End of a Journey:

My Return To Judaism

By Lupe Maldonado Garcia

From HaLapid, Summer 2004

On the 10th day of Adar II, 5763 or March 14, 2003, I embraced the Torah, sang the Sh'ma, and chanted the Veahavtah; all in the presence of a congregation that welcomed and embraced me.   It was the culmination of a journey that began decades ago.

My journey was a spiritual quest.  I grew up Roman Catholic and was educated in Catholic schools.  At a very early age I began to wonder if there were other spiritual choices for me to explore.  I adhered to the dogma of Catholicism, eagerly practicing all the rituals set by the faith and demanded by the nuns at school.  I said the rosary and worked my way through every bead , but I wondered why I was doing it, what did it all mean?

After graduating from high school I went away to college.  I met people whose belief systems were different from mine; even though they were like me, Catholic and Christian. On a typical Sunday, I went to early mass at the Newman Center, to mid-morning services at the Baptist Church, and later in the evening to student-fellowship at the First Christian Church with my roommate.  The services were not especially great or specifically bothersome.  I enjoyed the sense of community I had with the other students.

On a day when I was going home from school, I met a woman at the bus station.  I was sitting at the snack bar eating a burger when a very eccentric-looking woman sat next to me.  I still remember her vividly.  She was dressed all in black, a very wide headband pulled her hair back, and on the tip of her nose was a pair of very thick round glasses.   She introduced herself as Freda.  Her speech was different than mine and her accent was definitely not Texan.  Later, I learned it was pure New York.  She spoke about G-d and spirituality, the progression of the soul, the unity of man, progressive revelation, and many other exciting and tantalizing ideas.  I was mesmerized—I wanted to know more, but that was not to be that day.  She took another bus and I went home alone.  I did not hear about what she was talking about for more than two years.

I continued looking for something meaningful.  I knew there was something out there that belonged to me, but I did not know what it was.  By this time, I had left all organized religion, except when I was at my parents' home.  My parents were devout Catholics and they expected me to abide by the household rules and go to mass on Sunday.  On occasion, I would engage either Mother or Father in conversation about religion.  Actually, it was not much of a conversation, I talked and they listened.  When we discussed religion they spoke about G-d; and our responsibility to make this a better world since that was the reason for our existence.  They also stressed that I treat everyone well, especially those persons who were strangers.  They said we too had been strangers and it was our responsibility to welcome them into our home.   I asked about Jesus, Mary and all the saints; what role did they played?   Mother said that sometimes people forgot that there was only one true G-d and that everything else was idolatry.

My Quest for Meaning

After I graduated from college I got my first job.  One of my colleagues was a woman who had gone to the same high school as I had.   After nursing school she had joined the Air Force and  lived in Hawaii. There she had found what she felt was the most meaningful faith in the world.  I was immediately interested, I wanted to know more.  She invited me to a “fireside” at the home of yet another high school friend whom I had known since childhood.  Both had grown up Catholic.  The whole idea of a fireside was mysterious and  exciting.  When I arrived, Freda was there.  In the course of the evening I found out she was a Jew.  I now consider that as an omen. 

I was so excited after that fireside I could hardly stand it.  I went home and told Mother about it.  She listened quietly and attentively as she always did.  She was neither opposed nor in favor of what I was doing.  It was almost like there was no reaction.  I was really puzzled and pushed her to have some sort of reaction to my newly discovered gem.  I felt she really did not approve of what I was doing or of my excitement and interest.   I expected her to scream, holler, and carry-on something fierce and make a pronouncement that those people were heretics.  That I should be a good Catholic girl, go to confession and ask for forgiveness for having gone to a non-Catholic religious function.  Instead the only comment she made was for me to be careful because those people , “No eran de nuestra gente—they were not one of us.”   This was the famous phrase that father and she used on many occasions when they did not want my sister or I to engage in activities with people that they deemed  not worthy.  I always thought that to be very snobbish and elitist.  Now, I understand.

After that fireside I began studying the Baha'i  faith.  It matched most core values I had learned from my parents.  It fit my social consciousness, with the equality of men and women, compulsory education of the children, and the other values of the faith.  For  years I danced with it, without committing.

My husband and I met and after a two-and-a-half year courtship across two continents; we decided to get married.   Frank arrived from the other side of the world, we drove to my parents' house and told them we were getting married.  They had met Frank when we first met and although there had not been any great overtures of approval, there was no opposition either.  Father had made his usual cryptic comment, “Se ve Aleman y parece ser de nuestra gente. --He looks German and seems to be one of us.”

After gaining approval from the family we went to the church to meet with the priest.  The first thing that the priest asked was about our belief in Christ.  Frank plainly stated he did not believe in the divinity of Christ.  “Furthermore,” he told the priest, “Jesus was a Jew.  He was born a Jew, lived as a Jew and died a Jew.”  The priest was visibly angry and began arguing the point.  To every argument Frank had a logical and defeating response.  Nine months later we got married in San Antonio, where I lived. We had learned our lesson well and this time we chose a young, friendly, Irish priest.  Frank did not argue ; he told him only what he wanted to hear.  We had a lovely, beautiful wedding.

After a couple of years we had children.  Both were baptized Catholic, but they were not raised Catholic.  They were raised with the ethic and core values my parents had given me, not the ones I was thought in Catholic school. Frank shared the same principles and values. We agreed we would not raise them in an organized religion.  We would give them the gift of choice, that way they could choose when they grew up.  

I continued to search for spiritual fulfillment.  I tried every belief system I encountered.  I tried the occult, new age spirituality, everything I could get my hands on.  It was like I was starving and there was no food that could satisfy my unending hunger.  I devoured books, I asked questions, I prayed, and kept searching.   I kept reading about Baha'i and in 1983 I became a card-carrying member of the Baha'i Faith.   It was good.  It helped, but it did not really satisfy my yearning.  I felt like there was a secret somewhere that everyone knew, but were not telling me.  I was determined to find it.  

A Curious Tale

A curious thing happened when I was pregnant with our second child.  We were at my parents' over the Memorial Day weekend.  After the hot dogs and the hamburgers and all the celebration Mother and I were watching television when we began a conversation about ancestors.  I asked some probing questions about her family.  I wanted to know about the family's patriarch who had come from Spain.  She had only spoken about him fleetingly and without a great deal of detail.  She sat back, took a deep breath.  She said he had come in a boat in a barrel, together with his wife, two children and his brother.  Their mother had bought them passage in the boat.  There was only money to pay for the wife and the two children.  The two men would have to travel in a barrel as counter-balance to the boat.  Their mother had insisted they leave because their lives were in danger.  I asked Mother why, she said because of who they were, but did not explain.  When the boat arrived in Mexico, my ancestor and his children were left in Vera Cruz.  His wife had died on the way over.  The brother was still needed to serve his purpose on the boat so he was taken to Argentina.

A couple of years later, we were again talking about family, relatives, and ancestors.  In the course of the conversation it came out that the current family matriarch was doing genealogical research.  She had “discovered” that the family had Jewish roots.  I asked mother if we were Jewish.  Her response was a very casual, “es lo que dicen.—that's what they say.”  Father was sitting nearby and he looked at mother and laughed.  It was the laugh of a child who discovers something wonderful and is glad to find it.  He got up and walked towards mother.  Still smiling, he lovingly patted her on the head and said , “Mi vieja judia.—My Jewish woman.”   To which mother responded in kind, “Y tu tambien. —and you too.”  He walked away muttering, “Y yo tambien. —And me too.”   The conversation broke up; mother got up and followed him into the kitchen, eagerly asking, “Quieres chocolatito —Do you want some chocolate?”   This new found knowledge was another piece of information in the puzzle.  I Discover Judaism

When our daughter Mimi was eight years old she announced she wanted to go to Hebrew School.  Frank and I looked at each other somewhat surprised and asked her why.  Very matter-of-factly she answered, “So, I can become Bat'missvahd.”    I explained to her that in order to be Bat' missvahd she had to be a Jew; to which she answered, “yes.”  To become a Jew was a great responsibility, perhaps she would like to wait until she was eighteen to make such a life binding decision.  She looked at me and said, “Okay.”

When she was nineteen, I found out about a three-week informal class on Judaism, A Taste of Judaism, at Congregation Beth Israel here in Austin.  I told the family about it and to my surprise not only was Mimi interested, but so was Frank and our older daughter.  When the classes ended Mimi met with one of the rabbis at the Temple and made arrangements to begin formal classes in preparation for conversion.  Mimi, Frank, and I enrolled in the Basic Judaism class .  It required three hours a week for nine months, plus a great deal of reading.  It was quite a commitment.  Our older daughter wanted to go too, but her schedule did not permit it.

On the first class, we met two of the class's teachers, one of the Rabbis and the Cantor.  Everyone introduced himself or herself, stating their name and giving a brief synopsis of why they were there.  When it was my turn, I found myself saying that I was there because the maternal side of my family was Jewish.  I had taken it to be something exotic, interesting to talk about, but not really significant.  At that moment I felt my throat tightening and tears welled up in my eyes.  I looked at the Rabbi, a diminutive beautiful young woman with black curly hair, alabaster skin, and a huge dimpled smile; at that moment I could have sworn it was my mother.  I had to blink a couple of times to focus on the person that was really there.  It was the Rabbi, but she had looked just like my mother. 

We went to class for about four months, but had to drop out because of travel and business commitments.  Our daughter continued and she converted late that Summer.  The following fall Frank and I returned to class.  There were many things that were puzzling me.  There was urgency and a burning within me that I could not explain.   I was very excited because I felt that perhaps now I was going to find that secret that I knew everyone was keeping from me.  I was hopeful that my hunger would be satiated and I would yearn no longer.

During every class I discovered something new.  The events that I had always taken for granted as being part of my family took on a different light.  Every session brought me closer to something no longer exotic and merely interesting; everything was familiar and very personal.  I began to realize that I had grown up in a household with parents that lived by the core values I was learning in that Basic Judaism class.  While my parents were practicing Catholics and active members of their very Catholic parish and community, they lived by another ethic. Their lives were ruled by action and not by faith. Both always took responsibility for the well being of others.  Many times I asked why we had to help that family or that other one.  Their response was always the same, tikkum lam , to heal the world.  Although they did not use those words, I now know that is what they meant.

The Fog Begins to Clear

As the class progressed I made more discoveries.   Mother had always insisted we clean the house on Friday.  Her reason was, “Para tener un Sabado Glorioso libre y disfrutarlo. —To have a free Glorious Saturday and enjoy it.”   On that day we also changed the linens on the beds and cooked a special meal.  The meal was always meatless, because as Catholics we could not eat meat on Friday. We observed the Sabbath. We did not light candles on Friday, although mother did light two candles in her bedroom from time to time.

During the class about the laws of kashrut ,I came to the realization that mother had kept a kosher kitchen.  The family did not really keep kosher.  We cooked pork on special occasions when people were over for dinner or for a celebration at someone's house.  Mother would make “carnitas” a popular pork delicacy.   Mother would tell my sister and I not to eat much of it because, “Es una carne muy caliente y hace dano. —It is a very pungent meat and it will make you sick.”  Father would eat some, usually a very small piece. He would declare that he really did not like meat because it was very difficult to digest.  He would eat rice, beans, copious amounts of very well cooked green vegetables, and fruit. 

Mother had very specific pots that she used for every food she prepared.  Only one type of food could be used in each pot..   When I moved into my first apartment and every apartment  thereafter, before I got married, Mother would came over and set up my kitchen to meet her strict standards. 

As the class progressed I kept peeling the layers.    Mother and Father married late in life.  Mother was 33 and Father was 43.  They had known each other since childhood. Father had left Mexico and immigrated to the United States when he was in his twenties and over the years had lost touch with friends and family.  When he returned, mother was still single.  Mother had had many suitors, but none were deemed suitable by my grandmother.  Every time a suitor was going to ask for Mother's hand in marriage, Grandmother took her away under some pretext. 

After a short courtship my father asked for her hand in marriage.  My grandmother agreed to the marriage because “es de nuestra gente—He is one of us.”   He was also a cousin, a few times removed.  Before Mother agreed to marry him she had him investigated.  She wanted to make sure he was not married, of good moral character, gainfully employed, able to sustain a family and had a house where they could live.  The report was favorable.  Nonetheless, she required a written agreement.  She later told me that the agreement was for her protection.  My parents had a katubbah!

There were many, many more discoveries, too numerous to list here.  The one that was the most poignant was Mother's request to be buried in a shroud, without embalming and in a wooden coffin.  She wanted no flowers. 

I did not know what to make of all these coincidences.   I kept asking myself if my parents were really Jewish.  The answer came in the form of a beloved and wonderful friend, Walter Cohen.   One day he began a conversation with, “Have you heard of Crypto-Jews?”   He helped me make sense of all the coincidences.  I concluded that I was a Crypto-Jew and now I'm working on documenting that.

On the day of my conversion, as the rabbi was giving me the priestly blessing with her arms over my shoulders and looking into my eyes, I again saw my mother's face.  I blinked the tears away, but the image did not disappear until the blessing was over.   A mental image appeared in my mind's eye.  I was a small child at the gate of a  large garden.  A sense of peace and belonging came over me.  I'm home. 

We Are All One

Last summer while on vacation in Portland, Oregon, Frank made a discovery that can only be termed incredible.  In what seemed to be a coincidence, he met his first cousin, Rabbi Yosef Garcia, a Sephardic Orthodox rabbi. Even though they were closely related, they had never had the opportunity to meet before.  Both of their fathers were in the military and the families had never lived in the same area of the world at the same time. Through conversation with the Rabbi, Frank found out his father's family was Crypto-Jews also.   Father was right, “Si, es de nuestra gente.”

Our household is a Jewish household.  We practice Jewish ritual, observe the holidays and keep mostly kosher.  This year we had eighteen people at the first night Seder, led by  Frank. There were Crypto Jews, Sephardic Jews, Ashkenazi Jews and non-Jews.  Some spoke Spanish, some English, some both and yet others  Hebrew.  We read the Hagaddah in all three.  Todos eramos de nuestra gente.