I Married a Mensch
Why I Ditched Blond-Hair, Blue-Eyed Heartthrobs
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
A little-known fact about me (aside from the fact that I grew up on Loowng Island) is that for a time (a prolonged period of time, if you ask my parents), I only dated non-Jewish men. It’s not that I was trying to be rebellious or coy. I went to Dalton and Penn—institutions where one could conceivably meet a nice Jewish boy—and yet I don’t think I ever stepped inside a Jewish fraternity. Can you blame me? The tall, lanky rowers all lived on the other side of campus. I grew up in the era of the blond-haired and blue-eyed heartthrob, and my walls were adorned with pics of Ricky Schroder ripped straight from the pages of Teen Beat magazine.
Oh, and “hot rabbis” were not yet a thing.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I didn’t appreciate my Jewishness, or the downright lucky decisions my ancestors had made to uproot their lives. I understood the gravity of my family’s plight. (The tales were horrific.) But what I remember most is my grandma’s warmth while relaying them—and her recognition of "much nachas" and good fortune in being able to do so. Through my elders, I learned a little about religion, and a lot about my roots—but the stories seemed born of a different time in a different land. It felt real, but also like folklore.
Despite my respect and admiration for the generations that preceded me, when it came to dating, I couldn’t seem to please any of them. The heart wants what it wants, and my heart wanted to hang out with a guy named McNulty.
The more my family impressed upon me the seriousness of their convictions, the more it seemed like they were stuck in the past. I thought we had evolved. I liked being Jewish, but I liked being a lot of things.
Fast-forward to now. I married a total mensch, and I am the proud mother of a Jewish family. I don’t know when the switch flipped for me, but I know that when I was mature enough to contemplate having a family, I was certain it would have everything to do with my being Jewish. Because at my core, being Jewish is about continuity, and the chance to carry on the stories and traditions of my loved ones.
Starting our family was so exciting. I was passing the torch to my own kids, even if I was just starting to get a grip on it myself. Over time, my clutch grew stronger. It grew tighter and firmer with each Shabbat candle lit or successful (attempt at) latke-making; with each turn around the Passover table, telling tales old and new. Until October 7. Now, I’m more fearful than ever that the flame is slipping out of my hand.
How can I tell my kids that everything is going to be okay when I’m not sure it is? How can I "hush hush" away their fears when I myself am deeply quaking? How do you try to make sense of something to your children when, in fact, it makes no sense at all?
In the absence of any clear answers, I don a forced-warrior attitude. But it’s mixed with an uneasiness that I’m pretty sure my teenage girls can detect. Like any good Jewish mother, I worry endlessly about them. Both recently bat mitzvahed, their Jewishness today is at the forefront of their identity—and it’s tinged with apprehension far greater than anything I experienced growing up.
I heard the war stories, albeit from loved ones over warm milk and cookies. They have TikTok journalism and doomsday notifications popping up on their phones all day long. I want my kids to be loud and proud, but foremost, I want them to be safe.
We are still in it—not through it—and so I will continue to accept the unknown. And my kids will stay glued to their devices. These days, I worry less about what my kids will see online than about whether they will get lost in an echo chamber. I love seeing posts by my Jewish friends supporting Jewish causes, but I wish my kids had access to a broader range of viewpoints. We've all become uber-Jews, and that's great—but we can only get so far being small but mighty.
So to all my ex-boyfriends out there who didn't become my nice Jewish husband: I miss hearing from you! We should get together with the kids one day soon. I hope to find ways for my children to wholly embrace their Jewish identity—and to keep looking for ways to connect.
Or, at least, to find themselves a hot rabbi.
Tara Mark Rosenblum is a writer and mother, living in NYC. She writes a lifestyle and humor blog (www.itsallmaterial.net) and has been published in several publications.
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
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Love this.