Identity

I find myself fascinated with the idea of identity. What separates us into groups, and what makes us feel like we belong. I started reading this book on Indian culture in the United States – what constitutes membership in a specific tribe and what doesn’t. I see the parallels to Jewish culture – this tribe that I’ve inserted myself into – sometimes easily and sometimes kicking and screaming. I converted to Judaism for my kids, absolutely. Would I have converted if I didn’t have Marc? I don’t know. But once I knew that I was having children with this man, I threw myself into learning everything I could about Judaism. The more I read, the more it resonated with me, and the more I thought it made sense to convert. I wanted to raise them within organized religion, to give them a base and a sense of identity. Judaism was just organized Church of Melissa.

I’m looking at the tail end of childrearing. My oldest is 22 (which is an entirely different post that still freaks me out), and my youngest will be 15 in a few months. I’m not done, but I’m a lot closer than one might imagine. And their sense of identity is Jewish. Completely. But it’s also one that, if I can speak for them, is an identity that encompasses their history, my history. The history they inherited from me. The frustration with rules, the desire to make their own way. Yes, they love challah and high holidays, and lighting Shabbat candles is second nature for Friday nights. But they also love Christmas carols and the beach (which is the closest thing to a holy place for my mother).

In the end, I secured their identity. They are Jewish, and they know that both their parents are Jewish. Their identity isn’t anything they question – which feels so incredibly right, given that I spent so much time questioning if I was doing the right thing, enough of the right thing for them.