Don’t know what that says about what they think of my hair…anyway, that’s beside the point of this discussion!

More to the point, the idea of modesty and what it means keeps coming back to me more and more.

In Israel, at the program I was a part of, I met girls much younger than me, bat sheruts, who dressed modestly but with so much confidence and sense of style. I didn’t even know they were frum the first time I saw them, but after this was revealed, I realized that what they were wearing, despite looking even hippiesh, conformed to all the rules of modesty.

And it was comfortable looking as well as very well-put together and nice.

I, on the other hand, have serious problems with clothing because of my body-type which is, how should I put it, curvy. In addition, I am very blessed in the chest area. This causes a real problem since almost anything I wear on top short of a turtleneck has the potential to become revealing. As a teacher, I struggle with this problem everyday.

Will something show when I lean forward? A mere shift in my blouse for any reason is a threat of some cleavage being revealed somehow.

Suddenly, the rule of just wearing tops with necklines above the collarbone is sounding more and more appealing.

In general though I think I am “getting” modesty. This has been a taboo subject for me. Anti-feminist. Repressive of women. Old-fashioned.

Now I’m starting to see the other side. I’m starting to understand what these women – Muslim and Jewish – mean when they say their modest clothing gives them more freedom.

In fact, I do feel more comfortable wearing a long skirt and a high-cut top. This begs the question: when I do wear clothes that is revealing, who am I wearing it for? It’s certainly  not comfortable nor practical.

In the case of skirts, for example, short skirts are a nightmare! You have to be paranoid about how and where you are going to sit, not to mention how you are going to get back up again without the skirt sliding up as well. If you plan to dance or move around at all, it has to be done with extreme caution and a short skirt will very much limit your movement in general.

So, how is this liberating for women?

I’m beginning to realize that I’ve never given a second thought before conforming to clothing that in truth I don’t want to wear at all. When I’m home and can wear what I want, I would never dream of putting on a short skirt, tight-fitting jeans or a low-cut dress. These are not clothes I like.

Don’t get me wrong – I don’t usually wear short skirts at all, but I’m just giving an extreme example so it’s easier to explain the things I’ve been realizing about modesty.

Some people think religious people – especially women – are slaves to modesty laws.

Well, I think that a whole lot more people are slaves to the laws of “if you’re a woman, you need to show some skin to get what you want.” Now what could be more sexist and anti-feminist than that?

And do you know when was the first time I heard that? When I was 14. I was getting ready for a school dance and my best friend at the time said, “You have the perfect body. You need to flaunt it. Show some more skin!”

Her mom was right there with us and approved of the comment and the idea that I should wear a top that exposed my midriff as opposed to the regular top I was wearing before.

Somehow, that stupid idea that I needed to “show some more skin” if I wanted to get attention stuck with me for years!

I’m going to break from that now…I think I’ve decided that from now on I will dress more modestly. I think I love myself a little more now. I’ll keep what’s mine to myself and to share with only those I want to.

Nobody is going to pressure me to do otherwise anymore.

When I first discovered Judaism, I was fascinated, enthralled, totally obsessed with everything related to it. In the beginning there were literally a few sleepless nights just because I wanted to read more. I can only remember feeling anything similar when I fell in love for the first time. I was in love I think – except that this time with something even more complicated than a man.

And I think I am still in love with Judaism, but just like my love with my husband matured, I believe my love of Judaism and of just being Jewish is also maturing.

Partly it’s because I am realizing that this is a journey and that I do not have to do everything at once, nor will I be able to. I will do my best to live an honest and good life following the principles of Judaism which I have come to love and believe in so dearly. I know I won’t always succeed, but I will give it my best try and when I miss the mark, I’ll try again.

I will also not try to be something I am not nor fit anyone’s stereotype of anything. On this journey I have been confused by a number of things – partly because of the strange way into which I ran into Judaism, which was thru genealogy. I do have Jewish ancestors and I am proud of that, but I also have many other ancestors. On my dad’s side there is a huge mix of Portuguese, Portuguese Conversos, Brazilian natives and even Germans. My mom’s side, which has most of the Jews I found, is less mixed because there was a tradition of only marrying cousins, but even so we are Brazilians, hybrids par excellence, and even when not in blood, definitely by culture.

There is a wonderful movement of people rediscovering the Anusim/Converso roots of their families such as I did and reclaiming their Jewish heritage. I think this is great! However, the unfortunate side of this is there are already many trying to take advantage of this for their own purposes, whether they be political, religious or purely idealistic. I guess what I’m saying is I don’t want anyone’s agenda on my personal journey, especially because I’m not going to fit most people’s romantic ideas about “secret Jews”. I suspect most Anusim actually don’t – after all we’re all just humans – but from the forums I read online I can tell many try very hard to fit into this stereotype, probably in order to be accepted.

For my part, I will try to be realistic. I am a Jew because this religion found me and it fits my heart. I don’t know if I chose it or it chose me – probably both – but I have taken it up, I have embraced the Jewish people, I have made my promise to G-d to live as a Jew and I am eternally grateful that I can do it, because doing anything else was painful to me. It is the most beautiful religion that I know and I believe it is an honour to practice it.

However, I will not fabricate any illusions about my ancestors. Centuries ago there were Jews in my family and they were forced to convert and hide from the Inquisition. This is a history many know and that’s exactly what it is: history. A sad history, but a fact. Maybe some of them kept some traditions, but it’s also fact that over the generations Judaism was lost in my family. My mom, for example, who went to a Catholic school, is a happy Catholic.

And I am a Brazilian, a person of mixed heritage, as 99% of all Brazilians. That’s what makes us great!

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve been in the mikvah and I am Naomi, 100% Jewish, but I will not stop recognizing that the richness that makes me, me includes Portuguese culture, African culture, Native Brazilian culture and even Arab culture – all the cultures that have greatly influenced Brazil or the Portuguese.

I will also not bow down to the whims of any Jewish denomination. It is sad there are so many divisions, but if the denominations cannot agree amongst themselves, I have thankfully met many Jews who do and do not give such importance to labels such as Reform, Conservative or Orthodox. I just want to be a Jew. I feel as comfortable praying at Chabad as I do at the Reform shul and right now I feel like I should not have to choose. So I won’t.

I am learning and will observe mitzvahs at a pace that I and my family (meaning my non-Jewish husband) can handle. I am sure that G-d will appreciate that I am doing my best. When I have children (which I really hope I will…), I will pass down Jewish values to them and hopefully ignite a love of Judaism in their hearts since I think there is so much to learn from it.

I think that this is the best I can do.

I got there and had no idea what to expect. When I walked in he was having a meeting with another conversion candidate, who was on the verge of tears and I also knew the person, so I was embarrassed to walk in on them and almost walked straight out. The rabbi told me to come in, however, so I did and sat down with my book.

Finally, my turn came. I didn’t know what he expected me to do so I started talking about the book. He didn’t seem very interested though. He asked me to remind him of why I was there. “So, why are you here again? You got a Reform conversion and now you want an Orthodox conversion? Is that right?”

“Well, actually, I don’t know yet. You see, I would love to get an Orthodox conversion – I would do it – but I’m married and my husband is not Jewish. So, I’m guessing that wouldn’t be allowed? I think maybe it’s easier if I tell you my whole story of why I converted.”

So, I told him the whole, entire story of why I converted – or as much of it as I could. I of course also mentioned my family history and the genealogy searches I had done. This was near the end.

So, the rabbi finally said, “OK, let me see your genealogy.” I had prepared for him what I knew was the only thing that interested him. The maternal line as far back as I could go. And I included the information on family members I had found, including from Inquisition records. One of the husbands of the women on my maternal line had been burned alive at the stake in Brazil in 1737, accused, of course, of being Jewish.

He looked at it for a long time. Finally, he said, “Marranos are not the area of expertise of the Bet Din here in Vancouver. What I suggest is that you put together all this information you have and send it to a Bet Din that can certify that you are Jewish. You might have to go to the Chief Rabbinate in Israel.”

I was skeptical about this. First of all, it didn’t seem like it would be that simple at all. I said that to him, “But that’s probably going to take years!”

“No,” he answered. “I don’t think it would take years. I think it might take two months and then they’ll give you a letter saying you are Jewish. You are not the only Marrano or descendant of Portuguese or Spanish Jews out there. I’m sure there are people specialized in this. You have to find one of them to help you out.”

I was still afraid he was trying to get rid of me in some way. “But I think it’ll be really difficult for them to recognize this.”

“If I didn’t think you had a case, I would say you were barking up the wrong tree. There was a man who came here and also said he was the descendant of Marranos, but all he had was the custom of one grandfather, which was a Jewish custom. I told him to not even think of going down this route. It would lead him nowhere. But I can see you have a lot of things here and you spent a lot of time on this. I am saying you should pursue it.”

I was confused still. “So, should we discuss the book.”

Rabbi: “Huh? Oh, if you are already Jewish, I don’t see any reason for a conversion.”

So, that was that. Life keeps on surprising me!

Sábado = Saturday, but also Sabbath in Portuguese. Its origin is from the Hebrew Shabbat and from the Judeo-Portuguese word sabá.

Curiosity: Portuguese, differently from other European languages, which have days named after planets, such as “Monday”, “lunes” and “lundi” (“moon day” in English, Spanish and French, respectively), numbers all days from 2 to 6. Monday is number 2, “segunda-feira”, the second, not the first day of the week).

Tâmara = date (fruit), from the Hebrew for date, “tamar” (תמר).

Curiosity: Spanish, often compared to Portuguese, stuck to the Latin “dátil”.

Chá = Tea, from Ladino (Judeo-Spanish) “chay” (pronounced “shay”). Noticeably different from the Spanish “té” and the French “thé”.

Curiosity: It was a Portuguese woman of Jewish origin who introduced tea to the Queen of England for the first time.

Azeite, azeitona = Olive oil and olive, respectively. From the Hebrew ha-zeit (“the olive”).

A couple of days later, I get a phone call from him. I’m on the bus talking to a friend and tell the rabbi I will call back later. Oh no, now I sound like I just don’t care. I start to worry about everything I said on the phone and my tone of voice. Now I’m obsessing.

Finally, I talk to the rabbi that evening. He starts off by saying, “So, what did you want to tell me…” but I think he quickly remembers how long my email was and, probably fearing I’d start to relate the whole thing again, corrects himself and says, “I read your email, but I’m not sure what you want from me…” Ah, yes, poor rabbi. It’s true. I wrote a gigantic email, but what exactly did I want to come out of it? Who knows. I don’t even know!

Let’s see, I wrote an email to an Orthodox rabbi about the whole journey that brought me to get a conversion in Progressive Judaism and I said I wanted to talk to him later about a relationship which is, of course, my marriage to my non-Jewish husband. When I wrote this email and when I sent it, I, obviously, already knew what his opinion would be on all of this. I mean, what did I expect? Applause? It’s almost like going to a Catholic priest and asking him his opinion on your upcoming marriage to your lesbian partner. And then wondering if it could be done in the church…ai, ai, ai…retarded? Masochistic? Yes, yes!

In my email I also talked about my discoveries of my family’s Marrano/Converso past, some of the traditions, and the dreams I’d had. I couldn’t give the rabbi a proper answer as to what it was that I wanted, so he continued the conversation. He was calm and patient. Someone had to be in this crazy conversation!

“Did you want a confirmation of Jewishness? Because apart from a few things you talked about here, it doesn’t seem like your family has a tradition of being Jewish. Would your mom say she was Jewish?” “No,” I admit, already kicking myself once again for writing the email. “She would say our family was New Christian (Marrano), but she wouldn’t say she was Jewish.” “So,” the rabbi went on, “this was a long time ago. 400 years. There is a possibility, but it’s very hard to prove. All it takes is for one person on that family line that wasn’t Marrano…” All of this I knew…

“Yes, but after all I went through in the last year and a half and all I’ve learned, I know I am Jewish because I feel Jewish.” Appeal to emotion. I felt brave and scared at the same time as I said this. Here I was, on the phone with an Orthodox rabbi whom I knew did not consider my conversion valid, and I boldly stated, “I know I am Jewish.” Respectfully, of course, not defiantly. I was simply speaking from the heart. But I knew there was the serious risk that the statement would prompt him to spell it out even more clearly for me and say, “No, you are not.”

He didn’t. Instead, I think he remembered the note on the email about the relationship I wanted to discuss. He suddenly changed the line of questioning. “Are you single? Married?” “I am married.” “Is he Jewish?” “No, he’s not. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Surprisingly, I felt almost relieved. I needed to talk about this with this rabbi. I don’t know why. I had of course talked about it in great length with the rabbi that did my conversion. But I still needed to talk about it.

“My husband is agnostic,” I continued. “He doesn’t follow any religion.”

Now the rabbi got it. “You’re stuck between a rock and a hard place.” Tell me about it!

“You have to choose between your husband and Judaism. But first of all comes family unity.”

“I know,” I continued. “But I don’t know what else to be if I am not Jewish. I don’t fit anywhere else – I just want to fit somewhere. If I were to follow my husband and be like him, I would have to have no religion and raise my kids with no religion. But I don’t want to do that – I’m not like that.” I was getting desperate and on the verge of crying.

“And I asked G-d for guidance this whole time. I asked that if I was doing the wrong thing, don’t let me do it. So, I think, if I am wrong, I don’t understand why I keep getting deeper and deeper into this…” Now I thought I was babbling and whining like a hopeless kid. My anger and frustration with G-d showed. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I’m making any sense,”  I apologized to the rabbi.

“No. Actually, you do make sense,” he said. His tone was almost reassuring at this point.

“Is your husband not interested in Judaism? Has he read books about Judaism?”

The conversation continued on for a little bit and ended with a reading assignment. “Read This is My G-d by Herman Wouk and then call me back so we can discuss it.” I wanted to say more but the tone in the rabbi’s voice indicated to me that he wouldn’t talk to me until I read the book. I agreed to this.

What was I agreeing to? Ai, ai, ai…what am I getting myself into?

G-d, where are you leading me?

I repeat my request: if this is wrong, don’t let me do this.

In the first chapter it already became clear Susan’s conversations weren’t going to be solely with G-d at all. She states that she’d always known she loved Jesus and Jesus loved her. And, so, it ended up her angry conversations were with G-d and Jesus and the book, I guess, is about her finding Jesus again, and G-d maybe.

An interesting thing to ponder about. Susan’s story is in ways similar to mine, but in other ways so hugely different! She describes being a child with a very Christian mom (Lutheran) and who really liked to talk to G-d, except in her case this included Jesus. Then, as she grew older, she drew away from G-d, and I guess for her this includes Jesus, but then later she found her way back.

Once again I found myself pondering over the question of why it is that I am so vastly different than most people with a similar upbringing to mine. I have never in my life felt that Jesus loved me, nor that I particularly liked Jesus. I have never felt the need to talk to Jesus. In all honesty, I have never believed in Jesus. Jesus was always the least attractive and most boring of all biblical characters to me. And if I could talk to G-d, why would I need or worry about anyone or anything else?

I realize, and I guess I always have realized in a sense, that I am a bit of an anomaly. And yes, even after all I have done and all I have learned, even after researching and finding out about my Jewish ancestors and converting to Judaism, sometimes I still find myself in disbelief over why I am different. I guess I am still reluctant to believe certain things. I can learn about them, but deep down I am super skeptical and have lots of questions. I wish I could ask them to G-d. No, really, I still cannot wrap my head around the “why”.

But I see it. I see the difference and yet I cannot explain it. I grew up Christian, well Catholic, and yet I never felt close to Jesus and I never associated Jesus with G-d. G-d to me was always just G-d. It would never cross my mind to include Jesus in a conversation with G-d, much less to have the conversation with Jesus instead of G-d. This is not the result of a lack of Christian education. My mom dragged me to church most weeks and put me through 7 years of catechism, from Grades 1 to 7. But Jesus was never important to me. I have never worried about Jesus and of course never will.

So, what makes me different from Susan?

Of course, you must be thinking I’m dumb to be asking this question. Of course the difference is that I’m Jewish. And I even chose Judaism myself, so I should know this! And I do, don’t worry.

But can I grasp it totally? No, I still cannot. I still often catch myself in disbelief in moments like this thinking: wow, I really am Jewish and I guess my mind really is different in some way I cannot explain. It didn’t matter how much Christian education I got, I was still Jewish. G-d was still my eternal Number One. Thank you G-d.

But also I hope this doesn’t make it sound like I think I’m special or better in any way. That’s not what I’m trying to say here. Just that I think I really was meant to be Jewish because my mind only seems to function in that way – as strange as this may be for someone who had a Catholic education. And if you are Christian and you are reading this, please don’t be offended. I mean if I am wrong and you were right all along, then I guess it just means I am going to hell. Which would be fine with me too because if you are right and all those that don’t accept Jesus as their saviour are going to hell, then I’ll be in excellent company with all my fellow Jews. If all the Jews are going to hell, I’d rather be in hell than in heaven anyway!

And if I am right, it means neither of us (Christian or Jew) are going to hell and we will all have a place in the world to come. So you see, either way it works out!

I’ll explain what got me thinking about this. Last week my friend convinced me and another friend to come to the First Nations (native) Centre at our university for a special lunch since she was embarrassed to go on her own. She had recently found out that she has some distant First Nation/native ancestry and was interested in learning more about it. I, obviously, instantly identified with her story and wanted to help.

She told us an amazing story. She said she had a dream that she was walking and there was a guy drumming. She could feel the drumbeat all over her body and then she looked down and noticed she was holding a drum in her hand, and then she thought: I can drum too. And then the next week she got invited to this lunch at the centre.

After her story, I told her about my dream – which I’ve described here already. It was very vivid, just like hers, except it was with the Shema. Thousands of voices and faces chanting it, and me too, with them.

I was amazed at how similar our experiences were in relation to these dreams and these feelings of connection to a distant past of our ancestors. Even though we are talking about completely different things here – Jews and First Nations/native people.

And, then, of course, no post of mine would be complete without another bombastic revelation of my mom’s. So, I told the story of my friend’s dream and my own dream to my mom. Then, my mom said, “Oh, I never told you this but now that you mentioned this dream I remembered. When you were about four a priest came to bless your aunt’s house and in the middle you suddenly got up and said, ‘Holy, holy, holy is the LORD of hosts: the whole earth is full of his glory’ (in Portuguese). But you were so young, we never taught you this prayer so we were all very surprised, including the priest. I think this is also part of a Jewish prayer though.”

And she is right, of course. It’s the Kedusha. “Kadosh Kadosh Kadosh Adonai Tz’vaot. Melo Kol Haaretz Kevodo.”

The rabbis were Orthodox but the people attending were young people from all walks of Jewish life. I was invited by the rabbi responsible for the Kollel. I confided my story to him after the Chanukah party last year. My friends all wanted to go to the Chanukah party at the Kollel because that’s where all the young people go, but I had been avoiding going to the Kollel precisely because I know it is Orthodox. This time I finally went, and of course the rabbi wanted to know who I was and if I was new to the community. So, eventually I told him my story.

I had no idea what to expect. I told him about my family history, and also that I had converted Reform. Surprisingly, he didn’t seem fazed by that. Instead, he asked me what I wanted to do now and I very honestly said I was interested in some of the classes at the Kollel – I really am, they offer a lot of good ones. He encouraged me to come, invited me to come to the Shabbats as well and then invited me to this retreat. On top of all that, since I told him I was studying to be a teacher, he also asked if I was interested in tutoring some kids.

Anyways, this was so far from the response I was expecting…I don’t know exactly what I was expecting, but probably something along the lines of “Reform, ew…you’re not really Jewish.” Instead I got, “Welcome, come to all our events.”

Anyways, it was interesting being exposed to Orthodox Judaism at the retreat. I started off by totally embarrassing myself, of course! The very first thing I did was shake the hand of the 20-something-year-old son of one of the rabbis. To my defense, I didn’t even know who he was when I did, but it was quite an interesting way to kick off my weekend in Orthodoxy nonetheless.

I was talking to girl about making challah. She happened to be his sister. So, when he came over, she said, “This is my brother Joseph.” I, of course, stuck out my hand, he shook it, and we both said our “nice to meet yous”. This would have been completely normal if not for the fact that at that very instant my friend, who is not the least bit discreet, blurted out: “Wow! I can’t believe he shook your hand!” To my relief, his sister came to my rescue and said, “It’s a personal choice. He can choose when to shake someone’s hand.” Well, I’m sure glad he chose to shake mine, I guess!

The weekend was very interesting. The talks were good and there was a lot of eating, shmoozing and dancing. I like the passion of the Orthodox.

I don’t like the exclusion of women. I went down for prayer services with my friend and it was just men praying, so we left. I really felt excluded then. I wanted to join in, but knew I couldn’t. We both commented on how it was tempting to just go up there and simply start praying with them. But then I think I’d already done my rebellious deed for the weekend – even though it was unintentionally.

I really think sometimes that I want to be like an Orthodox Jew in observance, but I could never give up things like reading from the Torah and feeling like an equal in the synagogue…I don’t think I’d want to.

My mom was worried I would not be well accepted by the community. I was too. In fact, that was probably one of my greatest worries. Baruch Hashem, I was very well accepted. I now have a circle of Jewish friends. The assistant rabbi at my shul asked me to be on the Leadership Comittee for the Next Generation group. Even the Orthodox rabbi at the Kollel (a very liberal Orthodox) wondered if I could tutor some kids. I’ve had some Jewish classmates say I’m more Jewish than they are (although that is very, very false – I’m not more or less Jewish than anyone). I’ve been to a bunch of Jewish dinners, parties, get-togethers…

But what am I doing that is better for the well being of the world? I feel like I’m sort of becoming a Jewish social butterfly now, but this was definitely NOT the point of this whole journey. I love that I have such a nice circle of friends that invites me to a gazillion Jewish events (who would’ve thought such a small Jewish community would have so many events), but I don’t know what I’m doing to change the world.

Oh, I know, this sounds extremely corny, but that’s me. That’s who I am. A wide-eyed idealist and yes, I do want to make the world a better place. Somehow. I do believe that the purpose of my life is to do something to make the world better, otherwise, why would I be here?

My whole life I’ve always been wondering exactly what it is that G-d wants me to do. What is my job? My whole life too, my parents have always told me the obvious, which is probably just as much the answer to that now as it was when I was 10, that G-d was very clear about what he wants me to do: follow the commandments.

And with a resigned sigh, just like my students when they ask me what they should do next in their assignment and I respond by asking if they have followed all the criteria, I have to acknowledge that this is probably it, I have to finish following all the commandments and if I did do everything that has been laid out, I probably would be making the world better.

Once again, the answer is there – right there – so why don’t I just do it?

I must have ADD, like some of my students!