I am Jewish. I was born of Jewish parents, and though they weren't religious and did not raise me fully steeped in Jewish life at home or out in the world, I am still Jewish. Because the most murderous of the antisemites say so, and that is good enough for them to kill me if they ever get the chance.
I did not really find my way into Jewish communal life until my early thirties, when I walked through the door of a synagogue, liked what I found, and stayed. It was not until I had found my way into Jewish community that I began to feel Jewish.
Along the way, I learned early and often to not ask uncomfortable questions about Israel. I learned this because I had not grown up in a Zionist home; because I could never afford a trip to Israel or even to an American-Zionist summer camp experience; and because very early in my adult exploration of Jewish
communal life I learned that Zionism was for people with enough money to
express and explore it.
To my strange -- and estranged -- way of thinking, Israel seemed like a Jewish theme park to which American Jewish parents sent their kids each summer, in hopes that the kids would fall in love with Israel, come back changed, and spend the rest of their lives working in white collar professions and donating tons of money to Israel and other Jewish causes. In short, you sent your kid to Israel to teach them how to grow up to be a good macher.
Since I had not come from such a family, and since I was working for peanuts both in and out of the Jewish world, I would never become a macher myself. And yet, when I began teaching in Jewish religious school, it became clear that my job was to help raise up good Jews, Jews who would be faithful to Judaism, to Jewish community and to Israel.
I think this is where I began to struggle.
While I loved teaching music, Jewish life cycle and later on, Hebrew, to my young students, and I loved their energy and silliness, I struggled inside with my own sense of authenticity. How could I teach what I did not know for myself, what I did not feel for myself? With only a couple of exceptions, there was no one to help me in this struggle. Eventually, I learned to say NO whenever I was asked to teach about Israel. I was not equipped, and in certain ways I never would be. It mostly worked, and I mostly never had to teach about Israel, which got me off a very large hook.
Over time, as I grew in my Jewish knowledge and in my love of "doing Jewish," I became part of one, and then another, synagogue community. I went to services. I tried to pray, though I almost never knew if it was making a big difference. It was often very hard to sit still. When I learned that I could get up and go out into the foyer for short breaks, it was a revelation and a gift.
I grew in my understanding of phonetic Hebrew, and learned the meanings of the most important words. If I didn't always have what I'd call a relationship with God, well, who did? We all wrestled with that; as Jews we were supposed to.
As my gifts and skills became more apparent, and lots of voices suggested I put them to work professionally, I did so. Teaching in religious school, learning to lead services, and eventually even trying cantorial school (where I crashed and burned after one semester that showed me how far outside the bubble I still was). It was all highly informative and I am grateful for the experiences that came my way. I was able to fashion a sort of career for over twenty-five years, writing songs and touring as a Jewish artist- and educator-in-residence at synagogues across the country. And it was an amazing, wonderful time.
But there has been a hurdle I can't get over. And while you'd think it might be Israel, it's mostly not. I will leave it to others to argue whether Israel is a Jewish homeland or just another white colonial state.
I can't really answer that for myself, because the answer I keep coming up with is that it's probably a little of both, and that there is no solution, this war will never end until the world does.
That's not a popular stance to hold in the world, and I seldom discuss it with my friends, Jewish or not.
But I digress.
The real stumbling blocks for me have always been class and belonging.
It costs money, a lot of money, to Jewishly belong in an active way. There's an expected path and one simply sets their feet on it and starts walking. More accurately, one has their feet set on it in childhood and is supported along that path until they can walk it on their own.
For the less-monied, there's Torah study and a host of online possibilities, of course; but these more passive things simply don't stand in for the live, in-person experience of belonging in a group -- of knowing the lingo and having the right passwords and the shared comfort in common experiences of synagogue life and summer camp and all that goes with that.
And while it is possible to do some of those things in adulthood, as I did, it is not the same.
It cannot be the same because along with the commonality of those experiences comes a level of belonging that is simply not open to me. It never was. It never will be.
I am the daughter of The People Who Left. And who left again and again, never putting down roots in the places we lived, or even in their own marriage.
My parents were nomads of a sort and they never could really stop wandering.
My restless father spent more than half his life running away from who he really was; and my mother spent her life trying unsuccessfully to escape a truly horrible childhood, reinventing herself with each telling of her story to someone new.
How was I to learn about community, about putting down roots, from parents like these?
It was impossible, though I tried as hard as I could.
When I tried to "do community" in the Jewish world, I was successful to varying degrees.
What held me back every time was my lack of a Jewish youth and my lack of funds.
I'd watch as other Jewish artists enjoyed success after hard-won success, cranking out albums and making enough money on tour to keep going to conferences and getting their name and their songs out there every single year, three or four times a year, until finally they became the "it" folks, the people who were invited to do the super-cool things like become paid faculty at the very same conferences, or travel to Limmud UK (all expenses paid) to teach and perform. On top of this, many were also able to have children and pay synagogue dues and give their kids the Jewish education they'd had, or even better. How did they do it? Where did they come up with the money? How did they gain access? How did such a progression work?
I never got a single answer from an authoritative source. Instead, I cobbled bits and pieces of information together, and those pieces included:
-- growing up Jewish and Jewishly connected. This gets your foot in the door better and faster than anything else, including actual talent or skill. In fact, talent and skill rank farther down the ladder than you might think.
-- having a spouse who earns good, steady money doing something non-musical, and which usually comes with good health insurance and access to quality medical providers. In short, financial security that a musician can't usually earn on their own.
-- they or their spouse is full-time Jewish clergy with a pulpit. This is often a better paying gig than you might think, especially in the more liberal movements (though that is slowly changing, and I may address this in a later post). A starting full-time Rabbi in the Reform movement can generally earn at least $75,000 a year, and by the time they've been at it five years or more it's up over 100K. Plus they get an incredible benefits package.
For someone whose annual gross income topped out at under $30,000 -- and that was almost 20 years ago -- this is mindblowing. Equal parts "How have I lived on so little?" and "What on earth are these people spending so much money on?"
-- They know the right people because they all grew up doing Jewish together, or they know friends of friends who did. It's Jewish geography. I can play it to a small extent because of my years as a Jewish artist-in-residence, but my mileage is teeny-tiny compared to anyone who grew up in the bubble. Connections matter.
*****
| Congregation Beth Israel, 2008 |
How on earth did I even get a foothold in this scene? In retrospect, I'd have to say it was a combination of:
-- having talent and skills. I came into this scene in my thirties, already a trained musician with performing, teaching and arranging experience. Composing followed soon after and was a logical next step.
-- Being just quirky enough to get noticed. Coming from Oregon (not a Jewishly dense place) and talking about things like sustainability and using once's resources definitely caught peoples' attention.
-- not taking anything for granted. Lacking the entitlements that a Jewish upbringing and sense of belonging came with, I had to create a lot of myself and my music from scratch, and find more affordable ways to make and distribute my music. I'm fortunate in that I began my career before the internet had become ubiquitous and a hands-on approach could still be rewarded.
-- Being grateful for every scrap I could find. Because I knew I didn't have anything just coming to me. I was so tickled that anyone wanted to actually pay me to make music, how could I not be thrilled whenever a chance was offered? Even if it was for free, or for peanuts, it beat pulling lattes for a living.
*****
But I had stumbling blocks, too:
-- No Jewish connection while growing up, and a highly mobile childhood. They can't find you if you keep moving around.
-- Inconsistent and/or poor healthcare in my youth. My parents didn't always have insurance, and I couldn't always be seen by doctor when needed. As a young adult living in the time before the ACA/Obamacare, I had to live with chronic autoimmune conditions without insurance or medication, and this did make a big difference on my overall well-being and energy.
-- Coming out as a dyke in the 1980s. While I don't regret my choice to come out when I did, it was rough. I lost jobs and housing and got physically beaten up because of it. Coming into Jewish communal life in the late 90's as an openly queer woman was rough, too; synagogues weren't yet ready to accept me as I was, lending another layer to my sense of non-belonging. Hanging in there and waiting for the times to catch up with my reality wasn't easy. In hindsight, I know it had an averse effect on my mental and physical health, both in the short-term and the long-term.
-- marrying a woman. No matter what people say, women still earn less than men on the whole, and it costs a hell of a lot more to try and have a baby. During our infertility struggle we did not receive nearly as much support or empathy as a straight couple would. While we are in a much better place with our childlessness now, it was difficult and lonely to get to where we are now.
-- a highly evolved understanding of classism in the world, and in the Jewish world. When you grow up dreaming of things you can't have, and you end up earning even less than your parents did, it informs the way you see society. I don't apologize for that. It's just a thing.
In short, even with my ability and resourcefulness, I simply had too many strikes against me to end up where I saw so many of my colleagues ending up professionally. And personally.
Now that I am at the end of that career, it does take on a different glow. I am staring down an old age in which I will be physically limited, and low-income. I struggle to know my place in Jewish communal life, and twenty-five years of doing the dance and wearing the right clothes and facial expressions leave me wondering if that's all it ever was. Today, I don't feel drawn to synagogue attendance, or most Jewish rituals (though I still love lighting candles on Friday nights), and right now I honestly don't know how to be in or move through the world.
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| Joshua Tree National Park, 2013 |
I believe that this is a direct result of my recent ADHD diagnosis, and all the unmasking that has come with it. I am still reeling, and wondering who in the hell I even am. I am afraid that one day my partner will wake up and tell me she doesn't know who I am anymore, either. This makes me feel terribly alone and sad. And emotionally exhausted.
I wonder if or when I might feel differently. And where I will find myself.
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