Be Who You Were Born To Be

We've all heard or read the words, "Be who you were born to be," at one time or another. It's a kind of shared wisdom that just keeps getting passed on--sometimes skipped over, other times thought deeply about.

Be who you were born to be. On the surface, it seems like it should be the easiest of goals. What happens fairly soon after you're born, however, is that other people begin deciding who you should be. Initially, it's the do this and don't do thats which build the track on which you're permitted to operate. Almost as soon as they can speak, after being asked about age and general health, children are usually asked, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" It's there that it starts, the mental handcuffs uniting who you are, your personhood, with your career. The real question being asked is what do you want your job to be?

There was a period when I was very young when I would alternately answer the question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" with either "A doctor." or "A go-go dancer." The latter would invariably trigger my mother's immediate, "Karla, that's inappropriate," response. And I'd argue, "But, Mom, they're so happy--and they dance in cages!" My father was less than pleased when he discovered I'd handed out my business cards at school, stating "M.D." after my name. In crayon. I was seven and just trying on the various roles. Though, late at night, I'd write down small poems and stories I'd thought of that day, trying to distract myself from the task of choosing a career.

I'm not sure how old I was when it dawned on me that "writer" could be included on the career options list. When it did, it was an epiphany. Wasn't that what I was always doing anyway? Imagining fanciful worlds during the day and writing about them at night? Somehow, close on the heels of the revelation, came a shadow. No, it seemed "writer" was not really a solid choice. It was a little too ethereal, like wanting to be a muse or a philosopher. One could give it a little more weight by stating "journalist" as the goal. But, simply reporting who, what, why, when, where, and how held little appeal. I was fortunate to have parents who encouraged me in my creative pursuits, but other influences dampened my enthusiastic rush to be a writer. It got put on hold.

Then, a new revelation occurred during my adult life. I stopped identifying people by their careers. I had no idea what the volunteer at the animal shelter did during her weekday life. The soccer coach who kept encouraging our son when he was frustrated? No idea what job brought him a salary. There's something so freeing about getting to know people based on their compassion, the ideas, their humor...and not even thinking to ask what they do for a living.

Imagine the thoughtful, creative replies one would hear if children weren't asked how they're going to make money as an adult, but what kind of person they hope to be.

Somewhere along the way, I began to identify myself as a writer again. Certainly not because I'm earning enough money writing to support myself on it. But, because it's what I do with meaning, what I feel compelled to do. And, deep down, there's an encouraging voice that being a writer is what I was born to be. That's the voice I listen to now.

What The Rabbi Said To Me

Last April, the rabbi and I sat down, he behind his desk, me facing him.

"So, Karla, what brings you here today? Tell me what has transpired that you're now sitting across from me."

For a moment, I was taken aback. How could I possibly explain everything in one sitting? I glanced over my shoulder at my cousins, the Berkowitzes, who smiled and nodded their heads in encouragement. I looked to my other side, at my husband and son, who waited expectantly for me to begin. I had to collect my thoughts. After all, how was it that I was now sitting in a rabbi's office, the synagogue bright with the Los Angeles sunshine, with relatives I didn't know I had two years ago?

"My mother and her twin brother had been adopted." I began, "My sister and I looked for over twenty years to find our mother's birth family without success. Three years ago, through an extraordinary chain of events, someone from my mother's birth family--my cousin--contacted me and the whole story began to unfold. My grandmother was Jewish and, according to the DNA tests from my male cousin, my grandfather was Jewish as well. As I did more research, I found my relatives, the Berkowitzes."

I paused. "I was raised as a nominal Protestant. In my mid-thirties, I had a conversion to Catholicism. I'm not here because I'm thinking of converting to Judaism, but because I want to know more about the heritage and faith of my ancestors. It's such a rich legacy and it seems tragic that all of it was discarded in one generation. I've been trying to incorporate some Jewish cultural traditions into my life, like baking challah, to somehow, in some small way, honor my ancestors. So, the reason I'm here is to learn more about my maternal heritage."

The rabbi was quiet for a moment as he thoughtfully considered what I'd told him. Then, he slowly leaned forward and we looked at each other.

"You are a Jew," he said simply. "Now, I have no idea if those words will make you want to jump up and rejoice or make you recoil in horror or something in between the two, but the fact is, you are a Jew. I'm not talking about religious conversion. Of course, those with no Jewish relatives who make a sincere religious conversion, we also consider to be fully Jewish. But, being Jewish is not simply following a religion. It is not a race. It is a people. The fact is that your grandmother was Jewish, your mother was Jewish, and you are as well."

The rabbi's words reminded me of a joke a Jewish friend told me: A hijacker took over an El-Al plane, the Israeli airline. Gun in the air, he looked around the cabin and demanded, "Who here is a Jew?" The passengers looked at each other. Then, one man spoke. "That's a very complicated question."

We moved on to the main sanctuary itself. The rabbi spoke of a number of things, but I realized I was starting to feel overwhelmed by all the knowledge I desired, the vastness of my ancestors' religious traditions and teachings. He brought out the Torah, an act which made me feel deeply privileged. He explained how each Torah is written by hand, usually by one person, using vegetable dye on vellum. Nothing man-made. The vellum pages are sewn together with a needle made of quill, as metal could represent an armament of war. And, if the scribe makes a mistake on the last letter of the last page, the Torah copy must be discarded and a new one begun. I stood looking down at the ocean of Hebrew letters, not able to identify one of them. Yet, my grandmother was born to a family who spoke Yiddish as their primary language.

I remember my feelings at the moment: everything was new, yet on some level, familiar. Things seemed distant, and at the same time, I knew I had to bring them close enough that I could learn. For myself, for my son, for my ancestors.

Facebook Chapters

Chapter One: In Which We Are Introduced and I Am Unimpressed

I was fine using Twitter as my sole social network. I'd joined when, as a group of GeeksOn podcast listeners planning to attend the 2008 San Diego Comic-Con, we decided on the somewhat new network as our preferred means of communication with each other. Following the event, many of us stayed in touch through Twitter and my circle quickly expanded. It was a fluid, real-time site where I could learn, interact, and share with others, particularly about creative projects in progress. Then, one Twitter friend encouraged me to join Facebook. I took a look and wasn't sold. It looked cluttered with posts by teens and college students about humiliating drunken exploits. Or, their dogs. Sometimes both at the same time. But my friend persisted, explaining (tactfully) that Facebook has "people of all ages"-- you just have to create your own network.


Chapter Two: In Which I'm Mildly Intrigued

So, I tried it. Initially, my Facebook network consisted of a few local friends, some family, acquaintances from other online communities, and a couple of long-distance friends. You know, it was fine. I had to admit, it was better for sharing links, photos, and music. It was a fun way to interact with people who were more frequently a part of my daily life than those on Twitter. Then, I suddenly received "Friend Requests" from nieces, nephews, and the children of friends. What? This was unexpected, but interesting in its own way. I just had to remind myself to be cautious about which clips, even if they were hysterically funny, I could now post. The next wave was linking up with several of my newly-found relatives from my mother's birth family...even one relation who's connected by DNA, but we just can't figure out how yet. So, it's been especially interesting to look through their Facebook albums and search for signs of familial resemblance. A bit of a genealogist's dream.


Chapter Three: In Which I Discover the Meaning of Reconnecting

A couple of months ago, the floodgates opened on old school friends. You remember high school. Every day was either full of bliss or full of heartache. It's been fascinating to see photos of people I last saw, in some cases, decades ago. I quickly caught up on their lives, documented in their albums filled with smiling spouses, children, vacation spots, and pets. It felt as if I was absorbing the "and then they went on to..." epilogue at the end of a movie. There've been many happy reconnections, some fun can't-get-caught-up-fast-enough phone calls, and even an unexpected and healing exchange. And with each reconnection, there's been a moment when I pause and think silently about what I recall last about that person...what memory stands out the most about them...and why I connected with that person in the first place. It makes for a special kind of quiet reflection.

And, as if in a dream, I now go to Facebook and find so many people I've known from different stages in my life, from the diverse places I've lived. And yet, I may make a post that randomly brings friends from these different worlds together in a way that could never happen in the physical world. Ever. It makes for an exhilarating mix of voices, opinions, and personalities that seems, at times, unimaginable to me. I realize that I've discovered what draws most people to Facebook. I suppose I should have called this chapter The Conversion.