Latkes

"Hey Linsey," my friend asked at a recent Christmas party, "are you going to celebrate Chanukkah this year? If so, can I come?"

"I hadn't really thought about it. I don't know who would celebrate with me."

Suddenly a whole chorus of voices joined in, "Are you going to celebrate Chanukkah? Can I come?"

"Why not? Sure, we'll celebrate Chanukkah, and everyone is invited!"

"Great! What does that mean?" they all asked.

"You'll find out...they'll be dreidels and potato pancakes, the whole shebang."

Once I knew someone else was interested, asking for it even, celebrating Channukkah seemed only natural. "You've all made my December," I declared.

And then I stared planning. "Invite whoever you want," I said to my co-host, "with the holidays, who knows who will show up. The weather, the other parties, it won't be a problem."

Of course, the truth is, I live in a small condo, so I wasn't actually planning on having 22 people say "Of course I'll come celebrate Channukah. I've never done that before." The next question was usually, "And what do I wear?" I live in Utah, where as far as I can tell, there really is no dress code, no matter where you are, so I was stunned to find that yes, there is a dress code, and people are paying attention.
Whatever you want," I responded, "but nothing flammable. There'll be candles."

When the number of positive RSVP's blossomed to 22, I began to worry. How many latkes would a Hanukkah beginner eat? I mean, someone experienced in this holiday knows to come hungry, and to be prepared to eat greasy, oily, salty food, but a novice? And a novice won't feel compelled to eat junk food for the sake of the holiday. I mean, to them, a donut will be just a donut, and not a mitzvah. I looked on line the night before the party and found one article that recommended preparing 6-8 latkes (potato pancakes) a person. I did the math and nearly fell over. "Oh no," I gasped, "this will never work. Maybe Chanukkah beginners won't eat as much." Then I read another article that recommended making the latkes days in advance, so the house didn't reek of burning oil. "Oh no!" I thought. "How can I do this now?"

I woke up at the crack of dawn, prepared to make latkes until my arms fell off. My food processor jammed before I grated the first potato, so I grated 10 pounds of potatoes and 5 pounds of onion by hand. I pretended I worked in a kibbutz. I figured this is what making latkes for the masses must feel like. I ended up with 80 large latkes, and no, we didn't eat them all. But people offered to take home the leftovers for breakfast in the morning.

We played the dreidel, which I never actually did in Israel. My friends, most of them serious poker players, couldn't take the slowness of the game and so in no time started "upping the ante". "On the next round, everyone has to put two pieces of candy into the pot." "The 'shin' letter means, you gotta put four pieces into the pot." "Whaddya mean, 'the shin'? You mean the trident?" And the gimmel, quickly became "the boot". As in, "No way! You got the boot again?? Jackpot!"

We lit the candles. We ate the donuts and the potato pancakes. The applesauce was the most popular topping. Since we couldn't sing the songs that I was used to in Israel, I played Adam Sandler's Hannukah song. "See, you all know at least one Hannukah song," I said.

One of our Chinese friends, seeing what a hit the cultural exchange was declared, "I am having a Mah Jong party!" And I could see my shock reflected in his face when 22 people shouted,"I'm there! What do we have to do? What's Mah Jong." With a nervous look he said, "It's really, really hard." Good luck scaring this crowd I thought. They are up for anything. And I looked with pride around at the faces of my friends, and knew once again, this is what it means to be blessed.

After 5 hours of Hannukah, they began to shuffle out in the snow, with wishes for Happy Hannukah and Merry Christmas. When I went outside to shake out the table cloth, and stare at my neighbors Christmas lights, I found that someone had written "Happy Chanukah!" in the snow. My version of Christmas lights.

My Uncle Marc called today to invite me to a movie with a Jewish theme. "It's a real gut-wrencher. It'll pretty much throw you on the floor and stomp on you," he said.

"I think I'll pass on it this time," I said.

"Alright, but I just want you to know that I am looking out for the Jewish side of you," he said.

"I appreciate that. I'm glad there is someone in this valley doing that for me."

He laughed. "Tell me about it; I have to remind myself I am gay every once in a while."

I laughed too and suddenly realized how lonely that must feel- to move from a society where every part of you is fully accepted, to one where people may not hate you for part of yourself, but they probably at the least, really, really don't want to hear about it.

And then it dawned on me. I'd forgotten to pass along some big news to my uncle. "Hey, speaking of that, Abbie and I both had our names officially removed from the church register, in protest against the LDS church's involvement in Proposition 8."

"WHAT? Really?" He was clearly stunned. I don't know how I managed to not realize this would be his reaction.

"Yup. We both wrote letters that said that we were leaving for this reason and that history would prove them wrong in this, just as it has on several points in the past, like the ERA."

"Seriously? You and Abbie both, huh?" He was still stunned, but bordering on elated.

"Yeah, there was a website that gave directions on how to do it. It was sort of a mini movement."

"Wow, well there you have it. I guess they'll leave you alone now."

"Really? I thought this was when they send out the troops."

We said good bye and it sounded like he was going to go ponder this. And I left, vowing to do as good a job paying respect to the gay part of him as he pays to the Jewish part of me.

Removing my name from the rolls of the church was anti-climatic, given that I emotionally removed myself from the church when I was 20. I created my own ceremony then, and I told close friends and family that I no longer believed and was leaving. For a while, I intended to remove my name, but I couldn't stand to bring myself to the attention of the missionary program. I had made my peace with it and I didn't really care what anyone else thought.

Fast forward 9 years. I haven't thought about my name being on the rolls for a while now. It seems we are all on the rolls here. Abbie is and she probably hasn't been inside a church since she was 8 and baptized by non-believing parents to please the grandparents. My "non-Mormon" colleagues, it's the same thing. They were baptized at some point to please someone or other and they stay on the records for the same reason. Abbie nearly didn't remove her name because she was worried about what her grandmother would think. "Is removing my name going to make me happier than it will make her miserable? Is she going to lie on her deathbed worrying about me? Because this doesn't mean THAT much to me, but isn't this the way it is with statements?" she asked me. To which I shrugged, profoundly. I was just amazed she was moving ahead with it. I was worried still about all my aunts and my grandma doing genealogy work and seeing me off the records. We tried to determine whether they would find this out, but gave up after researching for a few minutes. It turns out neither of us know anything about the mystical term "genealogy work".

The next day after this discussion, Abbie forwarded the letter I had helped her write. I sent it on to Leonard. His response was, "What? You mean you are still Mormon? I thought you had yourself removed a long time ago."

And suddenly I felt ashamed, like I was living a lie. And I realized I couldn't really stand to be considered Mormon anymore. Particularly not when I was horrified at what their involvement in California had just caused.

I printed off the letter and ran to mail it before I chickened out. And somehow, in this 24 hour period of contemplating and then carrying out this act, I never realized that I had one family member who would be as touched by this act as another would be hurt.

Driving home today, I remembered the moment I gave up worrying about having my name be removed from the list of members. I was speaking to my Jewish-Israeli Hebrew professor who was married to a Mormon. "I just wish I could get over being Mormon," I said to her. She laughed, "Linsey, you will never "get over being Mormon" any more than you could "get over" being American. This is something that will be a part of you forever."

What's funny is that thinking about this makes me teary, not because I am finally no longer a Mormon- even technically, and I have come to terms that parts of me will always be influenced by how I was raised. And not because since November's election I am a proud American for the first time in a long time, and I finally stopped wanting to "get over" being American. But because I wonder, does the same thing apply to the Jewish side of me?