Oy

A few months ago, a friend was in town for work and wanted to catch up with a vaguely related web of New Yorkers in the span of about two hours before splitting for JFK. He proposed a group dinner, plans were made, and I ate pizza in Union Square with an odd crew: me, my friend, two of his friends from college and a very tall Jew I briefly dated the summer before and had not seen since.

I have no memory of how the topic came up, but shortly after we ordered beers, the five of us start talking marriage—specifically, the role that religion plays as we get more serious about this dating thing.

As we’re chatting amicably, one guy shares an un-amicable viewpoint: “saying you’d only marry another Jew is like saying you’d only marry another white person. Basically, it’s racist.”

I had not professed a personal belief in this sentiment—nor do I profess one now—but I was offended by the comment. As one of two Jews at the table, I rushed to defend the chosen peeps like a modern-day Judah Macabee. I felt like I’d been called a racist; that doesn’t feel good to a person who works hard in the inner city every day. 

As the accusatory words popped out of this stranger’s mouth, the man I dated and I made brief eye contact, perhaps a nod to the fact that our matching dark curls had been a bonus when sizing the other up for match potential. A paltry bonus—it fizzled in spite of religion, if you’d believe it—but a bonus nonetheless. Both of us quickly stepped up to play Devil’s Advocate because, really, the urge to marry Jewish has little in common with being a white supremacist.

The whole exchange was off-putting, and I’ve been thinking about the topic since.  For my generation—for me—how important is marrying another Jew?

Tomorrow, I’m flying to Tel Aviv to go on my Birthright trip: a free, ten-day trip to Israel sponsored by a seemingly-never-ending cache of cash. The objective of the grant is to get young American Jews interested in supporting Israel, financially and otherwise. It’s meant to counteract a growing apathy among Jewish youth so the state of Israel has a fighting chance at survival.  For the most part, people know little about Birthright, but what they do know is singularly focused on one pre-conceived notion: 

“How many Israeli soldiers are you gonna make out with?”

Implication: enjoy your get-out-of-slut-free card, but make sure you use it on your kind.

“Can’t wait to see that ring on your finger!”

Implication: a blingin’ Star of David engagement ring.

“Be careful: A lot can happen in ten days.  Bring condoms…or don't!”

Implication: Don’t get impregnated with a little Zionist fetus…or do!

Oy.

If Jews don’t marry Jews, we might not last long.  Working from that reality, people think Birthright is the grown-up version of temple lockdowns and Jewish summer camp.  It’s about dating, mating then breeding.  I doubt the assumption is entirely off base, but I think I can hold my own.  And if I meet the perfect Jewish dude, well, so be it.   

In January, I dated another Jewish man (a trend only since moving to the East Coast), who told me on our first or second date that he thinks it’s basically imprudent at age 27 to date a goy because of the limited relationship potential.  Fair enough, but I don’t see marrying Jewish quite in that light—to that extreme or ultimate necessity.  It’s a factor, sure, but one of many that I consider linear not hierarchical. Those selling points include—yes, along with breaking the middle matzo—deep reverence for the west coast, tolerance for tofu and a non-fabricated interest in contemporary (women’s) literature.  Is that asking too much? 

Despite my non-commitment to the issue, I do recognize that shared religion offers up a certain ease when thinking of all that’s involved in starting a life with another person. For me, growing up 100% was fun and family.  It was sneaky sips of booze at cousins’ bar mitzvahs and singing the frog song at Seder. In terms of religion, I had no identity confusion or division; being Jewish simply was and continues to be. There is an unavoidable truism, though, that as a Jewish vegetarian I’d probably struggle to whip up the perfect Christmas ham for any mudblood babies I might acquire.  But I will cross that bacon-y bridge if I come to it; there’s always the Internet.