In the late 70s, when I was eight, my mother dated the best man from her second wedding. That man became her third husband.
My town was white. He was black, the only black man I’d ever seen in person and he was now my stepfather.
Kids and parents gawked. Some muttered their thoughts, others said them loudly. Kids weren’t allowed over. I sat alone at lunch.
In 1995, I met a Jewish man. He was the first Jewish person I’d ever known.
We started dating and were together a little over a year when I found out I was pregnant.
We had no plans to get married. I’d seen what marrying because of pregnancy did to my own parents and I wasn’t interested.
Being unwed and pregnant was not a popular choice in 1995.
Several months pregnant, I was at my Jewish boyfriend’s office. The receptionist had gone home for the day, so I answered the phone.
“Can I speak with John,” the caller asked curtly.
“He’s not available, may I take a message?” I asked with a smile like my receptionist job in high school taught me.
“Yes,” he said, “let him know it’s appalling that he is parading his pregnant slut around. As a Christian I am disappointed and will no longer be doing business with him.”
Stunned, tears forming in my eyes, I said, “This is that very slut you are referring to and I will pass along your message. Can I give him your name and number so he can call you back?”
He hung up.
We decided to get married.
I shared the news at work and an older Christian woman I worked with followed me to my car, “You’re going to burn in hell.”
It was said in an advisory tone. No anger.
Perplexed, I replied, “I thought marrying him was the right thing to do.”
“He is Jewish,” she whispered. I had fiery nightmares that night.
Getting married appeased most of those around us. But not quite everyone.
My son wouldn’t be Jewish enough if I, as his mother, wasn’t Jewish. While my parents and grandmother were happy with our decision to get married, I had one more box to check.
I converted. I took a condensed round of classes and at seven months pregnant, butt naked in a mikvah with a Rabbi chanting above me, I became Jewish.
We were married a short time, had two beautiful Jewish baby boys and then, because we were both smart enough to know mutual misery is a bad longterm goal, we threw in the towel.
I put up a Christmas tree that year. He lit a menorah.
In 2001 I met a Catholic man and fell in love.
I didn’t grow up religious but I come from a long history of Catholics. I attended mass once as a little girl. Not knowing the rules, as Communion began, I stood like everyone else.
“You can’t come up,” my cousin hissed, “you aren’t Catholic.” I sat back down, cheeks red with shame.
I married that wonderful Catholic man and we had a beautiful baby boy.
He brings us endless joy. He is smart, handsome, funny. He’s an amazing writer and actor, he is a lover of learning. He is compassionate and wonderful and he is gay.
I worry daily how the world will treat him. I’ve seen it in practice. I increasingly worry how the world will treat my older two boys. I’m seeing it in practice.
We’re a hodgepodge of a family.
Two boys, now in their late 20s, raised rotating weekly between divorced parents. Judaism taught in one home, a hybrid of religion that was mostly formed only on holidays in the other. Adhering and adjusting along the way to two homes, a suitcase packed weekly.
Our youngest son, 18, raised watching his older brothers go back and forth. Coming to terms with something in the quiet of his own mind at a very young age, processing alone, until he was ready to share.
Me, raised in a broken home, parented with addiction, a mom who was arrested more than once, abuse and anger in abundance. A chip on my shoulder, raised to be tough. Raised to survive.
My husband, brought up by June and Ward Cleaver incarnate, along with his other nine siblings in their Catholic household. He has a beautiful way of seeing the world. One that has softened mine.
We celebrate our differences. We listen and learn. We believe in kindness and love. In our house, you belong. Not because of your religion, who you love or the color or your skin. You belong because you are you.
If you like what you read I would be so grateful if you left a comment and shared this with friends you think will love it as much as you did. ❤️
I can’t believe that I am the first person to like and comment on this post. Reading this hit my heart in a way not many can understand! For so long I wished I was older and knew then what I know now. That I could have rescued that girl in middle school and high school. But I read your stories and see your beautiful family and know that what you have gone through has made you who you are today! Strong, vibrant and beautiful! I am so proud of you Stefie!!!!
I am crying reading your story here, and even though I have not hugged you at Peets Coffee in about a decade, I feel your virtual embrace through this letter.
Your kind heart is rare and your family is so beautiful.
The survivors of pain who decide to sprinkle kindness instead of living life serving the attitude they were always shown - HEROS.
THRILLED to be able to stay connected via Substack- I hope one day to proudly share your book (to come) with all my friends.
Xx
Kay Kay 🤍