Rebel With a Cause

I was always a good girl; my parents didn’t have to worry about me at all. Well, other than the time I went for an interview at an exclusive private middle school. When asked what my favorite activity was, I answered “watching TV” while cradling my head in the crook of my elbow as it rested on the desk, doodling imaginary squiggles with my finger. (I didn’t want to go to the school, and not surprisingly, I didn’t get in. My parents were not amused.)
 
By the time high school came around, I chose to go to an inner-city public school that bussed in kids from around town for various programs. I was on an advanced studies track, which meant that I could finish in three years versus four, or cram the ‘meat’ of my studies into three years and take fun classes like choir and photography during my senior year. I opted for the latter.
 
I remember little academia from those years, but do recall much of my real life education.
 
Once I saw a pregnant girl no older than fifteen exiting a classroom, sucking her thumb. I was taken aback by the ironic image before me. She wasn’t a rarity; there were many pregnant girls in the school. Once their babies were born, they brought them to the school’s daycare so they could finish high school. That was the best lesson in abstinence – much more effective than sex ed 101.
 
Or there were the times I would head to the bathroom, only to be greeted by the bitter stench of cheap pot wafting out from one of the stalls. That turned me off to drugs more than Nancy Reagan’s “Just Say No” campaign. By the time I got to university, I’d leave a party if someone broke out a joint. And I wanted nothing to do with excessive drinking either. I saw too many kids pass out or vomit in the back of a bus.
 
I witnessed girls clawing at each other’s faces in fits of anger, and boys throwing punches during lunch time. The kids in my program, however, never succumbed to such ugly antics – we were too refined for such behavior. Thankfully, guards were brought to the school which curbed the sporadic spurts of violence greatly, and high school life largely hummed along uneventfully.
 
As a result of my real life education, I’ve never gotten high, I’ve never gotten drunk, and I’ve never been in a brawl. A good girl.
 
Fast forward fifteen years. By the time I had two small children, I’d found Torah. I was excited by all the new things I was learning about the religion I always thought I knew, but really didn’t. My husband and I gradually took on kashrut and Shabbat, and eventually the children put on tsitsit and kippas.
 
The problem was that my family was far from thrilled.
 
One autumn early in our teshuva, some family members from abroad came to visit and we all went to my parents’ home for dinner. A discussion ensued about the upcoming ‘holiday’ of Halloween. My husband announced that we would no longer be celebrating Halloween, and that’s when the straw broke the camel’s back. No Halloween? Denying the children the joy of dressing up in costumes, going door-to-door in search of sugary treats, and being a part of the ultimate American experience? The evening ended on a sour note, with me storming out of the house after hearing the following: “We’ve lost you. It’s like a death in the family.”
 
Huffing and door slamming, I went out to the car, where the children and a visiting family member were waiting for me. As I settled into my seat, I said that I’d never rebelled before and, in an unconventional way, it was like I was now rebelling. The response I received was, “Isn’t it about time?”
 
It took me years to make peace with the fact that my journey to Torah and mitzvah observance would alter my relationship with my family. Thank G-d, their initial anger faded into disappointment, which then morphed into eventual acceptance of my chosen lifestyle. But to this day, eight years later, I still deal with issues that highlight the gap between us; now it’s mainly regarding concern about my children’s education and their future ability to go to university with all the Jewish stuff they spend most of their time learning.
 
Becoming a Torah-observant Jew is usually not the most popular thing to do, and often sets relationships on temporarily stormy waters. Clinging to the emet (truth), exercising patience, fostering a sense of humor (“Thanksgiving? No sweat. Every Friday I make Thanksgiving, just with a smaller bird.”), and understanding how non-religious family members view your seemingly sudden changes are key to riding out the waves.
 
Torah teaches that the mitzvah of keeping Shabbat overrides the mitzvah of kibud av v’em (honoring one’s parents). This seems at first glance antithetical to such a lofty mitzvah as kibud av v’em, but upon closer look, it makes sense. Hashem is our ultimate Father, and He not only wants us to keep Shabbat, but our parents and every other Jew to do so as well.
 
With Hashem’s help, I pray that my parents will one day see the beauty of life with Torah. And I pray that they – and all other Jews — will soon join me as rebels…with a cause.