Never Again ... Except Maybe Now

Things I didn't expect when I converted to Judaism

November 2023

IT WAS 1991. My husband David and I had been attending services weekly at a conservative synagogue in New York City, where we then lived. I’d spent the past year studying the religion with a rabbinical student. I’d just passed my “test” before a panel of rabbis, who’d asked me a few questions to determine that my desire to convert was sincere. What more was there to know?

But maybe my mother-in-law had a point. Until I met David, I’d had little interaction with Jews. That wasn’t a deliberate decision on my part. In the 1960s and ‘70s, the population of our hometown of Toronto remained largely of Scottish and Irish descent. The predominant religions of the city, like the rest of Canada, were various denominations of Christianity.

I grew up and was confirmed in the Anglican church (what is called the Episcopal Church in the U.S.). My family attended church on Christmas and Easter. Otherwise I didn’t think about religion too much. In elementary school there were two Jewish kids in my class. I was only made aware of this difference went they went missing for the High Holy days each fall. My reaction was pure envy: They got BOTH Jewish and Christian holidays off?

In high school I had several Jewish friends, some close. I can’t remember having a single conversation with them about their faith. Perhaps, like me, they weren’t especially religious. The only antisemitism I ever encountered growing up, I’m ashamed to say, happened within my own family. In my senior year at high school, I was editor of a section of our yearbook. One evening my late father, a talented graphic artist, was helping me with the layout. As we were captioning the members in a club photograph, he remarked of one, “That’s a real Yid name.” I was startled and offended, not least because that “Yid” was one of my good friends. I can’t remember what I said, but I definitely protested to the point that my stepmother pulled me aside. “You have to understand. Your father has been taken advantage of by Jews in the past.”

So: a double dollop of antisemitism.

As I became an adult, I met many more Jews. They were co-workers, bosses, and friends. What we now call “privilege” was something I enjoyed and was completely unselfconscious about. I’d grown up as a member of the majority my entire life. My ancestors were colorful figures from all over the British  Commonwealth: soldiers, sheep farmers, hoteliers, and pub-keepers. They’d never been pulled from their homes and murdered in camps. They’d never been singled out and persecuted for their religion. The only relative of ours who’d been killed in war was an uncle on my father’s side. He’d joined the Australian Air Force and was shot down on his first foray, over Belgium, during World War II.

If you’d asked me back then what I thought specifically about Jews it would be, truthfully, this: They tended to be insular, always taking care of their own. And they went on too much about the Holocaust.

I’m embarrassed by these views now, of course, even if they grew from ignorance. Unlike my father, I harbored no hostility towards any minority. But — to the degree I thought about it at all — I truly couldn’t understand why Jews needed to “stick together” so much. As a group, the Toronto Jews were highly successful and fully integrated into society. Why did they need so many of their own organizations? And why, at this point, did they need to keep bringing up the Holocaust? Wasn’t that a zillion years ago? To my 22-year-old, Christian mind, that seemed akin to complaining about what the Catholics did to my ancestors during the reign of Mary Tudor. (It’s astonishing to think that in 1975, we were only 30 years from the end of the Second World War,  less time than the time I’ve now been married.)

My views shifted after I met David. I learned to see Judaism from the inside rather than from the outside. He did not ask me to become Jewish for our marriage. Perhaps this stemmed from his own historically grounded mistrust of forced conversions. Or maybe David knew it was pointless to ask me to do anything I would be insincere about. Either way we couldn’t have a religious wedding. We were married by a Jewish traffic court judge in a civil ceremony in his parents’ backyard.

There are many issues a young couple needs to hammer out. At the beginning, the differences in our religion didn’t loom especially large between us, not least because I wore my beliefs pretty lightly. (A joke we repeated often during those early years: The Jews believe, but don’t attend; the Catholics attend, but don’t believe; and the Episcopalians — well, they always look so nice.) I took to accompanying David to High Holy Day and Shabbat services at the cavernous, historic synagogues on the Upper West Side. They were conducted almost entirely in Hebrew, which I found pleasantly mystical and even hypnotic. I learned to follow the prayers through the transliteration written on the opposite pages, with my eyes occasionally darting over to the translated English text (it’s something I still do). Gradually I learned to sing along to the major prayers and became familiar with the structure of the weekly service.

It was only when I became pregnant with our first child that the issue of our differing religions became pressing. So long as we were childless, it was easy to attend High Holy Day services with David’s family, and then spend the Christmas holidays with mine. (My mother was an early adopter of the Jewish tradition of eating Chinese take-out on Christmas Eve.)

But once David and I formed our new, independent family unit, we would need to build traditions of our own. Would we celebrate Hanukkah or Christmas? Passover or Easter? Moreover, would our children  identify as Jewish or a Christian - or, worse, nothing in particular?

By this point, we were regularly attending the synagogue with Rabbi Harlan Wechsler, a deeply kind and thoughtful man. I’d gradually come to embrace Judaism as my own. I loved how analytical the religion was. Centuries of debate and thought had gone into challenging and interpreting the ancient texts. The result was an admirable system of ethics to live by - and an exciting practice of critical thought. I liked the fact Judaism offered no explicit promise of Heaven or an after-life. What matters is what you do and who you are in this life.

I’d also come to embrace — and be embraced by — my Jewish community. It was like nothing I’d experienced growing up in the Anglican Church. Jews can’t start a formal service without a minyan, or group, of 10 worshippers. There is a Biblical premise for this rule, but the upshot is that we worship primarily as a community, not as lone individuals. This idea of community extends into every aspect of Jewish life. When you are sick, or depressed, or in need of help, there are people here for you. The rabbis of our congregations have not been remote or lofty figures, difficult to approach. They’ve known my children. They've welcomed my non-Jewish family into the synagogue for bar and bat mitzvahs. I’ve always felt comfortable seeking them out in times of personal distress.

This is perhaps one of the reasons Jews seem “insular” to outsiders. A  friend of mine overheard a woman say about the October 7 massacre in Israel, “They think they’re the Chosen People and can do whatever they like.” The default, antisemitic assumption is that Jews are insular because they are arrogant and look down upon others. In fact, the complete opposite is true: Jews have learned only too well over the centuries — and sadly, again  recently — that if they don’t look out for each other, no one else will.

But even that view minimizes the contributions Jews make to their non-Jewish communities. Jews give more to secular institutions than any other religious group in the United States, and more per capita to charity overall than non-Jewish Americans. Where there is a good cause - social, academic, cultural - there you will find Jews giving time, money, and energy. The tradition of civic engagement  stems no doubt in part from Jewish empathy for others who have been cast aside or discriminated against.

Yet even as I grew in understanding of Jewish religion, traditions, and mindset, I was still startled by my mother-in-law’s question that long-ago night before my conversion. Our first daughter was then three months old. The next day we would all head to the mikvah (basically, a full-size baptismal font) in which I would dunk my head, and David would dunk the baby’s head, and we’d both resurface officially as Jews.

“You could be putting yourself in danger. You could be putting your children in danger. You don’t know what it is like to face antisemitism,” she continued, genuinely worried and concerned. David’s father touched her arm. I insisted we’d be fine.

Why wouldn’t we be fine? It was 1991! The Nazis were gone. The Soviet system had collapsed. Democracy and freedom had prevailed. It felt as if everyone around the world was rejoicing. Murderous antisemitism seemed truly a thing of the past, a fading horror in a newly enlightened and liberated world.

A FEW YEARS later, on our eldest’s first day of pre-K, I pulled into the parking lot of her Jewish nursery school. I had to wait for a barricade to lift. Then I drove across the do-not-reverse tire spikes you encounter at rental car returns. I led our daughter through a side door, protected by a security guard. (If for any reason I needed to enter the school outside of drop-off and pick up, I’d have to be buzzed in. There was no casual popping-in.)

I’d soon notice that the small outdoor playground was hidden by tarps. One-way glass had been installed on the windows of the lower floor classrooms, as well as the main lobby. Much later, when our third child attended a Jewish elementary school, the downstairs windows had been upgraded to bullet-proof.

These precautions are not taken by secular and even other religious schools. This type of security, however, pervades  all aspects of Jewish public life. Catholics celebrating Easter don’t pass through a cordon of police cruisers and metal detectors. Muslim worshippers come and go to their mosques during Ramadan. And of course I’d never experienced anything like it during my years of attending Anglican church.

When I first encountered these safety procedures, did I think our Jewish institutions were overreacting, even paranoid? Yes, I did. We live in the capital city of the United States, for goodness sakes! 

Back then, in fact, I was so concerned that our kids might never understand the antisemitism their European ancestors had endured, I took them one day to the Holocaust Memorial Museum. I’d read that there was a special exhibition just for children. This seemed like a good, educational field trip for a day when they were off school and their father was at work.

“Remember the Children: Daniel’s Story” is a series of rooms on the museum’s main floor that relates  the experience of a German family and their son, Daniel, living through Nazi Germany. The exhibition is based on wartime diaries, recollections, and interviews with survivors of the camps. You enter the family’s “house” just before Hitler rises to power. You see bedrooms, a kitchen, a comfortable living room, all strewn with toys and the detritus of normal domestic life. Audio pipes in children’s laughter, parental voices, a kettle boiling, a doorbell ringing.

Very quickly the exhibits grow darker: A radio crackles with news from the Nazi government: “Jews must be driven out.” You pass through streetscapes now. The windows of the family’s store are shattered. Daniel is banned from attending school and forbidden from entering his neighborhood park. Their synagogue is burned down, yellow stars are issued. You see where it’s going. The last room is Auschwitz. “Have you ever been punished for something you didn’t do?” Daniel asks.

When we got home, David, to my surprise, was annoyed with me for subjecting our kids to such an outing. I thought I was being a good convert: Wasn’t this history essential for our children to learn if they were to identify as Jews? His father’s family had been all but wiped out, his father’s grandmother shot by the side of a road. One day our children would be told this. Why not expose them to it?

David insisted he didn’t want our children growing up feeling anything but strong and secure in their identity as Jews. Suffering shouldn’t always be at the core of this identity. Whatever may have happened historically, Jews could now take care of themselves as needed. 

David, too, was optimistic.

MY FIRST PERSONAL encounter with antisemitism occurred a few years ago, at the Dupont Circle farmer’s market. It was a beautiful Sunday morning in June. I’d parked beside a Mediterranean restaurant overlooking the circle, its outdoor tables filled with urban brunchers. I began loading my bags into the trunk. An older, heavyset man connected to the restaurant — I can’t tell you if he was the owner or a manager — was sitting nearby with a customer, close enough that I could overhear their conversation. The man was relaying some experience he’d recently had in Europe.

“The rats are everywhere. Everywhere I tell you…”

Hah, rats, I thought. They’re everywhere in Dupont Circle, too. Probably right now in the restaurant’s back kitchen.

“They get into everything. These Jews — they are the rats of Europe.”

I paused loading the car. Had I just heard that correctly?

Yes. The man continued his Jews-as-rats analogy while his companion continued to eat wordlessly.

I stared into the trunk, uncertain what to do. Should I just let it go? What do I care about this old antisemite? What do you even say to such a person?

I raised my arm to close the trunk and inadvertently caught his eye. He smiled and nodded. Now I felt I had to engage.

“It’s funny,” I said, “but you just never know who is listening to your conversation.”

He continued to smile, as if I were striking up pleasantries.

“You just called Jews the ‘rats of Europe,’” I stated.

The man seemed unabashed.

“That’s really offensive.”

He shrugged. His indifference made me angrier.

“I’m Jewish. Does that make me a rat?”

Now the man appeared surprised. “You’re Jewish?”

“Yes I am.”

“But you don’t look Jewish!”

He suddenly rose from his seat as if to apologize. What he said next only made it worse: “You’re blonde … you’re not typical!”

“You mean I don’t look like a rat?”

I shook my head and got into the car. As I turned on the ignition I could hear him still calling after me, “How was I supposed to know?”

THE OTHER DAY I visited an 86-year-old friend of mine. She grew up  Jewish in the days of Charles Lindbergh and America First. I asked her: In your lifetime have you ever seen such levels of antisemitism in America? She replied, simply, “No.”

Even before the massacre on October 7, this year  had seen the highest levels of anti-semitic incidents ever recorded . As of March, 91 bomb threats had already been made against Jewish institutions. Campus and school incidents were up 50%, with a 31% rise overall from 2022.

How will we keep count now?

As a convert to Judaism, I don’t have the same visceral reaction to the events of October 7 as David or other Jews whose ancestors died in the Holocaust. To them the images are all too familiar: Entire families shot in their homes; babies slaughtered in their cribs or burnt alive in ovens; young girls and grandmothers and toddlers hauled away, screaming, now captive in some place in hell. Except these new images are as modern and immediate as an Instagram post or a TikTok video. They are not the black-and-white ancestral photos that hang in Jewish homes: A newly married couple vacationing at the Russian seaside. A group of brothers posing in front of a painted frieze in a photographer’s studio in Kielce. A mother and daughter wearing their finest dresses of white lace; someone has written in pencil on the back, “Lublin 1904.” Their paper eyes stare through glass and time. You don’t want to think of their fates.

Still, as a convert, I recoil in horror and surprise from the so-called civilized world’s breach of “Never Again.” Who would have predicted that we’d see Jewish businesses boycotted and vandalized ? Or hear professors at distinguished institutions of learning celebrate Hamas’ violence while television hosts and students call for the slaughter of Jews everywhere? We see violent anti-Jewish mobs in the streets of cities on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean. Who would have thought that posting photos of kidnapped children could be considered a provocative act? 

No Jew anywhere feels safe right now. Many have immediate personal connections to those who were murdered or kidnapped. In our family, a cousin of David’s numbers among the missing. Omer, 22, is an Israeli- American soldier (his parents live in New York), who’d volunteered for military service before attending SUNY-Binghamton.

On the morning of October 7, Omer and his unit were stationed near the Gaza border. They received  an alert that something was happening. They proceeded toward the border. They were ambushed by huge numbers of terrorists armed with rocket-propelled grenades. Omer’s tank was hit and caught fire. His crew was forced out. He and his men were beaten and taken hostage. 

Omer is the same age as our youngest daughter.

I remember just after 9/11, public figures and politicians — led by President Bush himself — voiced concerns that ordinary Muslims might be targeted in the wave of shock and anger that followed the terrorist attacks. And while there were indeed issues of subsequent “Islamophobia,” no respectable leader of an institution or organization would ever have been equivocal about the wrongness of abuse of American Muslims, or suggested every Muslim be blamed for the atrocities of 9/11. 

Yet this is what we are seeing now. The vilification of Israelis and Jews after October 7 is like  blaming the passengers on the doomed flights of 9/11 for their own murders — while hailing Mohamed Atta as a hero.

As the owner of the Second Avenue Deli in New York — whose building was graffitied with swastikas — told a reporter, “It’s sad that people just feel the need to say they hate Jews in 2023. That people can just be so open about it. That Jew hatred is out there [and] now people just feel more empowered to say it.”

It’s not what I expected my children to face in their lifetimes. It’s certainly not what I expected when I became a convert. But I don’t – could never – regret my decision. If anything, it’s only made me more passionate and committed to being Jewish. 

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WE RECEIVED SO many comments about October’s newsletter that I feel I need to write a whole separate newsletter in reply. Because this issue has run long (and tight to deadline), I’ll save everyone’s responses to the December newsletter. I’m especially keen to give voice to the men who disagreed with me. In the meantime, feel free to comment on this month’s essay — or add to the comment section of October’s. I promise every one will get read — and answered!

In the meantime, please share The Femsplainers newsletter with friends and family — and if you haven’t already …