I returned home from Israel and soon found myself at Stanford University. It was shortly before Yom Kippur. I knew that one fasted on Yom Kippur and decided I would join the observance. I was alone in a new place but I connected with the Jewish students around me by telling them I was going to fast. On the Holy Day I dipped into the University’s services and enjoyed the Cantor’s melodies and the congregation’s responses. Most of the day, however, I spent by myself: my first fast took place on a long and lonely day that finally ended in my kitchen eating leftovers.
During the day I spoke with Alon, who was in Philadelphia doing pre-production for a film he was making. I told him I was fasting and he replied that he was also fasting, while working all day. I was surprised that he was not with his family and realized that he was as lonely as me. Yet he was also doing his personal best to connect with the holiness of Yom Kippur. We were both on the fringes of Judaism: outside the community but interested in engaging with its practices.
I went to Stanford to study Russia(n) but discovered only a dead end. Instead I found myself riveted by a Stanford art class (figure drawing) and missing my explorations of Judaism. While I tried to find myself a place at the Stanford Hillel, my heart was all the time longing for Alon. We both wanted to go deeper into Judaism and the Jewish community; we had a lot of learning and changing ahead of us; why not do it together?
I left Stanford’s master’s program in Russian studies in January. I headed for Philadelphia, Alon’s home, which seemed to be calling me as potential artist and Jew. By that summer, Alon and my dog, Nicholas, were both living with me. We started to explore the local synagogues, curious about Jewish life beyond college. We began a simple Shabbat practice that we called “Nicholas Day”: every Saturday we spent the day with our dog, stopping work and taking long walks. We spent Passover at Chaim Potok’s table and a memorable Friday evening walking home for dinner with the rabbi of the Sephardic synagogue.
One Friday we decided to celebrate Shabbat ourselves. We cooked and cooked, mostly vegetables we had bought at the nearby Italian market, an open air market that reminded me deeply of Tel Aviv’s and Jerusalem’s shuks. We invited two of Alon’s Jewish college friends, guys who were not observant but loved us enough to embark with us on this evening’s journey. Alon’s friends each donned a kippah; Alon wore my fur hat from Lithuania because he only had two kippot. We lit candles, recited prayers, and sang songs that they had learned in their youths of Jewish education. It was a hot summer evening in Philadelphia that became spirited and fun and perhaps a little drunken.
About a year after I returned to Philadelphia, part way through my first year of art school, we decided to check out a synagogue across Center City during Purim services. Temple Beth Zion-Beth Israel is a beautiful place—cathedral ceilings, stained glass depictions of Genesis, gold silk curtains behind the wooden ark—and despite the outrageous silliness of the evening, we were taken. We returned Shabbat morning. Immediately we were drawn in by Rabbi Ira Stone’s words of Torah; by Passover a month later, we were following his instructions to his community in order to kasher our kitchen and host a large seder.
We made a meeting with Rabbi Stone to discuss my desire to convert to Judaism. He welcomed us warmly and connected with us personally. He did not turn me away three times; however he did inform us that conversion classes did not begin until the fall, which seemed a long way away. I asked if we could begin earlier and he replied that I should spend the intervening months attending services and learning about Judaism by “doing”. He also suggested that we get to know the community, the people to whom I would be joining myself.
Another time we had a discussion about denomination within Judaism. I asked Rabbi Stone to explain the difference between an Orthodox and a Conservative conversion. He told me that he stands firmly behind his Conservative conversion but that I might consider working with the rabbi at the Orthodox shul nearer my apartment. The benefit would be complete acceptance by the Orthodox authorities in Israel-- should I want to make aliyah, my conversion would never be questioned. The problem would be that this other rabbi would expect me to make deep changes to my life and feminine identity. He would enter my home and require that we buy single beds. He would ask me to cover my hair and arms and legs in public. He would teach me to be a Jewish wife, but not to read Torah or lead services.
During this discussion, I knew with every fiber of my being that I was not destined to become an Orthodox Jewish woman. I had spent my life liberating myself from the patriarchal expectations of my Indian father. I had visited his family in the village and worn their clothes and followed their customs, enjoying the experience but desperately needing to rebel with my blue jeans and t-shirts after a few days. My attraction to Judaism included a desire to be a lay-leader, both at home and publicly. My growing relationship with Alon was being built on complete egalitarianism.
Rabbi Stone supported my thoughts and reiterated that his Judaism was socially and politically liberal while being completely traditional. He reminded me that I might pay for my decision in Israel or even amongst Orthodox circles in the U.S. He reassured me that the conversion would include a Bet Din, a mikveh, and thorough teachings of traditional Judaism. Many Orthodox Jews would respect my process. Yet the political tension between the various movements might affect my life. I accepted the consequences with my eyes open.
Looking back over the years since my conversion, I realize that my acceptance of these political and social tensions was a big part of my acceptance of my new people. As in any community, differences among people occupy a lot of space and energy, sometimes creatively but often not. I have faced awkward moments at the tables of hospitable Orthodox Lubavitchers when they have asked about my name and its origins. Shamefully, I have lied to save face. My current decision is to stay away from Chabad and other groups that seek to re-convert people like me under their tutelage. The state of Israel today allows all converts from all movements to make aliyah (become citizens of Israel). However, this has not always been true and could change any day. My daughters are affected: as Jewish women, their children’s Jewish identities may be questioned along with the validity of my conversion. Yet I believe firmly that I made the right decision to follow a path to conversion that resonated with integrity, truth, and loyalty to a rabbi I still admire and love, loyalty to my own being.
Speaking of my path to conversion, let me return to that story. By the time classes began, Alon and I had followed the Jewish calendar from Passover to Shavuot to Tisha B’Av to the High Holy Days. We ran out of steam at Sukkot, but returned to dance with the Torah at Simchat Torah. We were on fire with our experiences, ready to grow more and more observant. Classes, however, were a disappointment. They were not taught by our rabbi. They were simplistic and irritating. What did this have to do with deepening our Jewish connections? Again we approached Rabbi Stone with our dilemma—what would happen if we quit the class? He soulfully came to our rescue, offering to teach us individually in his office. Thus commenced weekly meetings in which Alon, Rabbi Stone and I together studied the details of halacha and discussed the practices and intentions that gave these details meaning.
I remember one meeting in particular, when we told Rabbi Stone that we were growing our practice and slowly adding more and more observances. He replied that climbing the ladder of Jewish observance does not always occur in a vertical fashion. Sometimes one must expect to lose previous gains. Often the ability to be still and maintain one’s practices is the best thing one can do. At that moment we were skeptical but soon we understood his meaning (we decided that pre-soaking our tea bags was not adding to the spirit of Shabbat for us). And, years later, I feel that the changes, adjustments, evolutions, gains and losses that take place in our observances are actually an important element to a living Judaism.
After a few months of study, Rabbi Stone arranged a Bet Din for me. Three Jewish men, rabbis and cantors, asked me questions about my Jewish learning. They prepared some paperwork for me to keep as evidence of the conversion. Then Rabbi Stone led us to a mikveh. My two close Jewish girlfriends, Denise and Rinny, who had been with me at the beginning of this journey, stood next to the ritual bath. They helped me say the blessings and watched me immerse myself in the cleansing waters. (A few months later they repeated this process the night before my wedding day.) We celebrated with a meal at Alon’s parents’ house. Denise gifted me my colorful kippah; Alon gifted me a Star of David necklace made in India; Alon’s parents gifted me my red and gold tallit (prayer shawl) which became our chuppah; Rinny gifted me words of learning in a book on Judaism. Soon after, my parents came to town to watch me receive my first aliyah in the synagogue.
The excitement of my conversion ceremony turned immediately into the thrill of planning our Jewish wedding. While remaining true to the values and needs of our families and ourselves, we created a vision of a traditional Jewish wedding. We described every tradition, ritual and intention in a wedding booklet. We used my artwork to translate our feelings about Judaism to our guests. We invited guests to Friday night Shabbat services followed by an Israeli dinner, an auf ruf at the synagogue, and the various rituals and ceremonies of the wedding day. Alon wore a black hat and I wore a veil with my white dress. We even hired a klezmer violinist to lead the wedding party from the synagogue to the party!
After all this study and celebration, we felt impelled to visit the Holy Land of Israel together. Thus my journey into Judaism completed a circle as I led my new husband back to the places I had visited alone, when I had been struggling with my intense questions about the future. Here I was, a mere three years later, all those questions resolved. Of course, Alon and I spent hours of each day asking new questions about our lives. I suppose that process never ends. I will say, though, that having a partner on my subsequent journeys has been very sweet.
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