Chapter one of A Modern Jewish Fairytale goes something like this. Single American Jewish girl steps up to a hotel bar in Tel Aviv. Orders a scotch. Israeli bartender smiles, turns up the bottle of Dewars, and says, "You too, huh?" American girl cocks her head; she doesn't understand. Bartender slides over her drink, then nods in the direction of the single American Jewish boy sitting two stools down: "He ordered the same thing."
Girl turns, on reflex.
Boy raises his glass towards the girl as if to say, It's true. See for yourself.
Girl leans in for a closer look: first the boy, then his glass. Sure enough, it's a match.
Boy says, "You're a scotch drinker, eh?"
Girl's response: "I like the brown water, yes."
Boy laughs, sets down his drink, and offers his hand. "I'm Scott."
Girl accepts the hand and another scotch. "Mara."
One year later, back in the States, the nice Jewish boy asks the nice Jewish girl to marry him.
I say "yes."
Chapter two: Mara vs. Levy. The Jewish bride-to-be's inner monologue that didn't make the final edit of A Modern Jewish Fairytale.
Mara: Mrs. Scott Greenberg. Green berg. Greenberg. God, how crazy is that?
Levy: Pretty crazy.
Mara: Mara Elizabeth Greenberg. Nope. Doesn't fit.
Levy: Oh puh-lease! You're Jewish. He's Jewish. Of course it fits!
Mara: But I've never dated a Jew!
Levy: Past tense. Besides, he's from Jersey. If you're gonna worry about anything, worry about that.
Mara: I don't get it.
Levy: I dunno, sounded funny in my head. I mean your head. I mean . . .
Mara: Yeah, well, it's not.
Levy: What do you want me to say, hyphenate?
Mara: Riiiiiiiight. Hyphenate. Mara Levy-Greenberg. It'd be like ordering Manishevitz at a bar in Mississippi.
Levy: You know what, I'm not having this conversation with you. Name your first-born Christina, for all I care, if you think it'll make you feel better.
Mara: Fine.
Levy: Fine!
[Long, awkward silence.]
Mara: Wanna be in the wedding?
Levy: Full bar?
Mara: Absolutely.
Is the name Greenberg any more Jewish than Levy? The tiny logical part of my brain does, in fact, know the answer to this question: of course not. So why, then, am I so uncomfortable trying on my new last name? Easy answer: I'm creating conflict because there isn't any other conflict to be had at the moment, and lack of conflict in my life is about as comfortable as my fat seventh-grade-self was at a junior high pool party. Honest answer: I can't shake the feeling that I'm outing myself to myself, even though, as my best friend, Meta, likes to point out, everyone already knows I'm a Jew.
I live in Taylor, Mississippi, where, to my knowledge, there is no synagogue within a hundred-mile radius. That is not to say I would actually attend Shabbat or High Holy Day services if there were. I wouldn't. Scott, on the other hand, lives in Los Angeles. He goes to Chaunkah parties — lots of them — and frequents Torah discussion groups. His company has an office in Tel Aviv, and it's not uncommon for him to take some of his Orthodox colleagues out to a
I never want to be categorized as that type of Jewish woman who seeks out that type of Jewish man.
kosher restaurant. Two thousand miles away, I'm lucky to find skim milk at the local grocery. Most of Scott's friends are Jewish. Most (okay, all) of my friends are drunks. Scott and I learned where each of us stood on religion and intermarriage during our first and only night together in Israel, long before phone numbers or email addresses were exchanged, when Scott was simply that nice American guy buying me drinks overseas.
"I will never convert," I offered, "but I don't think religion should dictate who a person can or can't fall in love with. It's too confining, especially for a secular Jew."
"If Jews stop marrying Jews," Scott countered, "and, more importantly, stop raising Jewish children, in a few thousand years we'll have our own little glass case next to the dinosaurs at the Natural History Museum in New York. There are roughly thirteen million Jews worldwide. That's less than one quarter of one percent of the world's population, and the numbers are getting smaller, not bigger."
"Great." I said. "Way to throw down the threat-of-extinction card. Nice move. Game over."
What I did not tell Scott was that I had never been attracted to a Jewish man, and that I secretly envy my first cousin, Suzanne, because she is a Jew who does not look like a Jew: petite, blue-eyed, blonde, with a very camera-friendly nose. Oh, how I envy that nose! I also didn't tell Scott that I don't care for, nor want to compete with, the single Jewish women in our age group. The ones, anyway, who use our religion not unlike business execs use their American Express Platinum Cards: always dialing the 1-800 number on the back to see what type of upgrade their membership will get them.
Yes, my aversion to dating Jewish men has, in part, stemmed from my even stronger aversion to that type of Jewish woman. What I was thinking — but could not admit to myself, much less Scott over drinks in Tel Aviv — was that I never wanted to marry a Jewish man from a "good" (code for wealthy) Jewish family, a man who works hard to maintain his perfect FICA score, has a law degree, and makes more than twice as much money as I do, because I never want to be categorized as that type of Jewish woman who only seeks out that type of Jewish man.
My fears of becoming a stereotype reached full bloom this past fall, while accompanying Scott to a Jewish wedding at the Diamond Plaza Banquet Hall in Great Neck, Long Island. Neither of us were in favor of going — we both strongly disapproved of Rachel, the bride — but Scott was one of only half a dozen friends that Aaron, the groom, had been allowed to
I threw down my Star-of-David-embroidered napkin over my steak knife as we returned to our seats.
invite to the wedding.
That is not to say it was a small celebration. The bride had taken great pains to ensure there was nothing small about it, including her dress, which (rumor has it) was built around the frame of a Volkswagen beetle in a Neiman- Marcus underground parking garage of undisclosed location. Repeat: I do not exaggerate when I say that it took great restraint on my part not to double-slug Scott in the arm and scream "punch buggy white" as Rachel walked down the aisle.
The irony of all ironies: Scott had pushed Aaron and Rachel's introduction at a bar in the city a few years earlier, Scott hoping to boost his old friend's ego by setting the stage for a one-night stand. And as we approached our assigned seats at the rehearsal dinner, our chairs directly across from the bride and groom's, Scott whimpered, "I still don't get it. She was just supposed to be a blowjob."
Having already arrived at my own, equally unfavorable, opinion of the bride, I couldn't help but respond with, "How do you think she got the ring?"
Before the salad plates had been removed, I had already decided that Rachel's gift for fellatio was a skill shared by, or rather passed down from, her already-married Jewish bridesmaids at our table. As the conversation jumped from luxury cars and clothing to expensive jewelry and nannies, it became painfully clear that all of Rachel's girlfriends had married well or, more accurately, married well off. And by the emotionally starved looks on their husbands' faces, I suspected that morals and values weren't the only things they swallowed on the night before their honeymoon. Gulp!
"I'm the only one at our table with their God-given nose." I told Scott, as we stepped outside between courses for some much-needed fresh air.
"It's bad," he said. "I know. But don't you think you're being just a wee bit judgmental?"
Feeling more than a little deflated, I said, "Yeah, I guess. I'll try to make nice over dessert."
I recall throwing my Star-of-David-embroidered napkin over my steak knife when we returned to our seats, as proof to God or Scott — or both — that I was capable of laying down my arms for a bit. Unfortunately, my white flag didn't wave for very long. As Scott was pushing my chair toward the table, the bridesmaid to my left gave me a hard once-over, followed by: "You're just so . . . natural."
"That wasn't meant as a compliment, was it?" I asked Scott, relieved he had stood witness to the jab.
"Nope," he chirped, trying to ease the blow with a hand on my thigh.
"Didn't think so," I said. "No."
Scott and I never made it to dessert. We left shortly after Rachel's younger sibling, an aspiring singer/actress with an equally questionable nose job as her sister, belted out her version of Barbra Streisand's "You Don’t Bring Me Flowers" in honor of the bride and
When Jews behave badly, I fear being held accountable for that bad behavior.
groom. Hands out, palms up. I'm pretty certain that had she more space, she would have done the dance routine she had choreographed for the song.
Would I have been any less bothered by the hollow vows, plastic surgery, vapid conversation and cruise-ship-worthy entertainment, had Rachel and Aaron's wedding occurred under a Christian umbrella? No, probably not, but I would have taken it less personally. This revelation struck with avalanche force during the car ride back to the hotel: when Jews behave badly, I fear being held accountable for that bad behavior, because even though I've spent most of my twenty-nine years denying any interest in my religion, I have always, in fact, identified as a Jew. And to acknowledge membership in this or any other group, is to accept the risk that a fellow member's questionable behavior may reflect poorly on me.
Had I been raised in Jersey, where 5.7% of the population is Jewish (my family was of the .6% in Texas), perhaps my relationship to Judaism would be different, confident, more like Scott's. I grew up in Austin and went to an Episcopal school. The only other Jewish girl in my class, Pamela Golden, broke bones when she sneezed. She was scarily fragile; we were not friends. When I found myself in Israel, not only was the nice American boy sitting two stools down Jewish, but so was the bartender, not to mention just about everyone else around me. It was that experience — of being in the majority — that has opened me to the possibility of redefining my role as a minority, back home in the States.
I am not marrying Scott because he is Jewish; he would not marry me if I weren't. Will I change my name to Greenberg after we get hitched? Yes, sooner or later, but I think in all fairness to both of us, I need to make sure I'm comfortable being a Levy first. n°
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Mara Levy lives in Taylor, Mississippi. She is also Tobin Levy's identical twin sister. For the record, Mara is older. By four minutes. She's the one on the right.
