Goy walks into a bar

Quit your bellyaching Portnoy, matzo fever’s* no fun either.

Anne Frank meant a whole lot to me growing up. As a child, I was almost preternaturally obsessed with all things Jewish. I can remember reading Anne’s diary at a young age and the profound impression it had as an alienated and impressionable nine or ten-year-old. Anne and I grew up together – we played imaginary games at morning tea, I called my diary “Kitty” and I wrote fiction about being a young Jew during WWII which my teacher at the time made me read out in class. I even remembering lighting candles every Friday night for Sabbath because it’s what Anne did. I first learned about the atrocities of the second world war as a young schoolgirl, and looking back on it now, some of the visions of the past I encountered were quite dark, but I had a brilliant guide through history in Anne. She brought it to life for me, and there’s something about that childhood experience that’s never quite left. (I blogged about my experience visiting the Anne Frank house back in 2014.)

I can remember my father bringing home Gorecki’s Symphony of Sorrowful Songs and listening in my family lounge for the first time – a piece in Polish that recalled not only the suffering of the Polish Jews but the entire Polish population during the war. I continued to write literature on the holocaust and my childish impressions of it, to the point where I’m sure my mother thought I was going to convert.

As I got older, my relationships became more complicated as my place in the world changed. I began to meet more Jews, but I also became more and more into Jesus. From their Messianic to Israeli to Kiwi incarnations, it seems Jews have always been a part of my life. And like my relationships with anyone else in this world, my relationships with them have ranged from happy to intimate to bewildered, hurt and confused and back again.

The first time I was ever officially asked out, it was by a Jew. It was a six form dance and he was wearing a rabbi costume and I was dressed as a princess. His name was Michael. We danced, he got my number, and he kept calling. Awkwardly, he went to the same high school as my brother, who if I remember correctly promised to pound him if he so much as made a move on me. He was an interesting guy who had a lot of theories about the world (hey, he was 16.) We went to see The Royal Tenenbaums. And then I broke his heart, in a way that only a good Protestant girl can.

I can still remember the debate in the house afterwards when I came home and explained what had happened. It was an early sign of the religious divisions or cracks that were already beginning to appear between my parents (later, my feelings about WWII would only become more intricate and confusing when it was revealed that the parents of the woman my father left my mother for had suffered not as Jews but as ethnic Poles under Hitler.) My father was completely uncomfortable with me giving Michael the brush, and could not see the issue at all in us being together, or the problems our individual faiths might have seen us run into in our relationship later down the track.

It was the start in a lineage of Jewish guys who have fallen awkwardly for my “shiksappeal” and who it has unfortunately proven impossible to be with for various reasons.  

The next day, Mum, Dad and I took a trip up to Martinborough to enjoy a day at the food fair. Did I mention Michael’s entire family were bakers. And did I forget to mention his entire family was there? And that they all seemed to know what had transpired?

Michael couldn’t look me in the eye. And with the looks I was getting from the rest of the clan – any minute I thought I was gonna get whacked with a cannoli.

Fast forward several years and I’m living in the gloriousness that is Elsterniwick, Melbourne. I’m living with an Israeli Jewish couple and loving every minute. To this day Elsternwick remains one of my sweetest Melbourne memories – I loved the gorgeous little town, the children running around, and the flats atop the bagel shops.

Ofri and Noam took me in straight away. And I was happy. I went to Passover, which I adored. Ofri came to my concerts. We watched Coen brothers movies together and ate chicken soup with matzo. Man alive, could that woman make soup. They also had a darling labrador dog named mango with a destructive streak who would great me lustily every day I got home.

And then something changed.

Noam stopped wanting to interact. He became utterly absorbed with his psychology degree, working and writing on the computer morning, noon and night and only stopping to watch Big Bang Theory reruns. He almost refused to come to Passover that year. I could tell it was hurting Ofri, but she was a dutiful wife to Noam and would never question his decisions.

Worse, he was getting more and more irritated with my presence in the house. And that was bad news for me as he was the head of the household.

Now I’m the first to admit, I’m not always the easiest person to live with. But what Noam wanted was total and utter silence and a flatmate who was almost never home. My stomach fell to my shoes when Ofri told me they’d decided it wasn’t working out – since most of my living arrangements at this time were done under the table as it were, I had no recourse for them kicking me out. This living situation had played itself out at least twice while I was boarding in Australia. The second time it happened, it hurt like a mother because it was Christians that did it to me.

To this day I still miss Ofri – I remember us walking together with Mango and going to see The Artist at the little cinema up the road. I often wonder what she’s doing now. I hope she is happy – at the end of the day her saving her marriage is more important than the understandably weird dynamic of keeping a virtual stranger in the house.

This experience reiterated to me that no matter how close I thought I was to Judaism, at the end of the day I was goyische and despite best efforts they were still a mystery to me; I did the best I could at the time to understand, but it just wasn’t enough.

I remember my mum coming to visit the suburb and understanding implicitly what appealed to me. I didn’t fall for much in Melbourne during my time there but I did enjoy Elsternwick. I can also remember getting lost en-route to lifegroup at one of those big, excitable evangelical churches (Planetshakers) one evening and stopping a guy to ask for directions. But it turned out the Shiksabeam was at full wattage, because the dude asked for my number. During lifegroup he texted:

“I just wondered have you ever slept with a Jewish guy before?”

Needless to say I did not reply.

Then there were the marriage proposals. Yes, that’s right. I was looking for a place to live, and there was an Israeli guy who had a ratty apartment above the local bakery. It was a real dive, so he said he had someplace better he could show me.  So out I went to Berwick, and the place was nice. But it transpired that the guy was having immigration issues, was looking for a naturalized Aussie or Kiwi to marry. He really, really wanted to stay in Australia. As an Antipodean you don’t realize how this is the case so often for so many people who live overseas. Hard to imagine when I’m always trying to escape the place. I told him when I married, whoever it was, it’d be for love.

New York 2014. I was happily minding my own when he came along and asked me out. A nice, Orthodox Jersey boy. He wanted me to convert. Same tale all over again with a different location.

I remember writing to him from the airport:

"Sitting here in the waiting room of middle America for the appearance of the Bloomington bus. Passed the Jersey Turnpike today and thought of you."

Frustrated with the ever-diminishing circles in which I seemed to be moving in the dating department, back in New Zealand I had lunch with a matchmaker who’d advertised online. I had an earnest discussion with her about the difficulties I’d encountered so far in meeting suitable men, and the reasons for my predicament. She listened seriously to all I had to say, taking it in. Finally she looked up, a thoughtful expression on her face. No, she didn’t have any suitable Christian men on her books. Oh. But hey, you might think about bending your criteria just a little. You know, has anyone ever told you you look Jewish? I’m actually Jewish! And off the top of my head, I know I can set you up with ten great Jewish guys right. now.

That’s right. I managed to find the only actual matchmaker in New Zealand. And she happened to be Jewish.

The Shiksappeal is strong in this one.

*Matzo fever: the opposite of shiksappeal; the romantic effect someone of the Hebraic persuasion has on a non-Jew.