his family's persecuted Ukrainian history, and his Latin name of unknown origins. I love that he is a true American mutt with the troubled history of the world flowing through his veins.

But as the years pass, I see that the Jewish holidays create war inside him. When we first got married he used to go dark and angry around Roshashana and Yom Kippur. He never would have initiated a celebration, and yet not to celebrate made him deeply sad. Now we celebrate.

Same for the Passover seder. For me, raised by a born-again Christian, the seder is a beautiful meal. It is the kind of celebration that would make anyone want to be Jewish. The story is moving, the lessons inspiring, the meal beautiful. Who doesn't want to fight for the slaves and downtrodden people of the world? It calls to my soul.

But even with the seder Jonathan had more mixed feelings. Our first Passover together we went to a friend's house, and he didn't really like it. So we went smaller. The second year -- with only a tiny bit of nudging from me -- he went down to Pico Union and bought a beautiful seder plate, three yarmulkes, the haggadahs, and a brisket.

I found a fabulous Julia Child brisket recipe (is that sacrilege?) and we held our first tiny seder. Jonathan was delighted. The second year we did it alone again. The third we invited some practicing Jewish friends, whose older son is in Hebrew school, and could actually read the Hebrew during the seder. They brought beautiful chalices, a delicious Haroset, and some powerful Jewish energy. They taught us a thing or two.

This year Jonathan's family is coming. His more Jewish sister and her Jewish husband and their Jewish child, and his own Jewish mother will arrive in three hours. I, the shiksa Goddess, am hosting. And I do make a good brisket.

Right now the slow-cooked smells of thyme and garlic and olive oil and salt and tomatoes and carrots and onions and brisket are wafting up the stairs. Soon I will go down and boil some eggs, put out the bitter herb, the parsley, the shank bone and the matzoh. I will pull out his grandfather's big, brass Jewish candlesticks and put them on the table. And we will sit down as a Jewish family to celebrate this, the most moving of all Jewish holidays.

My husband is delighted, happy, proud. As I type he is picking up his mother, who has flow in from Phoenix for the occasion, from the airport. This morning, on the way to Griffith Park, my sons asked why I was going to make them go to a sunrise Easter service.

"We are Jewish, Mommy," Theo said.

And yet, as certain as my oldest son is, my husband remains deeply ambivalent about his Jewish identity. He said when he went two days ago to get the best brisket in Los Angeles from the butcher at the Farmer's Market, the butcher looked at him in surprise. As if to say, "You, a red-haired, freckle-faced, All American screenwriter dude are a Jew?" And then, just as the guy was digesting that Jonathan was a real live LA Jew ordering his Passover brisket, Jonathan flipped out at being pigeon-holed and ordered five pork sausages and a couple of pounds of bacon.

He said he just couldn't control himself.

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