What would you do if you married one man and were told you were divorcing someone different? Well, that is what happened to me. Yup, blindsided. Yup, said a few choice words, and loudly. Not my finest moment, but a memorable one nonetheless. Here’s my story and I am sticking to it.
In my mid-twenties, I met a man. I was on vacation, not at a Club Med or singles adventure. It was overseas and life seemed simpler in the early 1980s. Anyway, we corresponded because there were time zone differences, stints in the armed forces, and costly overseas phone calls. We met in person a few times, met families and friends, and made some decisions about jobs, relationships and moving. He came to the United States and we got married. It was a small ceremony in the living room of my parents’ house, the house where I was raised. Among those present was my rabbi, the one under whose tutelage I had my Bat Mitzvah. On the small wooden table to the side of us, as we stood under the chuppah, were the glass to be stepped on, a glass of wine, and a ketubah. The later is the Jewish wedding contract. These are signed by the officiant, witnesses and the bride and groom. Among the details this document includes are the Hebrew names of the people getting married. More on that detail to come.
It was a nice summer’s day. After the ceremony, phone calls were made, a few photos were snapped, telegrams arrived and la-de-da, live as a married couple began. A little short of a decade later, we had two children, a girl, and a boy. The doctors shared with us that we should count our blessings and we did. The children grew with the daughter and son enrolled in public school and various activities. Among the institutions the family became part of was a synagogue. Often, we attended Shabbat services, and holiday celebrations. We enrolled the children in Hebrew School and volunteered for various events.
And yet, slowly, the happy loving bubble was deflating. I was actively pursuing a career and my post-graduate education, the kids were basically healthy and doing the work of decent students, and he was occasionally between jobs. At one point, he experienced a few health-related incidents which required calls to 911, visits to the hospital and eventually a pacemaker and yearly pediatric cardiology visits for the kids. Being out of work was “never his fault.” I carried the health benefits and so my work and the glimpses of creativity and fun it provided became a respite, occasionally.
Then, as I was in the backyard with my son, tossing a baseball which he subsequently hit through the kitchen window, and a football that went into the neighbor’s yard, the neighbor had a chat with me. Why was I doing this? Where was their dad? Oh, slough that off, yet it needled me once in a while.
Fast forward to a lovely Bat Mitzvah for our daughter filled with her wonderful recitation of the haftorah, various family members and friends participating, and a sunny day was enjoyed by all, or almost all as one never knows about those hushed comments at such gatherings. I share this detail because for her Bat Mitzvah ceremony I created a booklet. We would have many people attending who were either not Jewish or unfamiliar with the ceremony, so as an educator and author, I made the playbill. Among the items to note that for the years of our daughter’s life and for our married life, and in his bachelor days, my husband was a Cohen. That meant something special when it came to being called up to the bimah for an honor. Among the Cohanim, they receive the first honor and their Hebrew name is recited each time. Suffice it to say that I had heard his name at least 50 times over the years, if not more. Today, I can still say it; keep that in mind. The person who distributes the honors is given the title of Gabbi, to rhyme with rabbi. The Gabbi often keeps a rolodex of the English and Hebrew names of each congregant because it is imperative to speak those names correctly when one is called up to the Torah for an Aliyah. Being called for such an honor occurred during our daughter’s Bat Mitzvah. This is something to note.
Two years later, my dad became ill. He went from a visit to the emergency room, to a stay in the hospital to a stay in a nursing home. It is somewhat of a blur to me, and other moments are very clear. One of the moments was going to change my life and that of my husband and children. While visiting, sometimes with my mom, I looked at the two of them, my parents. Through over 50 years of marriage, moves across county, and ups and downs, they were still together. People told her she didn’t have to visit every day, and occasionally she would skip a day. One day, I realized that if I were in her shoes, that I would not be as dedicated to my husband. Yet, I should have felt that tug, that oh my gosh if this was us, I would be there visiting and bring this that and the other thing for you to read, to listen to and to be comfortable. Slowly, more air came out of the bubble; the marriage was dissolving.
Unfortunately, my father passed away, having never returned home. Yet, he did have frequent visits by his two grandchildren and friends. He passed away a few days before Thanksgiving. When we had the burial and sat shiva, I knew this was also the end of my marriage. Yet, I had not taken legal action. I had taken a deep breath or two, and was weighing things in my mind.
Eventually, I’ll spare you the legal details, we were separated and divorced. I was in my late 40s and circling back to the births of our children, was not going to have any more of my own children. My mom asked me to get a Get, a Jewish divorce. After all, without one, the kids could be considered illegitimate in some communities. While a tad old-fashioned, I was aware of what a Get was and investigated it. There is a Bet Din, a tribunal, and the exchange of papers. Another part of this was a meeting with a rabbi. That would be the day I lost it.
A few details until that point, though. My cousin arranged for me to meet with her rabbi, someone she respected. You see, the rabbi at the synagogue we had been part of was not someone I respected anymore. He had never reached out to me during the separation or divorce; I became a non-entity there. One of the items required by the rabbi to write the Get was a list of our Hebrew names. Where would I find that? Who would give that to me? Ah, I had the framed ketubah, marriage contract. I had the Bat Mitzvah and by this point Bar Mitzvah programs, and I had the Gabbi. So off I went to bring the names to this rabbi. A few weeks later and with the fee paid, I had a document in my hands. But, we weren’t done.
I had to appear before a tribunal, three men that I would ask to serve in this capacity, and the rabbi. In retrospect, I chose wisely. I asked the Gabbi, and two men who had been friends of ours and who I believed would be impartial. And then there was the rabbi. On that evening, I arrived at the synagogue and walked up a long flight of steps. That was the familiar part. I entered the rabbi’s office and shared the paper that I had been entrusted with from the other rabbi, the writer of the Get.
Now, take a breath because here is what happened. The rabbi began reading the document out loud and paused. He said that the information was not correct so the Get wasn’t valid. I didn’t understand. What could be wrong? So I asked. He said that the name of the Get didn’t match; the man’s Hebrew name did not match what he had received. Stunned, a moment of silence and then a few guttural words were spoken. I was told to leave the room while the rabbi said he would call my ex-husband. Steam came out of my ears and other words out of my mouth as I was escorted out. However, in my defense, the three gentlemen did say that my ex was a Cohen, that we had heard his Hebrew name numerous times, and the Gabbi confirmed it.
Oh, at this moment telling me to calm down just got me boiling even more. Pacing, cursing, pacing and some silence ensued. Then the door opened and we re-entered the rabbi’s office. Shoulders raised and hot under the collar, not holding my breath at all. This was ridiculous and I said so. Admittedly, not a top ten glamorous moment for me, and it was unsettling for the Bet Din, too.
According to the rabbi, my ex-husband had changed his Hebrew name because it was the same as his deceased brother-in-law. Well, I’ll be! When did that take place? No answer. What was his new name? No answer. I called my at that point former sister-in-law to ask because after all what did I have to lose. She had no idea that this had taken place. She questioned the accuracy of what was happening. However, the rabbi said that the Get would be accepted because that was his Hebrew name at the time. Oh, please do not patronize me, was my remark or something similar at least. You see, they were poker buddies and maintained a friendship; he should have recused himself from this tribunal. I stated such, was handed the paper, and it was over.
Did you hear my footsteps down the long set of stairs? Oh, you could’ve that night. A few years after that Bet Din, I made an appointment to meet with that rabbi. He was surprised. I told him, in person, that he had never reached out to me and that the congregation had no group at that time for people experiencing divorce. I suggested outreach. A bit after that, I was officially no longer part of that congregation.
About a decade later, I went to a rabbi that I respected. I asked him if the marriage had been valid or if it was not and if I should get some sort of annulment. My ex had lied about his name, about who he was, so what should I do? After pausing, this learned man asked me what I would do with such an annulment or why pursue this. What would I gain? Perhaps I would get a lawyer? Perhaps I could regain some of the divorce settlement that I paid him? This rabbi suggested letting this chapter be closed. What good would come of it?
And so here we are today, with you reading about The Get That Almost Got Me. In case you are wondering, my kids do know about the Bet Din and that rabbi. I made choices. I did not pursue the change in identity, the name change. The name change I did get was to remove his last name from mine, to unhyphenate the names. With that came new credit cards, a new license and more. The kids are now on their own, one in the early thirties and one in the late twenties. One with a strong sense of a Judaic community and one who does not associate, at least not outwardly.
Occasionally, I think about this series of events. If it happened to you, what would you do?
