Neither Here Nor There
A convert's experience
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.
I don’t usually tell people that I’m a convert. Some figure it out; others would never guess. When I meet a new Jewish acquaintance, I have a little schtick: I tell them I’m from a small midwestern town with only a handful of Jews. This is true—and it means I don’t have to lay my convert card on the table right away. I’d rather play Jewish geography. After all these years plugged into religious communities, I play a decent game.
It's ironic that I don’t discuss conversion unless I have to. While I was going through it, I spoke of little else (surely making my Jewish and non-Jewish family and friends alike want to pull out their hair). Israel! Keeping kosher! No wine touched by gentiles! Theological differences between Judaism and Christianity! Shabbat! Zemirot! Parshiot! The Jewish view on modesty! Jewish peoplehood! The Chafetz Chaim! Learning about these topics myself—and then teaching others—kept me busy for years.
Two decades post-mikveh, I can't help but sigh when I cross paths with a convert or baal teshuva who talks incessantly about Judaism. Ahhh, the starry-eyed enthusiasm. Oy, the social ineptness. It reminds me of that queasy adolescent feeling of wanting to be in the “in” group. Of being neither here nor there—when all I wanted was to be a Jew.
The two questions all converts field are: "How did you decide to convert?” and “What does your family think?” I used to bristle at these; they are so personal. When asked by a close friend, I’m happy to answer. But when they come up at a casual dinner, I feel like I’m being put under a microscope. “We’ll poke at this curiosity, then move on to the unseasonably warm weather.” I’ve been the target of pejorative comments from Jews and gentiles alike.
“I bet when you converted, you didn't think you’d be eating things like gefilte fish!”
“I wonder why we let people convert if they have genetic diseases. Like, let’s improve the gene pool, right!?”
Or the offensive and impossible: “You're too pretty to be Jewish.” Or its backhanded-compliment cousin: “You don't look like a rebbetzin!” Usually, people commenting on my conversion mean well. But I still wish they wouldn’t.
One of the reasons I rarely talk about being a convert is that—at least until October 7—I rarely thought about it. At this point—with my rabbi husband, my kids, my wig, my frum home, my learning, my patterns of speech—I come across as Orthodox. Maybe baal teshuva, but I’m in.
Since October 7, though, being a convert has felt more complicated. In times of increased antisemitism, we often talk about generational trauma; Jews have been victimized so many times throughout history. But I am careful not to claim this history, because it doesn’t apply to me in the same way. Likewise, it can be strange explaining to someone that Jews are not white, when I look white and am genetically non-Jewish European.
Still, my family and I feel the sting of antisemitism in the U.S. I—like all visible Jews—have felt more nervous at the supermarket and Ikea. I want my kids to behave, not just because that's preferable, but so people don't sneer, “Look at those Jews”—or worse. I constantly wonder: Are my kids safe at their Jewish schools? Will another person scream "free Palestine" at us on our way to shul? Will my kids have the same opportunities we had? Should they attend colleges where they won’t be valued?
I know this is nothing compared to what my in-laws in Israel face. They are literally fighting for the Jewish future, running to bomb shelters, taking care of kids alone for months at a time. The war has brought us Jews closer together as a people, but it pulls us further apart as a family. I have felt self-conscious ever since my husband moved from Israel to the U.S. after we married. Now, the divide between him and his siblings—who have put their careers on hold and left their families to fight for all of us—is wider than ever. Do they resent us? Do they resent me—the girl who brought him here? I don’t know. We certainly don’t post pictures of our idyllic weekend mountain trips on the family WhatsApp anymore.
When I talk to non-Jews about the pain that Jewish people—like me—experience, I sometimes feel like an impostor. My family and old friends remember a time when I would not have been so affected by the surge in antisemitism. But socially, religiously, professionally, and psychologically, I do feel it. I do not have some separate life where I eat shrimp in a bikini. I am experiencing fear and disenchantment, looming dread and occasional hope, just like my Jewish-American counterparts.
I am not crying about feeling different at times. Choosing to become Jewish was the best decision I’ve ever made. Maybe we’re all feeling a little lost, neither here nor there, in this new, disorienting reality.
Lindsey Bodner is the director of the Naomi Foundation, which supports innovative education in the US and Israel. Lindsey is also a lawyer, a rebbetzin, and the mom of four great kids. She writes the substack The Intentional Jewish Family to help families make unique and meaningful financial, educational, and lifestyle choices.
Instagram: @theintentionaljewishfamily
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