I mentioned a non-Jewish relative in passing, and he said, disdainfully, “We also have some goyim in the family”
ASthe years went by, I grew accustomed to dating as a giyores and developed a good sense of humor. In the meantime, I was working extremely hard toward my law degree. I threw myself into school, doing very well, but leaving little time for dating escapades and judgmental do-gooders. My mother and I grew closer, and discussed society’s view of my status at length, recognizing it as an unfortunate reality.
That’s not to say I didn’t have my fair share of experiences. I was in shidduchim, after all.
Like the guy who turned me down, then a year later gave a yes. We sat in a café and desperately tried to keep a conversation going. I nursed my hot chocolate; he sipped his coffee. I was trying to keep an open mind, trying to accept his apparent quirkiness, trying to look past the high-pitched, nervous laughter that punctuated his sentences.
His mother was a baalas teshuvah, so we found ourselves discussing our backgrounds. I mentioned a non-Jewish relative in passing, and he said, disdainfully, “We also have some goyim in the family.”
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