Site Presented By
Monday, Nov 23, 2009
Why am I a strong believer in intermarriage? Because too much Jewish angst, WASPY stoicism or Catholic repression in one household isn't healthy.
Jan 13, 2004 | A few weeks ago I did something I haven't done in years: I went out with a Jewish guy.
This was a big deal, as my last intratribal relationship was in 1994, and that was a disaster. He was, in no particular order, whiny, angst-ridden, afraid of his stove, and hairy in all the wrong places. He found me, in turn, charming, adorable and nuts. We were a terrible match, but we stayed together for a while because it seemed like we should. We were both writers, we were both Jewish; clearly, we were supposed to be miserable.
Since then, I've avoided Jewish men like locusts, frogs and boils. The last place you'll find me, for example, is on online Jewish singles sites like JDate or JCupid. My worst relationships have been with Jewish men; they're too familiar -- and not in a good way. They're argumentative and contentious, which I tend to be. The writer and I picked at each other mercilessly: He didn't like the sound my clogs made in his apartment. I didn't like that he checked the stove five times to make sure it was really off. He wanted me to kick in for the heating bill, even though we weren't living together. I thought he should try to be less, er, frugal. Our disagreements may have had nothing to do with our backgrounds, but he pushed a lot of buttons that only someone with a similar upbringing could touch.
I grew up in a family that was not afraid to voice its opinions. When we had a complaint, we let it out. Loudly. My parents adored their three kids and consequently critiqued just about everything but our bowel movements. Do I want my husband doing that? No. And while I get terribly frustrated by people who can't talk about their emotions, sometimes you don't want to analyze and dissect ad nauseam. Sometimes you just have to shut up.
Of course, I am stereotyping; not all Jews are critical and mouthy. In fact, some of my best friends are Jewish. I just don't want to marry them. I know plenty of people who feel completely different than I do: They believe it's easier to have a relationship with someone who shares a similar background, who knows, say, what kind of fish is a gefilte. To them I say, "L'Chaim!" But frankly, I've never wanted to make my world that small. Yes, it would be nice to have someone to eat Chinese food with on Christmas Eve, but the potential for antagonism isn't worth the moo shoo pork.
Which is precisely why I'm a firm proponent of interfaith marriage -- or, at least, not at all against it. And apparently I am not alone. A recent report, the National Jewish Population Survey, found that from 1980 to 1984, 38 percent of all Jews in the United States married outside the faith. The number increased to 43 percent from 1985 to 1990. By 2001, it was at 47 percent.
This study caused all sorts of discord in the Jewish community: The numbers were too low, too high, too inclusive, too exclusive. But what some Jews see as a crisis, I see as a blessing. We've wised up, we Jews. We've finally realized that too much Jewish angst in one household is not good. (Neither, for that matter, is too much WASPY stoicism or Catholic repression.)
Clearly, it's not just Jews who feel this way; if we're marrying outside our faith, other people are marrying outside theirs. We're all mixing things up, and it's only for the better. Think about it: Baptists like to suffer; Jews have suffered enough. For the kids' sake, wouldn't it be better to have at least one parent who isn't interested in unnecessary pain? Who doesn't think the Messiah has come and gone and that we are all doomed to hell -- or, conversely, that he is right around the corner?
"You're a self-loathing Jew!" my mother cried when I explained to her that I would never attend the Matzoh Ball, or any other Jewish singles event for that matter.
"No, I'm not," I told her. "I'm quite happy with myself; other Jews are the problem." I know what I'm talking about: I spent the first seven years of my life at a yeshiva. I didn't like the exclusivity, the sense of superiority, the arrogance born of being "chosen." I didn't like the constant haranguing about marrying within the faith that began in grade school: "Stay away from the goyim!" What if the person I fell in love with wasn't Jewish? Should I dump him in favor of a guy whose last name is Rabinowitz, even if I couldn't stand him?
"Look at all those Kennedy women," my mother pointed out. "They all want Jewish men!"
"Of course they do! They're not Jewish!"
The Kennedys aren't the only ones who have intermarried with abandon. From Woody Allen and Mia Farrow to Charlotte and Harry from "Sex and the City," men and women of different religious backgrounds -- whether famous, fictional or real -- have always fallen in love. Again, I think it's because familiarity often breeds contempt -- or at the very least, exasperation. Besides, coupling with someone who is different is more exciting, exotic even. Jewish women and non-Jewish men work because non-Jewish men know how to humor Jewish women. They are amused by our outspokenness and assertiveness; they like that we aren't shy. Jewish men want shiksas because they don't remind them of their overbearing mothers. They get worshipped but not smothered.
