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Home page -> Targum Authors -> Shafran, Avi -> Migrant Soul
Migrant Soul
The Story of an American GerAvi Shafran
Migrant Soul
What's it like to be an American Indian and a Jew?
Meet Ovadyah Gomes, descendant of Mohawk and Narragansett Indians, and join him and his wife Ariella on their amazing and heartwarming spiritual quest from total assimilation to the world of Orthodox Judaism. You will be awe-inspired by their extraordinary and unrelenting search for truth and their strength against the challenges of discrimination and hypocrisy. A fascinating, beautifully-written book by Rabbi Avi Shafran, reknowned Director of Public Affairs of Agudath Israel of America.
Book Excerpt from Migrant Soul
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Migrant Soul:
A funny, frank, and extraordinarily inspiring account of an American Indian descendant and his assimilated family as they embark upon a winding journey to Judaism.
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Unexpected Blessings
The young couple didn't stay in New York for long. Within a few months, Abel was offered a marketing position with a manufacturing concern, and he had no intention of letting the opportunity slip away. He had interviewed for the job so these people knew just what he looked like, and they still wanted him. He wanted them, too.The Gomeses would have to move, as it happened, to the small but growing New England town where Abel had been born and raised and where his parents still lived. When he first learned about the position available in his hometown, a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach brought a wry smile to his face. Forces larger than he seemed to be taking him back to his roots. He didn't suspect that deeper roots yet were beckoning in the distance.
New York had been an interesting place to live but it had never really been home, so neither Abel nor Ariella found it hard to say goodbye. Besides, Ariella felt confident that she would land work in their new place of residence. So the two of them followed Interstate 95 north to their future.
Hope Heights, Massachusetts, is just small enough to be quaint yet large enough to matter. The high-tech industry that had spread through the region like Boston ivy had made Hope Heights the community of choice for many of the area's new residents. Their influx had transformed the sleepy town into a small metropolis of sorts. One could still meet one's barber, banker or doctor on a typical stroll downtown, but the number of strangers one saw between familiar faces had grown considerably throughout the '70s. Buildings whose size and design were once expected only of New York or Boston had sprung up in the business district, and suits and ties began to rival flannel shirts and work boots as the local costume.
For their first month in Hope Heights, the couple stayed with Abel's parents. Ariella found work as the administrator of a state Department of Education grant program, and both she and her husband focused on their jobs. Life seemed to be going as planned, but its direction was soon to shift decisively and unexpectedly.
Like urban professionals before them, Abel and Ariella had planned their family no less carefully than their investment portfolio. Before complicating their lives with kids, they both wanted to find themselves and to become secure in their relationship and in their respective careers. So the sudden suspicion, quickly confirmed, that Ariella was pregnant came as a great surprise.
At first, Ariella felt that it was unfair. It was as if something from without were fooling with her life. The laws of physiology, causality and reason had betrayed her and invited the ghost of chance into her world. Her discomfort, however, soon enough gave way to the sublime feelings of impending motherhood.
The couple moved into an apartment just below that of Abel's brother and tried to settle into their work. They wanted to minimize the disruption their imminent responsibility would surely bring, though they could hardly ignore the approaching roads they had no maps for.
On one visit to the obstetrician, Abel voiced a concern that had begun to occupy his mind uncomfortably often.
"If it's a boy, do you know anyone qualified to perform the circumcision?"
As a veteran obstetrician who prided himself on keeping abreast of the latest medical trends, the Jewish doctor eyed Abel curiously.
"Are you sure you want to opt for circumcision altogether, Mr. Gomes? There is something of an emerging consensus against it these days."
Abel nodded decisively, affirmatively.
"Well, let me ask you, what exactly do you mean by 'qualified'?"
Abel was only slightly taken aback.
"You see, my wife is Jewish, Doctor, and we'll need the circumcision done the way the Jewish religion requires. Are there any ritual circumcisers in the area?"
The doctor glanced hopefully at Ariella but found no alliance in her eyes. He then turned back to the dark and unmistakably serious man who had addressed him.
"Well, I myself am fully qualified to perform circumcisions and have indeed done many in my day for Jewish parents."
The couple smiled, secure in the knowledge that, though the pregnancy had taken them by surprise, at least circumcision had been properly arranged.
Several weeks and one sonogram later, they learned that they were expecting twins — and that they needn't have considered circumcision.
Naming two baby girls at one shot was a tall order, and Ariella readily ceded the honor to Abel. He settled first on Daphna, the name of a teacher he had once had. He had always liked the name, if not the teacher. Inexplicably inspired by the enchanting name of a jazz singer he had once heard, he called his second child Ruth.
When the new parents arrived home with the babies, Abel's family was there to greet them. The infants were cuddled and passed around and Ariella was dutifully fussed over.
"When will the 'time' be?" asked the elder Mr. Gomes during a lull in the festive conversation.
Ariella's face registered puzzlement but Abel knew what his father was referring to. He decided to translate for his wife and let her respond.
"A christening," he said simply.
Ariella's puzzlement quickly yielded to something stronger, sharper, more focused, a feeling she immediately verbalized.
"The babies won't be having a christening," she pronounced. "They're Jewish."
Abel's parents had always been dedicated Christians, but they had never used their faith as a pedestal from which to disparage others. Abel took their tolerance for granted and they would not be angry with Ariella. Still, they wondered whether assertiveness might have less to do with religious commitment than with some post-partum hormonal flux. Abel's father tried to up the emotional ante.
"Arielia, at the 'time,' baby gifts are given by all the relatives and friends!"
Ariella smiled but it was not a concessionary smile.
Abel's mother continued the feeble assault.
"And, dear, you'll get everything you need for the babies without having to go to a hundred stores. Not to mention things for yourself."
Abel watched as his wife turned her smile down several degrees to the vicinity of absolute zero. He conjured up a medieval image of a Portuguese bishop and nun trying to coax a stubborn Jew into the baptismal font with assurances of material wealth and acceptance into the Christian community. Then Abel caught himself and erased the image, embarrassed at having so cast his parents, who were only trying to maintain a warm family tradition. Still, he silently egged Ariella on in her frosty response to his parents' pleas. Then he realized that his responsibility went beyond moral support.
"Mom, Dad," he interrupted, "the twins are Jewish because their mother is Jewish — that's the way it works in Judaism — so it really wouldn't be right to christen them."
"Look," conceded Abel's father, "you're the parents, do what you want. I just think you're giving up a great opportunity to provide all sorts of things for your kids."
"For goodness sake," Ariella interjected, at a considerably higher pitch than she had intended, "gifts aren't the goal of life!" Then, surprised at her own agitation, she added, "But if it's that important to you, then go ahead and have your ceremony. But I won't be attending."
"Oh, don't be silly, Ariella," Abel's mother announced conclusively. "We wouldn't think of having a 'time' without you there. If you feel so strongly about your religion, then we accept that."
"Anyway," Dad added with an exaggeratedly sly smile, "there's always the kitchen sink when you're not looking."
Ariella found it within her to smile at that image of surreptitious baptism. She was relieved at her victory though still somewhat baffled by her own fervor. If you feel so strongly about your religion.... Her mother-in-law's words bounced about in her mind.
Later that night, after her in-laws had left, Ariella played with her puzzlement. She knew she had no commitment to Jewish practice. For heaven's sake, she reminded herself, she had married a non-Jew! And yet, every so often something made her feel Jewish, even furiously so at times — as she had that afternoon. It was probably because her parents' Jewishness had mattered in such a terrible way, she ruminated. In a sense, she was herself a Holocaust survivor. As such, she mused, the seeds of her determination that her own children's Jewishness remain unsullied may have germinated in the dark dangers her family had faced long ago.
In fact, the still, small Jew within her had spoken up at odder times, such as when Abel had bought some meat she hadn't recognized. Somewhat astounded by her ignorance, he'd identified it as pork chops.
"Oh," she'd reacted coolly, "I don't think I've ever had any before. How should I prepare them?"
Abel had suggested that she bread and fry them. As it happened, the only breading in her pantry had been matzo meal.
As the chops sizzled, the Jew deep in her gut had sneered at the sight and smell of the pig pieces bonding with the powdery crumbs of the Jewish "bread of affliction." Then, while she'd stood over the frying pan, the phone had rung. It had been her mother on the line, long-distance.
"Did I catch you in the middle of making supper?" Mama had asked.
To Ariella, the little Jew inside her now openly snicking, her mother's question had sounded like an accusation.
"Sort of," she replied hesitantly.
"Oh, then I'll call back later. What're you making, dear?"
Why was she asking that?
Ariella had hesitated for an uncomfortable instant, then blurted out, "Veal chops!" before hastily composing herself and shyly signing off.
Ariella smiled at the memory and wondered at its awkwardness. True, her parents had never brought pork into their home when she had been growing up, but neither had they made any effort to keep kosher. Their dietary habits had been just that, habits — Eastern European in origin and devoid of any sacred imperatives. Yet the pork chops' sizzle had awakened the tiny Jew within her and given him a good, cynical chuckle.
Ariella's thoughts drifted as she prepared for a much-needed night's sleep that she knew the apartment's new occupants would allow her only in installments. She thought about the little girls she had been entrusted with, how they wouldn't remain infants for long, how it wasn't too soon to begin planning for their education, and how they would really need some sort of Jewish environment.