A tale of two brothers
It's a strange thing that death brings people together. And although it does make sense, reminding people about what is truly important in life, it's also sad to think it's possibly one of the only ways to mend broken bonds. Imagine two brothers. Two brothers who were so close you couldn't find one without the other. Two brothers who, when younger, played with each other, shared secrets, and hugged. Then something changed. One became an orthodox rabbi and the other didn't. In the beginning, neither of them thought it would break their bond, but when the unorthodox brother married a non-Jew, their once tightly knit relationship unraveled. "It's like drugs," the rabbi said. "If David had a drug problem, I wouldn't continue my relationship with him because what he was doing was wrong. I wouldnt want to encourage him." So for years the brothers went without speaking to one another, and in turn affected the entire family. Is this right? First of all I should mention this is a true story, it's not a hypothetical case I put on the page to bring up a dialogue about how religious beliefs can negatively affects families. I'm also not saying that religion always has a negative impact when it comes to family, because it often acts as an ingredient to bring families together. However, in the above scenario, it saddens me to think that because of a belief one could turn against his or her own sibling. Does religion truly turn everyone into an "other"? Jewish in the Midwest during WWII
This entry is a continuation of an oral history I did with my grandmother on her parents' immigration to America from Russia, growing up Jewish in a German neighborhood and simply being a Jewish girl in the Midwest. For the first entry, Midwest Judaism in the 1920s, click here. So sixteen was a great year for me, starting with my first kiss. Then Harold taught me how to drive. My brother Ruby started driving when he was thirteen because there was no legal age, (nor was there such a thing as a license). I didn't have my own car so I would use my father's. Papa had an old brown and beige Studebaker station wagon with the panels on the sides. When it would rain, we would have to go and nail them down. Although things between the Germans and the Jews in the neighborhood were tense, they intensified at the start of the war. Women that had always been friendly to my mother on the street began to ignore her. The ill comments and cruelty did not affect my parents; they never once doubted their faith. As the war continued the neighborhood began to clear out. First the family on the right corner, then their neighbors, soon the entire neighborhood was barren. Each day we would talk about what family had left their home and my mother and father would shake their head in disgust, as the Germans in the neighborhood fled to Germany to help fight the war. Midwest Judaism in the 1920s
For the next blog entries I'm going to be sharing with you the oral history I did with my grandmother. Many people forget, or simply don't know, that Columbus, OH has their fair share of Jewish grandmothers. The following story will introduce you to Judaism in the Midwest and give you a sense of what it was like for a Jewish female growing up with Russian parents in the 1920s. My grandmother's story is juxtaposed with my story, to show the difference in generations and to show how Judaism has changed within my family over the years. The blog will alternate between my grandmother and my own story. ___________________________ I was born on May 20th, 1919 in a hospital in Columbus, Ohio. I turned out to be the second eldest child, but the only daughter, of Bessie and Benjamin Greenberg. My parents were immigrants from Russia who came to the US separately in 1917. When Mama came over, she brought her three sisters, Rose, Molly, and Alta. Mama also had a brother who had decided to stay in Russia because he was in the army. During this time, a lot of Jews in Russia were enlisted in the army and it was safer for them to stay than for others. He didn't know what would happen to him if he left, and he was scared of what could happen to him in 'The New World.' Mama never saw her brother again. They sort of kept in touch, but Mama wasn't very good at writing. All she could do was send him money. A community of one
I haven't written in a while, and I apologize. The reason, however, is that I've been feeling a bit disconnected from Judaism these days. Living in Madrid for the last year and a half, the only Jewish types of things I've done have been Yom Kippur services (where I had twenty euro stolen from me) and a Rosh Hashanah dinner in my apartment. When my grandmother was alive, and I lived closer to home, I felt a strong sense of Jewish identity. Now, living far away, and not having a Jewish community, I'm feeling, well, less Jewish every day. I'll be honest, and I hate to admit it, but I didn't even remember when Passover was this year. I've already felt like a different kind of Jew because of dating outside my religion, and now I'm feeling like a lazy one because I'm no longer involved, even on a very traditional level. This is the farthest I've ever felt from being Jewish. 'Different' is good
For me, tradition has always been attached to Judaism. The way we set the table during holidays or Shabbat dinner, the plates we use, the food we cook, the way we are supposed to dress for synagogue, all of these things we do because of tradition. We do them because my grandmother's mother did them, and her mother before, and so on. Sure it's strange when you meet another Jewish family who has different traditions than your own, but just because their traditions may seem strange, it doesn't make them less Jewish, it just means they have different traditions. Whether we keep these traditions alive today because we believe in them, or because it's what we've always done, and what we know, I'm not sure. But I do know that traditions do change. Think about what happens when people get married? How do you decide what traditions to keep and which to set aside? My grandmother was Judaism
The last couple of weeks have been difficult. Difficult because my grandmother, the woman who not only loved me unconditionally since the day I was born but also instilled in me, and everyone she knew, her love for Judaism, passed away. She was the matriarch of our family, and we all maintained specific religious traditions for her. The synagogue that my grandmother and grandfather belonged to in Columbus, Ohio became the synagogue of my family. We stayed at the synagogue not because we felt like it reflected who we were as Jews but because it was where my mother went when she was younger, and a community that my grandparents were so involved in. But now, what would happen? Without my grandmother, what would happen to the traditions of our religion? Little White Lies
Is it okay to tell a lie to repair a relationship? This is a question I have been struggling with for a couple months now. Where does the question come from? Well, as you may have gathered in my previous posts, my grandmother and I have different views on what it means to be Jewish. Although we both feel it necessary to preserve the Jewish faith, the way in which we go about it is different. At the moment, I am dating a non-Jew. Because I am dating a non-Jew, my grandmother is not a happy camper. Don't get me wrong; I definitely understand where my grandmother is coming from. If I do not date a Jew it is more likely that I won't marry a Jew. And if I don't marry a Jew my children are less likely to remain Jewish. Statistically, this is true. The National Jewish Population Survey found that only a third of interfaith couples raise their children Jewish and are less likely to involve themselves in Jewish activities. "Have you met any nice Jewish boys over in Spain?" she asks me over the phone. "No, grandma. I haven't met anyone." |
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