Dear Rabbi Fellner,
I hope this note finds you and Judy well, and I’m wishing the both of you, along with Michelle and her family, the happiest and healthiest 2019.
Rabbi, as you know, the grapevine in Livingston is interminable and unforgiving. You
might have heard the news that Jay and I went through a vicious and tragic divorce several years back, and I lost all that ever mattered to me – my children (my adult children). I’ve been living in the 11th circle of Dante’s Inferno, the one reserved for moms who gave their all and devoted their lives to their children, only to wind up humiliated, ostracized, and abandoned. This circle is for the moms who changed their daughter’s ostomy bag, but won’t get to change their grandchild’s diaper. This circle is for the moms who were the cheerleaders and contributors throughout their kids’ educations and relationships, but who never got to see weddings or college and grad school graduations. This circle is for the moms who didn’t have any self-love.
Rabbi, my friends call me the warrior, tell me that I’m the strongest woman they know,
and ask me how I manage to smile all the time. My students tell me that my passion for
teaching and my compassion for them make coming to school a joy. My therapist thanks me for making her feel special. I withdraw when I need to, but I usually show up to life every day, crack a joke or two, and somehow make a difference.
Rabbi, you may recall that I wasn’t the religious one in the Jaffe household. I didn’t grow up with much religion; my interest was, at best, social and cultural. We moved to Livingston because it was a Jewish town and because it was the only place where Jay “allowed” us to live that wouldn’t require my kids to have to go to day school. Our house needed to be in walking distance to shul, and I had to promise to make the synagogue and Judaism the main focus of our world. As long as I abided by these rules, he wouldn’t harm me.
I can remember walking into Temple Beth Shalom twenty-two years ago, and I was awestruck by this erudite man who reminded me of what I imagined Oz to be. His voice was powerful yet soothing, his words were brilliant yet relatable, and his presence was intimidating yet welcoming. He became the reason that, week after week, year after year, I felt connected to a higher power. This man officiated at both my daughter’s Bat Mitzvah and at my dad’s funeral, and, though this man faced his own personal tragedy, he remained stoic and steadfast for all those who needed him. I miss that man dearly, so I’m writing to him.
Rabbi , the entire synagogue turned its back on me once my divorce was underway and
Jay started spewing his hatred towards me. Eighteen years as a member of a synagogue, and not one person cared about me or my side of the story. Jay was soft-spoken, wore a suit, and went to synagogue every Saturday, which was clearly enough for the clergy, the congregation, and even my comrades to also attach the word Abandoned on this Hester Prynne’s letter A. Believe me, I am not claiming innocence or purity of actions. I do, however, claim that I have never actively and intentionally sought the destruction of another human being. It became Jay’s life’s mission to destroy me, and, with the help of my children, my mother, and my sister, he nearly did.
My Homeric epic has shocked most who know me, and the many Books of my tragedy would prove so heinous and inhumane that you would immediately know I couldn’t make the stories up. Even criminals eventually get pardoned, but I remain jailed in this proverbial prison from which I can’t escape. They and my love for them are everywhere. I am, after all, their mother.
Rabbi, I write to you to ask if we could meet for a cup of coffee. You see, I have no
connection to my religion whatsoever (except, of course, for my Fran Drescher voice and my unyielding adoration of Barney Greengrass Nova). I struggle to understand how disposable I was to my entire family, including my synagogue one. As Jews, we have been persecuted for thousands of years, and we remain incredulous that so many people turned their backs while generations were destroyed. Why then was I persecuted by my own people?
A Martini Toast 