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The day my ex, Arin, called me "CHRISTine," he was in a sweet, attentive mood.
It started in jest, as his friend poignantly ‒ or annoyingly, I am not sure which ‒ asked him about his new shiksa girlfriend. Arin, not wanting to call me his girlfriend yet, found it easier to divert attention to the name and take it on as term of endearment. Little did I know that the moniker would ultimately be the source of our downfall.
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Our relationship had started out innocently enough ‒ I never pretended to be anything but a nice Christian girl. In fact, our first date introduced him to my Christmas tradition, as he help transport my dried up Christmas tree to the curb. Despite being far shorter than the tree, he towered with confidence as he “McGuyvered” the evergreen out of my small apartment. Just as quickly he strong-armed his way into my heart. His charm, his humor, his desire to spend sleepless nights talking until dawn about our lives, our hopes, our dreams -- none of this had to do with religion, or the fact that I was not "one of the tribe." It had not even crossed my mind. That is, until several Jewish girlfriends confided in me.
"You know he can’t marry you," one said.
"His mother will never accept you," another confided.
"You will have to convert," others added.
I was sure they were wrong. They did not know Arin. I had met his parents and they were lovely. But like a Jewish grandmother, the thoughts nagged at me. I had to ask him. What better time than after Passover dinner, where it was painfully obvious I knew nothing of his family’s culture and traditions?
"Does it bother you that I am not Jewish?" I asked timidly.
Without hesitation, he looked at me and said, "I think it is hard enough to find love without letting something less important to me, like religion, get in the way."
Yes, it was official. I loved this man.
That should have been it, but as the relationship escalated and more time was spent with his family, I saw cracks in the otherwise beautiful porcelain vase.
Over the next few months, I learned that, according to Arin’s father, the only thing worse than bringing home a girl who is not Jewish is if his son had brought home a man. So Catholicism was just marginally better than homosexuality? According to what religious philosophy can humans be judged like this? I saw the stolen glances when I asked questions about the Jewish wedding ceremony we attended that summer. And when Yom Kippur came around that fall, my presence was not as vital as it had been months before at Passover.
Had I misunderstood the vow Arin made to me early in our relationship? While his family never treated me with anything but love and respect, I couldn’t help but wonder if my friends had been correct about not being accepted. I mean, I am a goy in his eyes. And, even more important in the Jewish culture, in his mother’s eyes -- By definition (yes, this one actually made it into a dictionary) I am "a woman who can love her son, but not one who should marry him."
The wonder dissipated when after an incredible year, Arin abruptly ended the relationship. Ironically ‒ or so I thought at the time - it was right after a long Christmas visit with my family. I realized later that the carols, the Christmas tree and the extended family gift giving, was simply too much for him. And, most definitely for his family. The differences between our backgrounds were made too apparent.
Reliving memories while nursing my broken heart, I recalled a conversation which could have shed light on the religious preferences that would be our demise, but from which I was blinded, by love of course.
"I have nothing personally against the Catholic religion itself, but it is the one faith I would never raise my children." Umm, okay. Sounds personal to me. Me, the Catholic girl you love and with whom you feel you would want to raise children. Reflecting back, I realize that I never told my mother of this conversation. While not overly religious, this might have been the one thing that would make her break out rosary beads.
Yes, after much reflection I realize that it was not just my simple yearning for a Christmas tree, or my family’s Catholic heritage, that it wasn’t my blonde hair or southern Italian features, that caused Arin to rethink our relationship. While Catholicism is the one trait that does not even rank on my list of self-defining characteristics, to Arin, I embodied the religion. So, why would I continue to subject myself to this judgment by joining the Jewish Dating Network? Why be defined by religion, if that is what brought about the end of my love affair?
I was driven not so much by my stubbornness to be accepted, but rather in wanting to believe that people date, love and marry based on chemistry, lifestyle and goals, rather than religion. However, my experiment has proven me wrong. For as much as we pride ourselves in being accepting of diversity in this country ‒ and in New York City particularly ‒ like-minded men and women want to join together.
Before my month-long subscription to the infamous Jewish network was up, I resigned. I resigned from the site, and more importantly I resigned myself to the idea that people want to date a person as well as their religious background, and that these things are not so easily separable. For as much as I had hoped Arin would stay together regardless of our religious preferences, I realized I was not willing to let religion enter this darwinism of dating. Because if there is one thing I have learned from dating (not just this experience, but twenty years of actively participating) is that faith ‒ in one another, in yourself, and in the knowledge of what each of you deserves and desires ‒ is the key in bringing, and keeping, couples together.Today, free from online dating ‒ Jewish sites and all others ‒ I am back to judging men the old-fashioned way: by their looks and their W-2s. And so far I have not heard any complaints from my mom about that.
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Christine Williams, a New York City-based freelance writer, is currently dating a wonderful man. Yes, he is a Christian.