From: murray.bbs@cybernet.cse.fau.edu
Newsgroups: soc.culture.jewish
Subject: L'Chaim 3 of 8
Date: 14 Aug 92 12:12:24 GMT
Organization: Florida Atlantic University, Boca Raton

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L'CHAIM                      ISSUE  # 228                   PART 3 OF 8
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                             SLICE OF LIFE
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REVERSE ASSIMILATION
by Marcia Schwartz
   About five  years  ago  my youngest  son,  then 24,  traded  in  his
motorcycle, ponytail and  ripped-up jeans  for a dark suit, a  yarmulke
and "learning."  Thus, he began his  new life--a life of  "this I can't
eat," "that  I can't do,"  and "there  I can't go."  I had a  black hat
where my son used to be.
 
   The tradition  I handed down to my children was gefilte fish, kosher
franks and borscht; staying  home from school on the  holidays; Chanuka
lights and family Seders. Now  I look back and  I wonder: How did  this
happen, how did my  son get here from there? I don't  know. Sure, there
were signs along the  way. There was the eve of Yom  Kippur when out of
the  blue--so  it  seemed--he ate  alone  so  he'd  be finished  before
sundown, while we  held up dinner for one of his brothers who was late.
He began to nod in the direction of  keeping kosher by no longer mixing
dairy  with  meat,  by  passing  up  shrimp and  pork  at  the  Chinese
restaurant.
 
   Nevertheless,  he became engaged to a young Catholic woman, and they
began planning their wedding. They'd keep everybody happy, have a rabbi
and a  priest. Part  of that  package was  the Church's  requirement of
premarital  counseling after which  he said, "I think  I'd like to find
out a little more about where I came from."
 
   He  started out tentatively--really just  wanted to get  a taste. At
first, he drove to his sessions with his new rabbi, until  the day came
when he decided  he would no longer  drive on Shabbat. And then  he cut
his hair. On went a yarmulke. 
 
   Gradually,  the   changes   caused  insoluble   problems  with   his
bride-to-be and  they called the wedding off. He spent the next year in
Israel.
 
   Oh yes, things were changing, but not only for my son. I  wanted him
to be able to  eat in my home, so  I kashered my kitchen, and  my other
children became  resentful. Relatives were patronizing  and scornful of
his  scrupulous adherence to kashrut, his stark, distinctive dress, his
strict Sabbath observance.  "What can I  talk to  him about?" "Just  be
patient, it'll blow  over." "These  kids--it never seems  to end,  does
it?" "But at least, thank G-d, it wasn't the Moonies!"
 
   We  were invited to a Saturday night  wedding in Baltimore and drove
down early Friday to get  settled before sundown. We were staying  at a
hotel  with the  rest  of the  out-of-town  guests that  wasn't  within
walking distance  of a minyan,  so my son  would spend Shabbat  with an
Orthodox family in the area. He wouldn't be at the prenuptial dinner.
 
   What  outrage! "Where's the other son?" "We're not kosher enough for
him?" "Was he always a troublemaker?" But they were understanding about
a couple who arrived on Saturday --they couldn't be  there Friday night
because of business obligations, and that was a reason.
 
   My son stopped  eating grapes. Did this have to do with a Jewish law
we should know about, or was it just a whim? "What's in this?" he asked
before every other bite.  Were we supposed to guess  it had to do  with

the blessing said  before eating the  food? I was  nervous and my  kids
were angry and short-tempered with each other.
 
   Well, you're  so busy banging  your head--what  did I do  to deserve
this?--you forget about  all the  potent forces that  went before,  the
strong bonds,  the love right there  beneath the surface. So  one day I
got a  call from another son.  "Mr. Talmud," as he  called his brother,
had come to his office on business they had together. "He walked in all
yarmulked  up," he  said, "and  I was  really embarrassed.  But  then I
thought, this is my brother. I love him. He's the  one who's important,
so why should I be embarrassed?"
 
   Just as he  was able to  open himself to what  he'd thought was  his
brother's  meshegas, this  son struggled  with Yom  Kippur and  finally
decided to  observe it. It's  something he  wouldn't have done  a short
time before. Meanwhile, my  eldest son transferred his children  from a
preschool where  there were hardly  any other Jewish  kids to  a school
where  they  have a  "Fridays  are  special" class.  My  seven-year-old
grandson (who  taught me to read  the letters on the  dreidel) was just
named  "Mensch of the Month"  in his Hebrew  school; his three-year-old
sister  waves her  little  hands  over  the  candles  and  recites  the
blessing.  So our family has something new--and old--going for it these
days.
 
   I'll never be as observant as he is--there's still too  much I can't
come to grips with. Yet I'm  deeply affected by the beautiful spiritual
and  ethical life, the almost holiness of hospitality, the morality you
can count on every time. Jewishness has become more wonderful to me, (I
was thrilled  when I was finally  able to recite the  blessing over the
candles!), and has brought deep, rich textures into my life.
 
   I've  become involved  with a  wonderful group  of other  mothers of
ba'alei teshuva ["returnees" to Judaism]. We talk over coffee about our
ups and downs and a rabbi discusses Torah with us. (There's inestimable
support in  these groups.  Seek one  out, get one  going, talk  to your
rabbi.)
 
   We  know our  children  haven't rejected  us  because they  chose  a
lifestyle  so different from  our own. Our  generation sought different
routes  to   happiness  and  fulfillment.  Just   as  generation  after
generation  has  done  down  throughout the  ages,  our  children  were
searching for a better life for themselves and their children. And they
found their answer in Yiddishkeit.
Reprinted with permission from Hadassah Magazine.
 
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