When my son asked if I wanted to attend Gitty’s kindergarten party, I wasn’t overly enthusiastic. Last year, I was one of the only savtas there. Besides, these things are always too long. And I’d have to get up too early in the morning (be there at 9!). And it’s a whole bus ride away. And it’s not as if it’s a siddur party or something — it was just a little kindergarten party.

Armed with all these excuses, I was ready to say no. Then I heard that the other savta was coming — all the way from Bnei Brak to Beit Shemesh (I live in Beit Shemesh) and, well, I just had to go. Gitty is, after all, the firstborn grandchild of both savtas, and one can never be outdone by the other grandmother....

Also, my husband reminded me when I used to go to all our children’s parties — alone. No savta, not from Bnei Brak, nor from Beit Shemesh. My own mother had passed away before I was married, and my mother-in law lived in New Jersey, 7,000 miles away. We were one of the few American families in the neighborhood and in the school. Even the other English-speaking parents had mostly made aliyah as children, so they had resident grandmothers. That reminded me of another excuse for not going. Probably the real reason.

I could count on one hand the number of American families in our neighborhood who came from assimilated backgrounds like mine. In other words, baalei teshuvah.

As I often say, my children never felt neglect, embarrassment, or shame because of this fact. Perhaps they even felt special, a certain pride, almost a chosenness. They may not have known exactly what it was, but they understood that something about us was different.

I certainly felt it. Not because anyone made me feel that way. No principal, teacher, or mother ever behaved condescendingly because of my secular background. It was just the energy and concentration it took to keep up with all the nuances. And the list of nuances was endless: which head covering to wear (sheitel or snood), which sandwich to send (ours was the only house without chocolate spread), not to talk too much about politics or Beethoven or sports (ours was the only house with a basketball hoop in front). To wear sneakers or black tights? To chew gum or not? And on and on.

I caught on to those nuances pretty quickly, but it took a lot of energy to stay focused and hope that the right words would come out of my mouth.

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 607)