Passover

This year, I celebrated Passover with some friends in Berkeley. Present: friend I met at a reform synagogue. How we became instant friends, I am not sure. How quickly it dissolved afterward, equally a mystery. But some things just are not meant to be, or are meant to be just what they are. There was the Jewish-Buddhist massage therapist with a sideline practice of dealing Blackjack. Who knew? The hosts: woman of Jewish descent, not highly practiced, and her former-Catholic boyfriend/partner, very enthusiastic about practicing Judaism. And me: self-conscious quasi-Jewish curious convert and interloper.

In the car on the way over, it was me, the Ju-Bu MT, and my reform friend, driving. After we got off the highway, I decided to say it. I hadn't told him yet before that I wasn't really Jewish. I was afraid that if I went into this High Holiday without telling him the truth, that I would be misrepresenting myself and essentially lying. It gave me great conflict to be, on the one hand, in this place, which was where I wanted to be, celebrating these Jewish things, and on the other hand, an active singing member of a choir at a huge cathedral. Some sort of diametrically opposed situation. A double life, so to speak.

So I told him. "Thank you for coming out to me," he said. You're welcome, I guess. It seemed odd. Suddenly I wished I hadn't told him. What did it matter? I was there. I was 100%. What did it matter what my background was? What other part of my existence was significant? And I had the sense, too (which I have had before), that even mentioning it was somehow a missionary thing. Why would I mention it at all, if I didn't want to get people on board with me? Because (as I discovered recently), it even says in scripture, "you shall not mention other gods." And it comes down to a sense to giving attention. You can't mention it, you can't even talk about it, even to say how awful it is, because even by doing so, you give attention, and that draws away from the main thing, the presence, the beauty you are supposed to attend to, and the people you are with. And I think I realized that this is what it did. It poisoned the situation in some small way. I felt like I wanted to be honest. But in truth, as it turns out, it would have been more honest not to say a thing. Because the truth was making itself known already, without my blabbering tongue. And it was making itself known to me. I needed to be present to hear it, not to be making my own assumptions and stating my case and this and that.

Especially since it occurred to me later that in fact what I said to him did not amount to a "coming out" at all. To me, when a person "comes out," as gay, lesbian, transgender, political, whatever, it means that they are coming out with the truth of who they are. What I "came out" to him with was a lie. A lie about who I am. If I was to come out at all, it would be to say, look, I've lived this one particular way all my life, but that's not me, that doesn't represent me or who I am or what I believe. Don't judge me on that. Because at this time in my life, it's the Judaism in me that's coming out. It's been stuck inside me all this time, trying to get free, and I've just been repressing it, for fear of rejection, fear of disapproval, perhaps, fear of my own belief. But the truth is, I don't fear the rejection of my family. I don't rely on their approval. It means nothing to me. If they love me, they will continue, because they know who I am, and I haven't changed. I am just becoming more of me, and I can stand up for this, because it is me, and if anything, my experience has given me ample evidence to back up my case. I fear no opposition. This is solid for me.

It is also possibly the most adult and well-considered choice I have ever made. And it makes me happy.