Hot springs eternal ... to be a Jew

In Europe, you are required to be nude while taking a sauna or steam, as your body absorbs the heat and needs to perspire freely.

In my early twenties I was ordered to be nude, not for a body enriching experience, but for a spiritual conversion to Judaism.

As part of the conservative ritual, after six months of classes on the Old Testament, and after an hour-long interview with a handful of Rabbis, the final step of acceptance in my new husband’s family was to dip into a pool of water, called a Mikva, nude, in between reciting Hebrew blessings. Three dips, a “Barukh Ata Adonai,” and then another three and the procedure is over. My Rabbi, newlywed husband and mother-in-law stood behind the adjoining room's door left ajar to listen in on my transformation from a former Protestant to a newfound Jew. The only person present in this room was an elderly woman, who led me with gestures, not words, in the process, as if she were a vehicle of God.

I left the Brookline temple a Jew, in the non-hereditary sense, and to celebrate, the three of us went out for corned beef sandwiches.

Why I chose to convert was three-fold: I did so partly because I had never grown up with any specific religion or culture, partly because I was intrigued and impressed with the pride I witnessed in my fiancé’s culture, and partly because I knew that I wanted my future family to follow a consistent tradition that I had never experienced in my youth. The assumptions made from having a Jewish last name brought forth some amusement.

The laughter ceased seven years later, when I was turned away from a service during the High Holy Days. Thinking I would be welcomed at any temple — and knowing I didn’t want to attend service at my now ex-husbands’ temple, I took my son and went to a service for Rosh Hashanah in our hometown. Rosh Hashanah is the observance and celebration of the Jewish New Year. My son was a Rosh Hashanah baby. It was my favorite holiday.

We stepped into the temple, enjoyed the service, and saw a lot of people we knew from our town. The next week observed the High Holy Day called Yom Kippur — a twenty-four hour fast and Day of Atonement. I decided to go to this same temple for Yom Kippur service. This time it was quite a different experience, and we knew something shifted from the moment we walked in.

“Shalom,” a large woman greeted. A man whose balding head was covered by a Yamaka was standing in front of me. It seems there were two people assigned by the temple to greet everyone at the door.

“May I have your tickets?” The balding man held out his hand to accept the tickets he assumed I was holding.

“I don’t have any tickets, but we would like to sit in on the service.” I began to feel uneasy, like I was being judged, assessing this from the look of discomfort on his face.

“Are you a member here?” The tone of the large woman had a meddling ring to it. It wasn’t just a friendly question.

“No, but we came to a service here last week and it didn’t seem to be a problem.” I did not like the feeling of being grilled by these two people. I was here with my son to sit in on a service, which I thought would not be a problem for anyone. Apparently we were a problem — and we were stopping the line of people behind us from entering.

“I’m sorry, but if you aren’t a member and you don’t have a ticket you’ll have to sit over there,” she pointed. She seemed to take pleasure in calling out this order.

I looked to where her oversized finger led us and saw a row of folding chairs and a television hanging from the ceiling. I could see the inside of the temple on the television and noticed that only half the temple was filled. I was humiliated and upset for my son and myself. I could barely look at anyone walking in because I felt like such an outcast. Jake didn’t pick up on this because he was still young enough not to be affected. Feeling like I had no choice, hoping that it wouldn’t last for more than a minute or two, I walked to the folding chairs with Jake. The chairs were empty. We were the only two seated. I looked up at the television to view the Rabbi, who I knew from my son’s preschool program at the Jewish Community Center. After a few minutes of sitting and observing the crowd pouring into the temple, I decided that my humiliation had reached its peak. I took my son’s hand and walked out. Nobody tried to stop or question me. I was insignificant to them because I didn’t have a ticket.

I never attempted to go back to a service again; that was the last day I practiced Judaism. I felt segregation on a minor level, but I felt it, and it hurt. Today, other than a slight acknowledgement of the High Holy Days, almost twenty years later, there is hardly any practice of Judaism in my home.