It’s Yom Kippur but I’m not fasting.
I’d fast if I had any desire to see my family — but I’m not feeling very festive. And behind closed doors, at least, I’m less religious — less than they even suspect. It’s weird being so out of sync with them on something as important as whether we all believe in god. Sometimes it makes me sad. Even though I think synagogue is boring, and I can barely sit through service without rolling my eyes, I do miss those moments of standing next to my dad as he sang along with his favorite prayers, sitting up a little straighter when he was called to read from the Torah, laughing in a whisper with my sisters, and then feasting on matzoh ball soup, chicken, brisket, and cakes galore at my grandparents’ house.
I don’t know when I became less interested in God. Maybe college, when I was trying on my newfound independence. Maybe it was when my sister married a Hasidic Jew and turned our home life upside down (separate meat and dairy dishes?) Maybe it’s the way Judaism expects women to spend their entire lives pumping out babies. Maybe it’s the way other Jews tend to judge each other — what you wear, what you put in your mouth, how closely you observe the Sabbath.
Bateman and I have the same views about religion — mostly. He’s less conflicted than I am — less angry, less guilty — because he was raised less religious than I was. My mom seems to think I’ll ramp up the Jewishness once I have children. Maybe. Who knows. But for now, I’m seeing how this watered down religion suits me.
