Tuesday, June 07, 2005
A conversion story
Boston was/is a college-town and the streets had an abandoned, ghostlike quality to them as the denizens slept off whatever they'd consumed the night before. Moving toward the direction of Massachusetts General hospital, it took only ten aerobic minutes to find myself, sheepishly, standing at the entrance of an almost-empty Orthodox synagogue. Three young women stood behind the glass partition, all of them conservatively dressed, chanting to themselves from small, leather-covered prayer books. Clearly not my scene, I turned on my inverted heels and sauntered home.
A week later I was back, dressed in a sidewalk-sweeping Indian skirt, Frye boots and a surplus sweater courtesy of the U.S. Navy. Sitting a few rows behind the same three women, I tried to follow the service by reading the stilted, archaic translation. When that got too difficult, I tried humming along to the dirge-like tunes. Standing at the ensuing wine-and-cake kiddush, I experienced much of the same awkwardness that I had during the Hillel brunch. Only this time I didn't think of escaping. Oddly, just the independent action of being there felt empowering.
A week later I was back, dressed in a sidewalk-sweeping Indian skirt, Frye boots and a surplus sweater courtesy of the U.S. Navy. Sitting a few rows behind the same three women, I tried to follow the service by reading the stilted, archaic translation. When that got too difficult, I tried humming along to the dirge-like tunes. Standing at the ensuing wine-and-cake kiddush, I experienced much of the same awkwardness that I had during the Hillel brunch. Only this time I didn't think of escaping. Oddly, just the independent action of being there felt empowering.
