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I don’t generally date non-Jews. I’m not snotty about genealogy, I think the treatment of those who intermarry is barbaric and exclusionary, and I would not be upset if I ended up marrying a non-Jewish man. That said, I do usually end up falling head over heels for young Jewish men who can understand things like “hakn mir a tshaynik” and spend more time in the sanctuary than on the soccer field. Some of this tendency comes from the circles I run in – I spend a lot of time in Jewish spaces. Another aspect is my religiosity: it is not usually the case that a non-Jewish man understands why I won’t eat brownies with marshmallows or why emailing me on Friday evening does not correlate to fast responses.
And then there’s the bit with Jew-fetish.
We’ve all heard of it: bagel-chasing (codified in Urban Dictionary), JILFs (the lo matim term, figure it out), and kosher queens. In short, it is the desire for, creation and idealization of, and pursuit for the sexualized Jews of fantasies held by many a non-Jewish man or woman.
It’s irksome, and not particularly pretty.
For reasons of tzniut(if this article can ever be called “modest”), respect for those involved, and article length, I will not go into detail about my own romantic history. Instead, I shall say that I have been essentialized one time too many to the image of a Jew. It is quite caddish, I shall remind those who are prone to say such things, to tell someone that they “look so classically Jewish, bent over like that over the stove” – and it is definitely very unsettling to hear that. I have been propositioned with the salutation “Hey there Mr. Rabbi Man,” followed by some, well, fairly graphic ideas. These were disgusting, but temporary.
More disgusting was the feeling that I was some sort of conquest by some. “Oh look, I’m dating a Jew.” “Aren’t I so progressive, a Catholic asking a Jew out?” There was, in these men, significant pride in being attracted to and interested in a Jew – not in me, just in my Jewishness. For a while, I was one of the few out, observant Jews on my campus, and it felt like I had been asked out by many for my novelty factor than out of general interest.
I felt like a zoo attraction. And it was not a happy feeling. I felt alone; yet I also suspected I was far from isolated.
Spelunking on Google and awkward conversations with friends revealed that I wasn’t alone in this experience. Firstly, many of my close Jewish friends – women particularly – had run into similar problems. Sometimes, it was by the type who is looking to “add” to his collection – a sexualized, rather disturbing “Pokémon, gotta catch ‘em all” mentality. Sometimes, the idea of submission was romanticized – the “oppressed” Jewish woman being liberated by the goyishe savior. Sometimes, it was simply curly hair. All had run into problems with certain Jewish practices being not palatable to their partners because of “ew factor,” Hebrew content, or general “un-sexiness.” Google revealed one narrative of a woman whose non-Jewish fetishizer had Nazi-on-Jew fantasies. It was comforting to know that I was not the only person who had been objectified for my faith, heritage, and cultural attachments. But it also reminded me that I can’t escape.
Jew-fetish, after all, is quite easily found in the wider world. Remember when, a few years ago, Jewish girls were all the craze? Natalie Portman and Nigella Lawson were the pop culture crushes du jour, and the fantasized, hyped-up, objectified image of the supposedly buxom and curvy yiddishe mama graced [straight] men’s magazines, Hollywood billboards, and adverts across the country. “Old World” was all the rage in dating profiles. Nor were men spared: with the meteoric rise in popularity of actors such as Joseph Gordon-Levitt, you also now have the idealization and objectification of the Jewish man.
It’s all well and good for Jewishness to be considered beautiful. But there’s another side.
One of the proposals for the origin of fetishization is the idea that Jewishness represents an “exotic” attraction: the idea of sexualizing and engaging physically with an “other” group. I find such exoticization problematic for three reasons. Firstly, as other writers have also noted, it contributes to the idea of Jewishness as a “problematic” other. If we are always “exotic,” we are never “normal”; if we are “exotic,” we are always there to be “normalized.” “Conquered.” “Liberated.”
Secondly, we never get to really own our Judaism for ourselves in this context. As volumes of academic literature note, our Jewishness is constantly owned, defined, and re-determined by others, not just ourselves. We don’t need to be redefined again as “not Jewish enough” just because we don’t meet someone’s harebrained sexual fantasies of the “good Jewish hottie.” I myself was told that I wasn’t really Jewish by a (non-Jewish) ex because I didn’t meet his definition of a “real Jew.”
Finally, most exoticized Jews are Ashkenazi Jews – and thus “white.” If we’re being made “exotic,” we are the “exotic but still white” – and thus inserted into another perpetuation of racist structures.
Yet in the personal realm the irritation of this fetishization transforms into a very material reality. It is quite unsettling and very degrading to be essentialized as such. If we understand, however, what happens when we’re treated as a “token” Jew for a “collection,” we can push back. Date us, love us, want us, but do so for who we are as individuals, not to meet some fantasy’s idiotic terms.
I am still unsure how I feel about non-Jews; but examining such a fetish – within my own experience and within that of other Jews – has made me feel more confident. Perhaps, perhaps, I would feel safer if I knew that the other gentleman was attracted to me – and not to a construct. (Well, we’ll see what happens.)
Four years ago, I was a 20-something-year-old girl navigating my way through the young, Jewish, and, most importantly, single ocean located within the tri-state area. I would make it a point to go to every party, social gathering, mixer, and anything else in hopes of finding a nice boy to hopefully score a date with and then eventually settle down.
Because I grew up in a traditional Orthodox Syrian Jewish community, the pressure was on from the second I had turned 18 to find a husband by any means necessary. The problem with that, however, was that I was nowhere near ready to take care of myself, let alone deal with the emotional stress that comes along with maintaining a complex adult relationship leading to marriage.
Between the age of 18 and 22, I truly focused on living my life how I wanted to and totally disregarded the pressures to settle down. I spent a semester abroad and had the time of my life. I came home to New York and went to the best clubs, bars, and restaurants in New York City with a great group of like-minded friends. I traveled to amazing places and felt the freedom that I so desired growing up in a more sheltered culture. But, at a certain point, I yearned for something more — something deeper and more meaningful than getting into the best spots and meeting the coolest people.
That feeling — coupled with the death of my grandfather, who was truly like a best friend to me —shifted my priorities in a major way. After some time had passed, I tried to pick up my life where I left off. I started going out with my friends again to our usual spots, but a large dark whole in my heart really kept me from enjoying it the way I once had. I knew I needed to buckle down and start putting myself on the right path for my future.
I had already chosen a path in my education and career, so now it was time to really focus on dating. I began in the more traditional way that was deemed acceptable by my Orthodox community. I was set up by matchmakers, went on blind dates, and introduced myself to as many single men as possible whenever I was out. I went to many singles-events that were advertised with the promise of meeting great like-minded young professionals who all had the same goal in mind: to date in a serious capacity. After attending literally hundreds of these events, however, I was shown the unfortunate reality of the situation: Most of the men I was meeting did not have serious goals at all when it came to their dating lives. They simply wanted to find “easy” girls who were willing to go home with them, only to never hear from them again. After falling into that regrettable trap numerous times, I decided that I needed to be a bit more unorthodox in finding potential men to date.
Despite it being the norm throughout the rest of the world, creating a profile on apps like Tinder, Coffee Meets Bagel, or even the Jewish version, JSwipe, is considered to be very taboo in my community. The stigma that many people in my community hold against app dating is that, somehow, meeting your special someone in this way is less legitimate than meeting them in a more organic or “old fashioned” way. Many people view meeting people through apps as forced, weird, and even dangerous. Not only that, but people in my community view those who use dating apps as if they are desperate and had no other choice because of their immense failures in the “real” dating world.
I, being a modern woman trapped in a more Orthodox world, decided to go against the grain as I typically did throughout my life and take a chance in order to meet new people. That’s when I started JSwiping. I loved the idea that I could freely swipe through the pickings as if I were shopping for my future Mr. Right in a catalogue, and I loved meeting people outside of my community. It was truly like taking a breath of fresh air.
When I first started swiping, I found it overwhelming and exciting all at once. I began chatting with men whom I would have never chatted with otherwise. I learned a lot about the world around me as well as about myself and what I was actually looking for. Yes, I went on some disaster dates through JSwipe, but I had just as many disaster dates via traditional dating so that didn’t discourage me.
And then I met one guy on JSwipe who caught my eye right off the bat. He was from a totally different Jewish culture than me, but on the same level in terms of spirituality, which I found fascinating. We went on our first date and the conversation didn’t skip a beat for about four straight hours. We had so many common interests that it seemed to be a prank of some sort. We laughed and connected on a level I had never had with anyone else in my life.
Fast forward to now — and I am happily married to that man with our first child on the way.
Yes, many people within my community react strangely when they discover how we met, but I have learned to disregard them completely. The thing I find most interesting is when people in my community react in a surprised way when they discover I met my husband through JSwipe. “But, he’s so normal!” they exclaim in utter disbelief. Yes, I met my husband on a dating app and he’s not a weirdo, crazy person, or whatever closed-minded beings assume people on dating apps would be.
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Now I’m trying to pave the way for more men and women within my community to attempt to get with the times. We live in the new millennium and with this new age comes new-age ways to meet new people. Through my experience I have learned that we don’t have to remain within the social, religious, or cultural constructs which we were born into. We can expand our horizons, build our own futures for ourselves, and choose what to include and what to omit from our upbringing.
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So to anyone who still thinks that app dating is odd or out of the question: my happily married husband and I are happy to show you the light any time.