A Child By Any Other Name: might have a harder time being taken seriously?Victoria has six post-it notes hanging above her desk:  Mateo, Nicolas, Tomas, Alejandro, Santiago, and Simon.  I have one:  Nikolai.  

I love the name Nikolai.  This morning, I woke up thinking:  We can call our boy Niko.  

When I mentioned Nikolai the first time, four and a half months ago, when we found out Victoria was pregnant, she said, “Too Russian.”

I said, “What ya got against Russians?”

She said, “You just like it because it’s YOUR heritage.”   

I’m half Romanian, one quarter Russian and another quarter Ukranian, but The Ukraine may have been Russia when my great grandmother was born there.  So maybe I’m half Russian.  

I said, “I don’t feel Russian.”

She said, “I want my child to have a Latin name.  I want him to have a Latin identity.”  And then I got it.

Victoria lives in America, but she’s Venezuelan, so she feels like she has to hold on to her culture or it will get washed away.  Her extended family is still in Venezuela while mine is here.  We inevitably spend much more time with my family.  At home, we speak Spanish at dinner, but we speak English at breakfast and at lunch.  We also go to synagogue on occasion and except for the one time Victoria took Tashi to church; in our house, my cultures are ahead three to one.  

She also wants our boy to play in both worlds.  She wants him to be successful and thinks he’ll have to fight to be taken seriously by Latins if his name is Nikolai.

“Who cares what they think?”  I said. “Look at Barack, his name is Arabic or Swahili and he’s doing just fine here in the US.”

“That’s true,” she said, “but he’s taken shit for it.  And he’s not Latin.”


Today, for some reason, I was back on the Niko train and thought I'd try again.  ”Nikolai sounds Latin, to me,” I said.  It sounds a little Russian, I see that but also Italian and Portuguese and Latin.  

Victoria sighed.  

Then even before brushing my teeth, I ran to my computer to google “Latinos named Nikolai.” I found Nikolai Garcia, Nikolai Guerra, Nikolai de Lyra,…

I ran back to Victoria and told her my findings.  

She said, “Try googling Latinos named Jefferson.”

“I see your point. But Niko is so cute.”

“Then let’s do Nicolas.”

“Too Christian,” I said.

Andrea Askowitz, author of My Miserable, Lonely, Lesbian Pregnancy, is guest blogging for Jewcy, and she'll be here all week.  Lucky you!

This year's recently announced Tony nominations included seven for Broadway's "daring musical" Passing Strange, among them best musical, best original score, and best performance by a leading actor. I first started hearing buzz about the show many months ago when it was still playing at the Joseph Papp Public Theater in downtown Manhattan, but it wasn't until it moved to Broadway in February that I finally saw it. In addition to personally connecting with the way it handled of questions of identity, I found the music to be fantastic, the script witty, and the performances dynamic. Clearly I'm not the only one who feels this way—the New York Times gave it a smash review when it opened, describing it as “bursting at the seams with melodic songs," and "a sprawling work of performance art."

Shortly after seeing it, I learned that one of the cast members—Rebecca Naomi Jones—was black and Jewish. We recently sat down to discuss the show and how it relates to her mixed identity. Here's what Jones had to say.

How would you describe Passing Strange? I would describe it as a coming-of-age story from the perspective of a young black kid, “Youth,” growing up in South Central, Los Angeles in the 70s—a community that was heavily church-based and middle class, where everyone is about doing the right and respectable thing. This kid doesn’t quite buy it. He doesn’t have faith in it and he can't get answers about what is real, and feels that reality is different from what is being put on him. He meets one particular person who encourages him to go and explore the world, so he goes to Amsterdam and then Berlin, where he meets people who blow and expand his mind.

Youth is on a quest for something that he can believe in and hold on to. There is a conflict between this thing he wants to find—that he can only seem to find in art—and the people in his life who seem to bind him. Unfortunately the people who are trying to give him love are not enough for him. He discovers that the one thing that's always there for him and that he can have faith in is music.

The reviews of the show have been fantastic. Congratulations. How does that feel? It feels really special. I have a feeling it is not like other Broadway shows, because the process of creating it was so unique—extremely collaborative. All the actors have been a part of the show for the almost two years since it opened at Berkeley Rep, so we've all been cooking it together. The wild thing is that now we're on Broadway. It feels like the rules have changed, even though it's still us. I am so impressed with the range of people of people who are coming to see it, and so happy that people are getting it.

How did you find the show—or did it find you? I got a call from my agent a couple of summers ago saying that I had an appointment for an audition at the Joseph Papp Public Theater in New York, and that is was going to be a co-production between the Public Theater and Berkeley Rep. I was excited, because I had previously been cast by the casting directors at the Public Theater, who are the nicest people to audition for—very peaceful and non-judgmental. Then I read the script and felt like I was coming home—[it was] such a different version than what we have now, but even then it was so full of things that many of us think but don’t say, characters that are so rich and full and diverse, music and metaphors that are poetic and beautifully written, and humor that is touching and ironic. I loved that black actors were playing black and white people—love that it wasn't predictable, not angry. I found it to be really approachable, but at the same time something new.

For the audition, I had to read a monologue with a German accent. At that moment I just fell in love with the piece because, growing up half black and half Jewish, I never felt like there was one specific place where I fully belonged. That continued with my work, because the way you look determines what part you play, so I have had to do a lot of work to understand some of my characters. But with this piece I was able to touch on so many parts of myself. I had a blast at the audition and had a callback the day after. The day after that I found out that I got the part. The whole process was very quick.

A friend of mine who was involved in the show suggested I go see it because he thought it would resonate with me, which it very much did—so much so that I have now seen it twice, which is a first for me with a Broadway show. What about it particularly resonates for you? What resonates for me is probably a lot of what resonates for everyone—constantly being in search for one’s true state of being, trying to find the part of me that is most me. I am proud of having grown up in the middle of a few cultures. The play is so special for me because I am able to touch different kinds of people.

I also relate to Youth’s love of music—my father is a musician, and I grew up with music being a big part of my life.

In Passing Strange, Youth is on a search to find “la real.” How would you define ”la real”? I think “la real” is different for everyone, but my ideal is when pretense is gone and the concept of what's "appropriate" isn't what rules and guides everything in one’s life. “La real” would be the place where what is natural occurs and where honesty lives. But it's so conceptual, which is why it's a rough thing to strive for. I would hope we are all looking for that, but some people don’t want that—they want to be in a place that is more secure than honest.

We all have choices, and the kid in the play makes choices [in an attempt to] blow the truth open, but he is also wounding the people who care about him. In a way I agree with his choices, but everything comes with a price and he pushes away the people who love him unconditionally, because he thinks there can’t be love without understanding. It's a play about making mistakes and how they define who you are. Youth learns his lesson about balance in the end.

Tell me more about you. Where did you grow up? I was born and raised in New York—Tribeca, before it was called Tribeca. Back then it was just a place for hippies and their kids with lots of old landing docks. Now there are tons of fancy restaurants.

If you had to, how would you define your identity? I would say I am a half-black and half-Jewish New Yorker. So many New Yorkers are so many different things. That’s what was interesting about growing up in Manhattan—being mixed I wasn’t a freak. Not until I got to college in North Carolina did I realize how strange it was for the rest of America.

Where does your mixed identity come from? My dad is black and my mom is white. My dad is West Indian, Jamaican, and my mom's side is Eastern European. My dad grew up in Los Angeles and my mom grew up in Massachusetts, and they met in New York in the 70s.

Is there a story? My dad is 6’1” and mother is 4’10” and ¾. He is 17 years older than she is. My dad is a musician. He was the musical director of group called the Cadillacs, and to supplement his income he was a singing coach. He was giving singing lessons to a friend of my mother's who said to her, "I think you would like this guy." They went on a double date with her husband, fell in love, got married, had me—and are still together three decades later.

What is your father’s relationship with Judaism? It has changed through the years. When he met my mom and they fell in love, he never converted to Judaism but being an Episcopalian wasn’t a major part of his life. When I was little he used to wear a Star of David and come with us to synagogue. When I got to high school my dad seemed to care less and my mom began to care more, and he started letting her become more involved while he detached himself a bit. It evolved into her thing. No animosity, but it is her thing.

What kind of connection do you feel to being Jewish? Being Jewish for me has always been about the community. There's an aspect of being Jewish that I think I understand only because I am Jewish, and there is something very comforting about that. Once I got a little bit older it became less about what you believed in and more about the stories and how they informed our everyday lives—a lot about history and morals. I grew up more involved in the Jewish-half then the Christian-half. My dad was Episcopalian, but I grew up in a Reform temple where I went to Hebrew school and had a Bat Mitzvah. My mom got more involved in the temple when her parents passed away. I think she got involved as a way to connect to them.

Has your connection to Judaism changed at all over the years? Yes—it is always evolving. When I was really little it was just something that I did because of my mom. Synagogue was a place where I knew everyone, and they knew me. I was a member of the choir and I had Hebrew school every week. I also went through a period more recently when I felt more odd than I had before in the synagogue because of the way I looked—like people were looking at me and thinking, “Is that someone’s friend, or someone converting?” I'm not sure if it was just in my head, but I felt more apprehensive about going because I was afraid I would feel uncomfortable.

Why did you think you would feel uncomfortable? It must have been caused by the fact that I had just started to realize my own blackness. I am really close to my mother, and so I always identified with her culture. Growing up, I had a lot of white friends. At school the majority of kids were white so I always was the minority, but it was never an issue. Race just wasn’t something I really thought about until much later. I think it was towards the end of high school when I started to be more aware of it. At that time, I became close friends with a girl who was also mixed, and there was something really nice about being close to someone else who was mixed. I felt like, “Oh! I get why people want to be with people who are like them.” There is something comforting about it in an indescribable way.

That feeling continued when I went to college at the North Carolina School of Arts where I was around people who in certain ways were like me—theater people—but in other ways were different from me. Every year they would do one black play by August Wilson or some other black playwright, and there were never enough black kids in each class, so all the classes would come together. That was the first time since I was very little that I was part of a close group of all brown people. I didn’t seek it out, but I do remember being in rehearsal for a week with these kids in the play, and getting really close and realizing this different level of comfort that I had— this indescribable thing which was so interesting.

And how to do you feel now? For the past few years I have stopped caring as much about what people think, and started to feel like maybe people don’t care as much as I thought they did. Recently I have started to feel really proud of being a part of two rich cultures with so much history. I do feel rooted in the Jewish culture even though I am not super involved in it.

How do you put your two identities together as one? I think I am still constantly figuring it all out. I think that I really savor the traditional things that I love about being Jewish and the same things I love about being black. I am still searching for my relationship with spirituality, but in the meantime I feel attached to traditions that are Jewish, like Passover, which always makes me feel thankful to be a part of something.

What has been beautiful with Passing Strange is we all call each other "altern-a-negros." We all feel like so many things. I am finding a new type of community in that—everyone is curious about each other and their cultures. In the end, that is what the play is all about: This kid who is curious about what other cultures are out there. That is what I am focusing on: Staying proud of being many things. Part of what makes me so happy about being both black and Jewish is the opportunity to really understand the experience of being both. I have learned a lot from both cultures. It is an interesting thing to balance both—about treasuring the things that you love about each.

What, if any, connection or community do you feel to other people who are both black and Jewish? I don’t have a community of black Jewish people in my life, but whenever I meet or hear about other black Jews I always get really excited about it. I think of people in the entertainment industry, like Lenny Kravitz, who are black and Jewish, and it makes me proud just to know that they are out there. I feel like they are my people.

Related: On Being Black, White, and Jewish

Smoke and mirrors: The Mega Event stageIt’s day two and we’re at the “Mega Event,” which is a show and dance party held for every Birthright group currently in Israel. (They come from all over: Argentina, Brazil, Australia, the UK. Not every Birthright group attends a Mega Event, but we were one of the lucky ones to be in town for this one). It’s like the Jewish version of Jesus camp and it’s freaking the shit out of me.

The show itself is a mixture of propagandist speeches and wannabe Cirque du Soleil performers, like drum bangers and net crawlers. The singers are apparently famous Israelis. One looks like Fabio, and I can’t say I enjoy his Hebrew wailing. Emceed by an MTV Europe VJ, the entire show is an assault on the senses: Flashing, neon Stars of David illuminate the faces of Israeli stars as they lead the entire group in Hebrew songs. Innumerable Birthrighters follow along with the aid of transliterated captions projected onto huge screens, and everyone dances and cheers with a terrifying, ferocious passion for all things Jew.

Part of the crowd: What if you don't share the audience's enthusiasm?After a while, Israel’s Minister of the Interior speaks, and it feels like he’s trying to convince us all to move here. Afterwards, Lynne Schusterman takes the stage. She’s one of Birthright’s biggest donors, and she wants us to believe that Israel is our homeland. She tells us about bringing her kids here because she wanted them to feel connected to Israel in this very way. But the purpose of this can’t be that they want us to move here after the trip, right? I certainly don’t feel like this is my homeland. And I certainly don’t feel like I want to move here. In fact I feel no connection to this place at all. I feel more connected to London, simply because I so loved drinking Guinness at picnic tables at 11:30 a.m., and cheap shopping during July sale season. Israel doesn’t have beer or shopping like that, and it looks decrepit and third worldish.

The scary Hebrew variety show finally ends, and we’re invited to a dance party. Now, give me some flashing lights, good house music, a touch of video art, and a sea of hot foreign men and I’m a happy gal. We dance and mingle with aggressive, swarthy Jews for as long as we can bear, and the whole event lasts about two hours too long.

Finally: The speeches end and the party begins Truth be told, the dancing is a welcome distraction from how anxious and guilty the show made me feel. Two of my gal pals, Ashley and Lynn, tell me that the stage performance inspired them and that they were almost moved to tears by certain songs. The show reminded me that I’m supposed to be here to explore my Jewish identity, but that’s not why I came. I’m here simply because I love to travel and this is a free trip halfway around the world. Israeli tax dollars and money from rich people like Schusterman are being spent for me to do this, but their efforts and resources only make me feel more disconnected, because the whole religious element of this trip scares and turns me off so much. Maybe if they played hard to get I’d be more susceptible to their efforts.

I feel like a fraud.

Previously: Day 1, or Orthodox Hippies and Badass Babes

Next Up: The Wall Between Us

Good news for Brazilians seeking a sex-change: your national health care system has you covered. The Brazilian government is, in fact, opposed, claiming that it doesn’t have enough money to pay for the operations (the Ministry of Health estimated that about 1 in 10, 000 Brazilians would sign up for the surgery, which costs about $1000 US dollars), but a court ruling is the thing, asserting that a safe (the chief judge said that the ruling would prevent transsexuals from self-mutilation in attempting to perform the surgery themselves) and publicly-subsidized surgery is a constitutional right.

Of course, in order to receive the subsidized surgery patients will have to be approved by a panel of doctors after extensive medical and physical examinations have taken place. Still, this raises all sorts of interesting questions. Is feeling like a woman trapped in a man’s body, or vice-versa, a physical condition (“I am a woman”) or a mental condition (“I feel like a woman”)? Does one type of condition take primacy over the other? Is it unfair that, as it stands in the US and elsewhere, sex-changes (like psychoanalysis) are generally a luxury? Should—can—the government protect you from yourself?

By using public health care to fund sex changes, people—patients?—would be implicitly defining their pre-operation states as an illness*, which I’m pretty sure many of them would be uncomfortable with, if only because it damns those that don’t have the operation. In less ambiguous, more insidious, matters, Brazilians have shown a purely ugly and physical approach to sexuality—trends which have indeed affected American culture. If the US ever achieves national health care, will we cover sex-changes? What about cosmetic surgery? Therapy? Who gets to decide? The experts (often influenced by factors other than their expertise) or the people-patients?

*Personally, I’m with Hamm: “We’re on Earth. There’s no cure for that.”

Work sucks... but poverty sucks more...Before I worked for Hillel (the organization for Jewish campus life), I didn't really feel like I "belonged" in the Jewish world.  I knew I was Jewish, but I didn't know if other people accepted me as such.  Or how I fit into "the community."  I was an outsider.

And while my job with Hillel was not without its problems, and I eventually left, those years changed my role in the Jewish community for good... for the better.    My "official" role made up for the insecurities I felt over my lack of knowledge, conviction, shared politics, shared aesthetics,  a Jewish mother, etc.  All the things that made me feel like I wasn't a "real" Jew... which is a silly reflex, but one that I know a lot of people share (not everyone, of course, but more than you might imagine).

So why did my being a "professional Jew" make a difference? Think about it like this...

When you're invited to a party where you don't quite feel at home (maybe it's a group of new friends or co-workers, or maybe everyone has more money than you... or it's a new town) you change your clothes 18 times beforehand, worry about what to say, wonder if you should bring the host flowers, etc. 

But if that same host says to you when you get to the party, "I was wondering if you'd help man the grill... those steaks we had at your house were so good!" and sticks a spatula in your hand... your role is clearly defined, and you belong there.  In no time at all, you're laughing, tossing back a few beers, entertaining compliments on the chicken being "just right."

Because there is something about knowing what your role is... something about having a job to do... that changes the way we feel.  And as a "Jewish professional/ professional Jew" a person gets to feel that even if there's a lot they don't know... they're working hard, earning their keep, and learning all the time.  They get to have that amazing communal experience of bitching with co-workers, resenting the boss, going out for drinks after work.

Which makes those same people who might have judged us (or who we thought might have judged us) into our peers. Despite any other differences.  (If you've ever waited tables, you know what I mean-- the 16 year old busboy and the med student waitress may not have anything else in common, but they can laugh about the shitty manager together when the day is done).

So my "practical advice" for the day?  GET A JOB!  Consider taking on a more official role within the larger Jewish world.  There are all kinds of amazing Jewish jobs, something for everyone... art enthusiasts, grant writers, social workers, party planners, and people who like to hike.  There are huge support systems to help you find this kind of work, and the benefits are generally really great!

Plus, you'll get to learn a lot as you go, and you might find you have more shared aesthetics, convinctions, politics than you thought. You might discover you've made some wrong assumptions.  You might learn more about yourself, and more about Judaism, in ways you'll like.

Added perk-- you get off work for all kinds of holidays you didn't even know existed!