I Married a Jew and You Can Too, Part I

As an Irish-Catholic girl growing up just outside Boston, I did something not one of my thirty-two cousins did: I married a Jew.  From a young age, I was quite familiar with and awe-struck by Judaism.  I had many Jewish friends and the bar and bat mitzvahs I attended during my middle-school years set many party benchmarks for our regional, adolescent society.  The Jewish kids in town had serious social capital.  Though most people I knew had cousins in Southie and the popular boys in school started dressing like New Kids on the Block, our school was racially, economically, and religiously mixed.  And everyone was more or less friends, or at least friendly.  So I was shocked, after a few years into my marriage, when my husband declared "You're such an anti-Semite!"  

What?  How could that be possible?  Two of my best friends are Jewish.  I love Jews.  Ben Stiller, Adam Sandler, Barbara Streisand, Neil Diamond, Jon Stewart, Matisyahu, Goldie Hawn, Sarah Jessica Parker and I LOVE Ari Gold (fictional Jew, but still)----OK.  I know that sounds like I like Jews when they shuck and jive for the Gentiles but I married a Jew.  Actually, I married  a New York Jew, which represents an entirely different cultural group than the somewhat religious, Bostonian Jews I knew growing up. To get even more specific, my husband was a progressive, political, agnostic Jew (think: Woody Allen taking Golda Meir to see "A Mighty Wind" and running into Mollie Katzen and Jerry Sienfeld at the theater.)  To be sure, my husband and I (like any new couple) had some cultural territory to explore.  My husband had a few odd behaviors that perplexed me.  When I questioned them, he always offered the same answer:  "Because I'm a Jew."  There was one saving grace in our rivaling, interfaith partnership: he was a Mets fan. 

No matter where we were or in what company, somehow my husband always connected the conversation to politics, social justice, or equity.  The Irish might bitch about the "feckin' POMS", but we don't go on and on about oppression.  Life's just too bloody short.  Also, I have never seen him hungover.  I've never really seen him drunk, like stumbling, not-able-to-drive, drunk.  He also has a taste for things that I would only feed to a cat, like pickled herring.  His mother does not use candles in her house for fear of burning it down and when family members die, you might inherit their musical instruments.  He knows specifics about Russian and Eastern European History. Somehow these details were part of his identity.  My family was uber-religious so it was hard for me to accept my husband's non-practicing  form of Judaism as valid.  "But you're not even Jewish." I'd say.   I confused religion and culture. 

We found humor in our differences. My husband found my eccentricities amusing.  On the way to a friend's party I asked him, "What are you drinking tonight?" He looked at me as if I had suggested we drive around the block until we ran out of gas.  He was as amazed at how I planned my liquor for the night as he was that I said a prayer to Saint Anthony anytime I lost something.  He thought it a bit queer and superstitious that I had Saints medals and rosaries around our statue of the Buddha.  None of this mattered until we had kids. Or maybe it mattered, but like an early period, we didn't see it coming.  

It's true, what they say, marrying your own kind is easier.  There is so much that you don't need to explain.  But, once we had kids and the holidays rolled around, it seemed there was a lot of explaining to do, to the kids and to each other.  Suddenly being Irish Catholic seemed to matter.  Just being from Boston seemed to matter.  And my husband felt the same way about being Jewish and being from New York.  Oy vey.

"What's with the Jesus stuff?", he asked.  

"Well, it's a manger and it's Christmas and the kids need to know the story of Christmas." 

"Well, what about Hannukah?" 

"If you want to do Hannukah, go ahead." 

My preparation became my power.  I knew he didn't even have a menorah, let alone know the story of the Maccabees well enough to share it with the kids.  I knew the Old Testament.  I knew more about Judaism than he did.  I felt righteous.  I would win our little, homegrown religious war...

  

Dear reader, you will have to wait for this story's lessing.  It is a two-parter.  Will Michelle and Peter find common ground?  Will they embrace tolerance and diversity?  Will Michelle recognize her anti-Semitism?  Will Michelle ever get Peter drunk?  Stay tuned....