“I want it to be kosher,” I told the rabbi. If we were going to do this I wanted to be sure that everyone accepted him as a Jew. If he’d been born from my womb he would have been Jewish. Circumcised or not. At his bris he would have been named “son of Mark and Shulamite” (my Hebrew name). But because he was adopted, he would have to be called by the names of the original Jewish patriarch and matriarch. He would have to be “son of Abraham and Sarah,” and his new Jewish identity would not reflect our grandparents names and bloodlines, nor his Vietnamese heritage. But we wanted to do everything right. To give him up fully to the Jewish tradition. What if he were to fall in love with an orthodox girl? If someone told him he wasn’t Jewish enough?

It was the Jewish New Year. In synagogue, I sat holding my son. I looked down at him, his face like a Buddha, long almond eyes wiser than his years. Not the blue eyes or curly hair of my family that I’d imagined, passed down from my Eastern European Jewish ancestors. Not my husband’s Roman profile. But he was perfect and I felt complete.

L’dor v’dor. From generation to generation. Son of Abraham, daughter of Sarah.

Because he was already 10 months old, we couldn’t have the bris at home. So we found a surgeon who was also an orthodox mohel and scheduled a surgical circumcision at the hospital. The conversion to Judaism would take place at an orthodox mikvah where after a ritual immersion we’d receive a certificate of brit milah proving we’d fulfilled our covenant with God. We’d have a blessing and kiddush in the synagogue to celebrate.

We were going to do everything right.

But there was a fly in the ointment. Our son ended up in the hospital with bronchiolitis. He was blue. They put him in an oxygen tent. I sat up all night making sure he could breathe. Counting the inhales and the exhales until the rhythm returned to normal.

A few weeks later we thought he was well enough for the bris. We’d arrived at the hospital as instructed at 6 AM. He was allowed only water in his bottle as he was going to need general anesthesia. The Asian anesthesiologist took one look at him and said, “I see he’s been hospitalized for a bronchial infection. You realize that there’s a risk he will have an asthmatic attack under anesthesia and a 1% chance of brain damage. He’s here for an elective procedure. Are you sure you want to do this?”

Ten rounds of IVF. Two hearts that stopped beating. A 1 in 500 chance of Down Syndrome. We had already played the odds and they were never in our favor.

The mohel came into the O.R. and we told him that we couldn’t go through with it. He did not try to change our minds.

When I called the rabbis and told them what had happened they said, “Of course, any risk to the child must be avoided.” I asked if instead of a bris, they could perform a brit shalom (or “covenant of peace”) – similar to the ceremony for welcoming girls into the Jewish community. They told me that this was not the tradition, but that they would think about it.

I reached out to other rabbis and asked if there was any way our son could become Jewish without circumcising him. I was told over and over that according to the Covenant, because he was a boy, blood must be drawn.

I continued to go to synagogue. I’d hold my baby close, joyously dancing and singing L’Cha Dodi to welcome in Shabbat. People came up to me with congratulations and I would watch as families went up to the altar with their Jewish babies to receive their blessings. But we were never called up for a blessing with our son.

Meanwhile, a family friend invited us to bring our son to the Abyssinian Baptist Church on Martin Luther King weekend. There was going to be a baby blessing and we were invited to participate. We were welcomed with open arms by the congregation. No questions asked. When it was our turn to be called up to the altar the Reverend Calvin Butts himself held our son up in the air and blessed him. And then we all sang “We Shall Overcome.”

I was still waiting for my rabbis’ decision on 9/11. I watched the towers turn to smoky flames and the clouds drifted uptown and lay heavy on us all. Suddenly, I felt vulnerable. I wondered if making my son Jewish would be a gift or a burden. What was this need to impose my Jewish heritage on my son? Was it for him or for me? Why did even a drop of blood need to be drawn?

When our son was 18-months old, we were invited to a bris for our friend’s 8-day-old boy. Our son took one look at the mohel’s carefully laid out knives and flung them onto the floor.

THE END

Aronson, Jane (2013-04-18). Carried in Our Hearts: The Gift of Adoption: Inspiring Stories of Families Created Across Continents (pp. 144-145). Penguin Group US. Kindle Edition. Additional contributors include Jane Aronson, Kristen Davis, Deborah Lee Furness, Melissa Fay Green, Maggie Greenwald, Carolyn Jacobs, Claude Knobler, Mary-Louise Parker and others. CLICK HERE TO BUY BOOK

BLOOD MUST BE DRAWN

by Stephanie Bakal