Hillel at Ohio University

Sometimes I wish I could be someone who wears her biography on her sleeve. Or that I could be someone who isn’t so guarded. But I live in a pretty little fortress with a high stone wall, and most of the time it’s quite happy. Most of the time I don’t realize that I’m talking through a wall. But every once in a while, I get claustrophobic, hop my own fence, and walk around with armor shed.
While we were in Georgia I became acutely aware of this desire to open up and how hard it is. On our second night there, the five of us from Ohio met with students from two other schools, and spent hours sharing anecdotes from some of the most tender parts of our memories. Needless to say, it was emotional. Doubts, fears, unhealed scars were all cast into this circle, and no one asked questions, no one judged; we all sat facing each other with our walls torn down. But my jaw was rusted shut.
I didn’t realize why I had frozen in that very warm place until later that week. It wasn’t anything specific that helped me realize what had happened— just a good combination of conscientious thoughts and meaningful conversations—and all the colors came together. While our big wall-crumbling moment was meant to crumble walls, it was a time when I needed to listen and soak in the pains of other people. That night I needed to halt the deconstruction of my own boundaries, to save my energy for those around me.
In realizing this, I also promised myself that when another opportunity arose, I would grease up my rusted jaw and take it for a spin. And I promised myself it would be worth it.
The next chance we had to shed our armor came in the middle of Shabbat preparations on Friday afternoon. We met with the same two schools out in the Georgia sunshine, and we were asked to share the story of our Jewish journeys. This is what I shared…
Before I could formulate memories of our family my parents had a very nasty divorce. My older sister and I bounced back and forth between our parents, always chauffeured by a third party. When we were with one parent we weren’t permitted to contact the other, and mentioning one parent to the other usually resulted in anger. But we were accustomed to our duel lives, which crossed all components of living, including religion. Mom was Episcopalian and Dad was Jewish, and I was Episcopalian and Jewish depending on my address that week. The older I got the more I felt drawn to Judaism, and the more I understood that it’s part of who I am. But Mom was determined to have me on her side of the Bible. She reminded me often that religion is matrilineal; because she wasn’t Jewish I wasn’t either. It became an almost weekly conversation. My Rabbi seemed to have the same opinion as my mother. He was hesitant about my becoming Bat Mitzvah because of my “Christian influence.” When I was 15, my congregation got a new Rabbi, and again, I brought up the topic of Bat Mitzvah. Our new Rabbi had no reservations, but time was an issue. I could either wait 2 years or 4 months and become Bat Mitzvah in April. I chose the later and set to work. My Mom took the news badly. She refused to take me to my lessons, and I had to sneak out to meet with my Rabbi. When April finally came she wouldn’t come to my ceremony. After that our relationship started to break apart. The same year I became Bat Mitzvah, my sister formally converted, Mikveh and all. After her conversion, she joined the chorus of voices trying to convince me that I wasn’t Jewish. As recent as last week, we had an argument after she told me she wasn’t going to let her future children visit my secular home. You would think that all these struggles would turn me into a Super-Jew, a girl so knowledgeable and confident in her religion, that not even the voice of G-d could convince her otherwise. That isn’t exactly true. There are many moments when I have to tell myself that the only person that my Judaism depends on is me, and I’m not the easiest person to convince... Back in Georgia, I closed my eyes and my lips came back together, feeling like each syllable from my mouth had been a wisp of smoke from ashes that could never be returned to twigs.
Later that day, after that second chance at sharing, someone from our group came up to me and said that she had no idea there were Jewish students who have had to struggle with so much doubt, but this school year when she’s on her campus she’s going to remember what I said. She said that her goal for this year will be to engage one student who is struggling against everyone else’s definition of Judaism, and to remind him that his is the only one that matters.
She was so right. As interns we’re expected to make a lot of relationships, but if I can help one student fall in love with his own idea of Jewishness, then I will feel like I have been successful. After all, being Jewish (or being human for that matter) has very little to do with what you know. It’s all about what do with the little you do know.
I realized in the week I spent with Dan, Evan, Max, and Danielle that being brave enough to tell my own story can help others find their own words.
So that was a short tale about how my experience in Georgia helped me melt my armor, and jump my fence. I hope you take this as a welcome invitation to share something of yourself.
I don’t know if anyone is reading this, but if you are… open up. I’ll listen.

-Mary Brett Koplen