Congregation Netivot Shalom

Meghan Starkey

Parsha Toldot

November 21, 2009 / 4 kislev 5770

 
Genesis 25:19 - 28:9
 
Shabbat Shalom.
This week’s parsha recounts the famous story of Jacob and Esau, and the way in which Jacob and Rachel conspired to take Esau’s birthright. By the power of this birthright, Jacob became one of the patriarchs of the Jewish people. Although Esau later regretted it, his decision to undervalue his birthright was irrevocable.
 
What captivates my attention in this parsha is the concept and the power of birthright, and its corresponding conveyance of legitimacy. It holds particular fascination for me because of how the issue of birthright operated in two of the most important events in my life, my adoption as an infant, and my conversion to Judaism as an adult. In the first instance, my birthright was taken from me; in the other, I surrendered my birthright and claimed one not my own.
 
The concept of adoption as we know it today is a recent historic phenomenon. It is essentially a “legal fiction.” By that I mean that the original definition of mother and father, held for almost all of history to mean only the immediate biological forebears, was changed. People have taken children into their homes and hearts, and raised and loved them as if they were their own for millennia – but until recently, those children did not lose the identity as the child of their biological parents. In fact, in Halakhah, adoption is not a known legal institution. The personal status of parent and child is based on the natural family relationship only. While there are laws that in practice convey similar rights and obligations, such as guardianship and inheritance, these do not replace the original parent-child relationship with a second parent-child relationship. For most of recorded history, this was also the case; however, about 50 years ago, this changed abruptly in America.
 
I was adopted in 1965 in a closed adoption. That means I have two birth certificates. One is carefully locked up in a vault in Columbus Ohio and identifies me as Marie Burbank, born to Beverly Burbank and fathered by James Veazey. The second, and the only one I am legally entitled to have, identifies me as Meghan Starkey, born to Evelyn Starkey and fathered by Bernard Starkey. So basically, my birth certificate is fake. It identifies Evelyn and Bernard as my biological parents, not as my adoptive parents.
 
In the 1960s, this type of closed adoption was seen as a tidy way to solve three different problems at once. One, it took care of the “girl in trouble” by allowing her to hide her out-of-wedlock pregnancy, and get back to her life as if it had never happened. Two, it removed the stigma of illegitimacy from the child. Three, it provided a supply of infants to couples who could not have children of their own. 
 
The act of relinquishing a child in 1965 meant a complete severing of my legal and moral rights to my heritage. Tucked inside my baby book is the piece of paper that was next to the phone when my Mom got the call that they could adopt a baby girl, and it summarizes everything I knew about my biological parents until I was 35. It says: blond hair; blue eyes; black hair; pre-med; absolutely beautiful. (That last part is about me.) I was adopted through Catholic Charities, into a Catholic family. I decided I was Irish, as was my adoptive family, but I also decided I was part Italian because my skin has a yellower cast than most Northern Europeans. My mom told me that my biological mother was “from the East,” that she had really loved me, and she gave me up because she couldn’t take care of me. That’s all I knew. 
 
It’s safe to say that I am a little different from my adoptive family. Growing up, there was no one in my family who looked like me or who acted like me. My inclinations, abilities, preferences, personality and even values stood out from the very beginning. I truly believe that my parents loved me as much as their biological child, my sister Shannon. But this did not erase the fact that I felt un-tethered, and would secretly wonder why or how I was even part of this family. And then when times were bad, I could and would tell myself this isn’t my family – that my real family will come someday and rescue me. 
 
Wanting to know more about my biological family is seen by many as a fundamental disloyalty to my adoptive parents. The prevailing attitude has been that I do not have the right to this information. State law in Ohio is explicit on this topic. My desire to find out more about my family of origin would somehow mean that my adoptive parents weren’t good enough – they were not “real” parents, and I was not their “real” child. It would also lay bare what was never said: that my own mother gave me away knowing she would never see me again, to people she never met and who were chosen by an anonymous social worker. That the parents who raised me adopted me only after they had struggled with years of infertility and heart break, and I wasn’t their first choice of a way to make a family. I grew up knowing both of those things, and knowing not to say anything about it. What I also learned from growing up adopted is that loving, and being loved, doesn’t make the grief from all three sides of that triangle go away.
 
So with all this in the background, I faced the decision as to whether I did have a moral birthright even if claiming it caused deep pain and disruption to both my adoptive and biological families, as Jacob’s action caused in his family. I decided that I did have that right, and it was mine by birth.
 
I found my biological mom when I was 35. I can very clearly remember my first conversation with her, and the enormous sense of relief in feeling that I wasn’t a freak anymore. She was an artist, her mother an excellent seamstress; I make art quilts. I have her sneeze and handwriting and my aunt’s loud laugh. We both love to garden and sail, to make things with our hands, and talk non-stop. She doesn’t talk as fast as I do, which is actually the first question almost everyone asked, but my half sister does.
 
We uncovered what you may call coincidences but what I think are part of a deeper pattern. Although I was raised in the Midwest, I went to college not only in the same city as my biological parents, but at the same school as my biological father. My favorite town when I lived in Massachusetts was Rockport; five generations of Burbanks, including my birth mom, were born and raised there. My favorite restaurant in that town was her favorite restaurant, under the apartment she lived in during the time I ate there.
 
I was able to meet my maternal grandfather in Rockport, Grampy Jack, who was a classic Massachusetts town character complete with the accent. I feel quite sure that you will never hear this from the bima again –I am the grandchild of a recreational lobsterman who played the town Santa Claus every Christmas. After getting to know me, he told my biological mom, Beverly, that I was more Burbank than the kids she had raised. Which, ironically enough, is true.
 
This discovery of my birth family also brought a sense of profound dislocation to me. I went from not having a family tree at all to being 14th generation in America. You just can’t internalize that. I found out I was English by descent, not Irish. The Irish really don’t like the English, so that was a big one. Most importantly, no one was going to rescue me from the hard parts in my life. I didn’t have a mommy who was going to make it all ok, or a family who would come for me. I was an adult, and on my own. Like Esau, I could not change the decision that got me here; like Jacob, I was in a foreign land.
 
Three months after finding Bev, I converted to Judaism. Having regained one birthright, I relinquished the other in short order. I knew that I had to find my past before I converted, but I really thought that I would find some Jewish ancestry to explain why I had gravitated towards Judaism, that it came through my blood. The lobsterman Santa Claus part was definitely unexpected.
 
Judaism has a troubled and contradictory history on the topic of conversion and proselytes. Maimonides said “We are commanded to have great love in our inmost hearts. God, in his glory, loves proselytes.” At the other end, however, are various statements such as Rabbi Hiyya’s: “Do not have faith in the proselyte until 24 generations have passed, because the inherent evil is still within him.” Or, “Proselytes are as hard for Israel to endure as a sore.” I also had a troubled and contradictory history on this topic that made for a long and difficult journey.
 
The question of conversion of course came up during the extensive pre-engagement negotiations between my husband and me. It took us four years to become officially engaged, completely due to religious issues. He tells the story of Shabbat dinners as a child, when his father would tell him every week that he needed to marry someone poor, smart and Jewish. I’ve always thought that two out of three was pretty good.
 
Perl’s dad was Jewish in every fiber of his being. I have never met anyone else like him. I had the privilege of becoming like a daughter to him, truly loved despite my upbringing and his weekly admonishments to his sons. One of my favorite stories about him comes from the time when I was engaged to his son, but not ready to convert. I think it sums up the tension between birthright Jews and proselytes, and the ambivalent attitude that is prevalent in Jewish circles. We had gone to Perl’s childhood synagogue. The regular cantor was on sabbatical, and the substitute cantor was a woman who had not been born Jewish. She sang the traditional melodies so wonderfully and powerfully. Her voice was truly an instrument of the divine. We were discussing her later with Perl’s parents, at a Chinese restaurant (naturally). Here’s what Perl’s dad said:  “She sings so beautifully. You’d think she was Jewish.”
 
My response stumped him, as I often did. I said, “Al, she is Jewish. Why should I convert if you don’t even think I would be Jewish?”
 
 
“Converts try too hard.” I’ve heard that more times than I can count. There are two ways to take that, I think. One is “Relax. It’s ok. You’re doing fine.” But the other is different. And that is, converts can never be real Jews. They always overcompensate. They try to become something that they can’t. Friends of mine who were born Jewish often comment on how surprised they are that I know more than they do. What’s so remarkable? It’s a modest level of learning, not genetics. However, it’s a line, drawn frequently and in various ways. Who’s in, who’s out, who counts, who’s “real.” 
 
I lived as a Jew for ten years before I made it official. During that time, I could “pass” as a Jew. Learn to transliterate and bensch, throw in a couple of a camp songs and blessings, and people assume you’re Jewish. 
 
For plenty of people, it didn’t matter that I wasn’t born Jewish, and hadn’t converted. More often, though, I made people uncomfortable. I was sort of a Jew, but not really. I may know some things, I may act like a Jew, but am I really trustworthy? Was I part of “us” or “them?” People say some pretty revealing things, especially when they weren’t aware of my upbringing. The shiksa jokes, the subtle slurs, the stereotypes are all common. And then there’s the real topper: That intermarriage is finishing the work of Hitler. 
 
Over time, I came to understand better part of the reason for this attitude. The fear for both physical and psychological safety is centuries old. People feel more secure, more comfortable with other members of the tribe. Believe me, I get the importance of genetic relationships. Jews worry, justifiably, about preserving their past and seeing it into the future. Endogamy is an explicit mandate. This is so important one of the very few things a Rabbi is expected to maintain if they want to remain a Conservative Rabbi is to uphold the rules of Conversion as they relate to marriage. There I was nonetheless, a one woman walking symbol of assimilation and the threat to the continuity of the Jewish people.
 
Because of matrilineal descent, my children would not be born Jewish, so our marriage was especially fraught. Naturally, as a well-reared Catholic, I internalized this guilt and felt that I was always doing something wrong. I also didn’t know how to behave or where the boundaries were – am I allowed to I touch the Torah or not? Will I offend someone if I do? Will I offend someone if I don’t? Do they know not to count me when determining if there’s a minyan? I’ve watched that conversation about me up on the bima – do I speak up? “Excuse me! I’m not Jew! I don’t count.”
 
The process of conversion is not easy. Rabbi Kelman explained to me in our first meeting that halakhah stated that potential converts should be turned away three times. Becoming a Jew was such a serious thing, and with such potential negative consequences to the individual to be part of a persecuted group, that they needed to be absolutely sure they were ready to take it on. I’m happy to say that he did not immediately show me to the door. He had a much gentler interpretation of that law.
 
I came to think that the challenges I faced on my journey were the equivalent of being turned away three times. My husband wasn’t allowed an aliayah before our wedding in our congregation in Massachusetts. I couldn’t be a chair of a committee at Netivot. I was told that I wouldn’t be allowed at the bima for my daughters’ b’nai mitzvot or even in the Torah procession.
 
When I finally made the decision to convert, I did it for me. I didn’t do until well after I was married, had my kids, and had been part of this community for many years. I didn’t do it to please my in-laws or to make myself an acceptable  bride to my husband’s traditional family. I didn’t do it to legitimize my children, or to try to be “good enough” to the Jewish community. I had come to the point where I couldn’t live on both sides anymore. Either I had to embrace Judaism, with all its ambivalence towards me and the years of pain I experienced, or push it away. Rabbi Kelman once told me that people should not linger on liminal moments too long. As someone who didn’t take that advice, I can tell you it’s good.
 
So I ask you today, do you think I’m a “real” Jew? It’s ok with me if you say no to this question. It wouldn’t be the first time, and I’ve even answered that way sometimes myself. But I think it’s worth thinking about why you may say that, or aren’t sure of your answer.
 
I’m not ashamed of my Catholic past. I don’t try to hide it. It’s part of who I am as a Jew. I’m the kind of Jew who went to 14 years of Catholic school and now lights the candles, says the blessings, and builds a sukkah. I can make a brisket that my mother in law approves. My matzo balls float. But I’m also the kind of Jew who grieves every December, and who broke her mother’s heart when I didn’t baptize her beloved granddaughters.
 
When I converted, I added yet another birth certificate to my collection. When I am called for an aliyah, I am Maya Alana bat Avraham v’ Sarah. Maya because both my moms named with an “M”; Alana after my late father in law; and bat Abraham v’ Sarah because I am a proselyte. I don’t know about you, but every time I hear the “bat Avraham v’ Sarah” part I sit up a little straighter to take a better look.
 
That phrase identifies the adult proselyte publicly. The Tiferet group, which wrestled mightily with issues around interfaith marriage, pushed the boundaries in this congregation, and generally made Rabbi Kelman’s life very interesting for many years, had a spirited discussion on this topic. Some thought this nomenclature was wrong, arguing that not only did it single out converts, but it also denied their past. They were entitled to be known as the child of their actual parents. They should not be obligated to deny their birthright publicly.
 
I disagreed with that position. First of all, I struggled a lot on my journey to become a Jew, and I earned the right to have that publically announced. Secondly, psychologically, I feel it is appropriate. I rejected my birthright of Catholicism, which was the only shred of birthright I had for most of my life. I rejected the religion of both my sets of parents and was adopted into a new family.
 
I found a home at Netivot. Most importantly, I found a home for my soul in Judaism. I don’t get to rely on the fact that my ancestors were Jewish. I don’t have the hair, the profile or the name. I need to try. It is what I do that defines me as Jew, not what my forebears did. So the question for me is not whether I am a “real” Jew, but what kind of Jew I am. That’s a good question whether you are a birthright Jew or not. 
 
Jacob claimed a birthright that wasn’t legally his, at great cost to his family. One of the primary motives for his mother to conspire with him was because Esau had married non-Jewish women. Jacob then went on to become one of the three Patriarchs. Esau held his birthright cheap, regretted it, but had to live with that decision and its consequences. It seems to me that this struggle to claim or reject one’s Judaism, how to live with it, how to fulfill it is a central issue with which we all struggle. 
 
There are many ways to answer that question, and many different paths on the journey. This congregation has been brave enough, and honest enough, and to face this painful and divisive question, and come up with a better answer. I know that I never could have converted in any other community. I also know it’s not the way that most Conservative Jewish communities answer this question. Maybe someday our attitude and approach will spread beyond our borders, but for now, I’m grateful to be here.
 
Shabbat Shalom.