Vol. 133 - Happy Pesach

On identity and chcoice

On Saturday, I met Emily and the kids in Philadelphia, where most of her family hails from, to celebrate Passover. She flew up with both kids (hero) while I came from Texas, where I had been stationed since early Thursday to play a rad set at a rad festival with my rad band.

Every spring, Em’s aunt and uncle host a beautifully catered seder dinner in a small conference room in a Center City hotel, where the u-shaped table is often full with her sister and their cousins, aunts, uncles, and tons of kids. Graciously, Emily’s family accepts and embraces this anti-theist gentile who believes that, if we should be worshipping anything, it should be nature, science, kindness, and women. They always make a place at the table for me and never give me shit when I decline an offer to read from the Haggadah.

Emily has her own relationship with Judaism. Having been together for fifteen years now, I’m deeply familiar with her stance on it all. But, seeing as this isn’t her platform, I don’t think it’s right to divulge her thoughts or feelings on the topic. Rest assured, like so many modern adults, her views are complicated.

One thing we both agree on is that our kids are nothing more than two blonde-haired, hazel-eyed kids born in North Carolina. That’s it. They’re not Jewish just as they aren’t Catholic. Given the panoply of genetical data they’re made of, I’m not sure I’d even call them Italian-American at this point (despite, ahem, our last name).

To insist that our children are Jewish is to rob them of the ability to arrive at that decision themselves (or, at least to put some major hurdles in the way of that decision) and that’s not something Emily or I are willing to do. What we are willing to do is to educate them, to expose them, and to encourage them to learn as much as possible about what it means to be Jewish, just as we do to as many other cultures, faiths, and belief systems as possible (though maybe not Catholicism, which is, of course, fodder for an entirely different newsletter).

When the time comes, after they’ve been exposed to as much as we can expose them to, after they’ve learned a bit more about what religion is, what it means, and whether or not it serves a function in their lives, they can make their own decisions regarding the directions of their faith. Emily and I will support them wholeheartedly.

Before that point, our kids will learn about Abrahamic and Eastern religions, Universalism and the beliefs and rituals of the indigenous people of this country. They’ll learn about The Satanic Temple, which I argue is one of the most important civil rights groups in the country, and even the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, whose job it has been to point out the hypocrisy of religion’s role in contemporary society.

They’ll learn about the miracle of nature and the miracle of women.

Like everything else we do as parents, Emily and I see it as our job to arm our kids with the tools to make their own decisions. We’re not raising kids. We’re raising future adults. And one essential function of adulthood is making informed choices. By raising our kids within the framework of any religion would counter that core belief of our parenthood.

Before I left for Texas, I had a long discussion with my son about religion and the minimal role it all plays in our family. I told him that his mother was raised Jewish and I was raised Catholic (though, I was pulled from the church shortly after my first communion, which coincided both with my mother’s own crisis of faith and a wave of clerical molestation accusations and convictions). I told him how his mother finds connection in the traditions of Judaism and how, in spite of its countless dark corners, I find beauty and solace in the imagery and the art of Catholicism.

I told him that, outside of a few cultural touchstones, those facts should have no bearing on him; that those are his parents’ relationships with religion and not his. I told him that until he learned and understood at least the basic frameworks of Judaism, he was not allowed to wear a yarmulke that he might see all the other men and boys at the seder wearing. I told him that I would love it if he listened intently during the readings from the Haggadah, to learn the story of Passover. I told him I would love it if he read some of it himself but that it was his choice.

As the seder went on, each person around the table was invited to read from the Haggadah. When it came to our son, Emily and I encouraged him to read but reminded him that the choice was his. His reading skills are accelerating at a quick clip, however, he still suffers the embarrassment most kids might feel reading in front of a roomful of adults. He chose to pass.

He seemed to be listening intently as each member of Emily’s family told the story of passover and, by the time the readings were going around the table for a second time, he was eager to read. But, as it was getting late and people were hungry, the master of ceremonies appeared to dispatch with the roundtable readings and finished the story himself.

On the flight home the following morning, I sat with my son and asked him if he had any new thoughts about Judaism after the passover ceremony.

“Not really,” he said, before admitting he was a little disappointed he didn’t get a chance to read from the Haggadah.

“That’s why you always have to take your shot when you have the chance,” I said, reminding him that he passed on an opportunity to read on the first go-round while trying to impart some lifelong advice that had absolutely nothing to do with faith.

I told him that we’d hopefully return to Philly for next year’s passover dinner, where he could, if he still wanted to, absolutely take part in the reading. I told him that, in the year between now and then, his mom and I would support and buttress any curiosity he has about Judaism, about the role it plays in Emily’s life, and about how it might factor in to his life, should he allow and embrace it.

I told him we could learn as much as he wants about Judaism. And I told him that, only then, after he better knows and understands what it means, can he wear a yarmulke. That is, of course, only if he wants to.