Choosing to Belong

This is the story of how I, a half-Mexican, ex-evangelical Christian, came to embrace living a Jewish life as part of a Jewish family.

It's the story of how becoming a member of my synagogue community, Congregation Rodef Sholom in San Rafael, California, has transformed my understanding of what it means to belong.

I began as an outsider. When you're an outsider, you're often stressed about being judged as an outsider by others. I remember the first time I attended High Holiday services with my husband, Eric, at his grandfather's shul in White Plains, New York over two decades ago. I grilled him for days about what I should wear. "I dunno. Wear something nice?" he shrugged.

After much deliberation, I settled on a sweater and knee-length skirt with flats. As we walked through the parking lot, I was mortified to realize that every other woman was wearing pantyhose, while my legs were bare as tree trunks in January. While I'm pretty sure the only thing that my lack of pantyhose gave away was my California upbringing, I spent much of that service trying to tuck my feet as far beneath the seat as I could.

When we start trying to fit in, we often focus on our differences. Our impulse is to cover up those differences as much as possible.

My father's mother, Consuelo Ramirez, came to this country in the early 1930s from post-revolution Mexico. At that time, blood was being shed to outlaw Catholicism. Her father, Pantaleón, had allowed priests to hold mass in his home. When soldiers came, he hid under a bed upstairs. Outside, his family heard a shot and thought he was dead. Months later, they found out he'd escaped through a window. He immigrated to Los Angeles and sent for his family.

This is a familiar story, especially for Jews: religious persecution leads to a new life in a different land. When I think about my ancestors working in the fields, trying to survive in an unfamiliar country, I wonder: Did they ever come to feel like they truly belonged?

As an immigrant, my grandmother earned a hard-won insight on belonging: it isn't about assimilation, but acknowledging our shared humanity.

It's all too easy to fall into thinking we aren't enough; we don't truly belong. "No one ever feels Jewish enough," Eric once explained. "That's kinda one of the main things about being a Jew."

In 2019, I took an Introduction to Judaism class with our rabbi while my kids attended religious school. I gradually got better at mumbling through prayers. After years of opening the siddur the wrong way, I sometimes got it right on the first try. I understood more about our community, but did I actually belong?

Then, last September, our son, Elliot, became bar mitzvah. When we met with the rabbi to discuss the service, I had been to exactly one b'nei mitzvah in my life. The rabbi highlighted places where Eric and I could participate: chanting Torah blessings, passing the Torah, and hagbah. The rabbi explained that hagbah meant holding the Torah up high so the whole congregation could see it after it was read. "You can absolutely do it!" She said, writing my name down.

In the days leading up to the service, I was nervous. Did I belong up on the bimah, chanting words I'd memorized by rote, prayers that weren't my ancestors'? Would I be strong enough to perform hagbah?

Two words have helped me through many moments of anxiety or doubt in my life: It's possible. In the days leading up to the bar mitzvah, I took a lot of deep breaths and practiced thinking, It's possible I can do this. It's possible I belong. 

When the moment finally arrived, I didn't need any mantras. I was so filled with the joy and beauty of the day that when I was called to the bimah, I was READY. My kid had just chanted 15 verses of Torah and led an entire prayer service in Hebrew! Heck yeah, I was gonna hoist that holy 25-pound scroll over my head and show every person in the sanctuary that text! I was so lost in that joyful moment that I missed the rabbi's subtle cues that it was time to put it down.

That day transformed my understanding of belonging. I'd been thinking of things all wrong. Belonging doesn't mean you're either in or you're out; belonging is a fabric that we weave by showing up again and again with curiosity and openness.

Four years ago, I collaborated with fellow congregants to draft our community's Covenant of Belonging. I'm proud of that work; it expresses our commitment to honoring the inherent holiness of each person. However, I've realized that, while it's wonderful for organizations to prioritize inclusion, it's up to each of us to claim our belonging.

This past April, I was inching through downtown traffic when I saw our rabbi's number come up on my dashboard. "I'm so sorry to hear about your dad passing away," she said. She wanted to hear about him and how I was doing. Then she added, "I'm also calling to find out if you would like us to read your dad's name in the memorial list on Shabbat."

I sat in confused silence. "Um, Rabbi, you know he wasn't Jewish."

I will never forget what she said next: "Well, we wouldn't necessarily be reading it for him. We would be doing it for you. You're a member of our community and we care about you. If you feel like it would be a comfort, we're happy to read his name and remember him." I felt a catch in my throat-the simultaneous sharpness and softness that comes from feeling seen and deeply cared for. But this was also an opt-in moment. It was up to me to decide to step into belonging.

"Sure," I told the rabbi. "I'd really love that."

"Belong" isn't a transitive verb. Rabbis don't have the power to "belong me" or to "belong you." Their power and responsibility lies in creating welcoming environments and extending invitations. But the decision to show up and think, "It's possible I belong," is up to us.

What would it mean for our lives and communities if we started from the invitation Sebene Selassie describes in her book, "You Belong"? She writes: "You belong. Everywhere. Yes you, with all your history, anxiety, and pain... You have always belonged ."

If we all started claiming our inherent belonging, no matter the space, how would we show up differently?

I've felt pulled toward conversion recently for reasons that are another essay entirely. But whatever I decide, I'm sure of one thing: my choice wouldn't be in order to belong.

I already do.