And so it begins. . .

There are times when saying, "I'm not Jewish," feels like a confession akin to "I was born in a sewer" or "I eat my finger nail clippings." Or introducing myself with only my first name, Rachel, and not my decidedly non-Jewish last name, MacNeill, feels like an intentional lie. For the past year, I've been just barely flying under the radar as a non-Jew in a Jewish world.

But that wasn't always the case. I've had many accepting Jewish girlfriends. I've gone to a Shabbat service or two, and even fumbled my way through songs over dinners at Hillel in college. I've taken classes and visited important Jewish sites in Europe. And, excepting one very heated discussion with my friend Rebecca over circumcision in our college dorm's co-ed bathroom, the fact that I'm not Jewish has been, superficially at least, irrelevant.

And then I started dating Ilan. And then we were dating more seriously. And then we moved in together. And I've had to confront my feelings about religion, which have been mostly out-of-sight-out-of-mind until now. For him, having never dated a non-Jew, I think our relationship involved many more difficult decisions than it did for me. I don't speak Hebrew. (Um, shalom?) I grew up with a very well decorated Christmas tree. I had never eaten a latke. And the list goes on. Our childhoods, which inevitably inform our adulthoods, were radically different. Over time, perhaps we'd discover that there were disconnections in our worldviews that couldn't be bridged by love alone? Fundamental disagreements that wouldn't be reconciled?

And so we embarked on an adventure together to find commonalities and, I'll admit it, for me to get my Jewish ass in gear. I hope that documenting our journey and the hilarity that inevitably ensues will inspire others going through the same thing and take away some of the sting of those first, embarassing baby steps toward finding a niche in a Jewish community. Enjoy!