How I Came To Terms With Circumcising My Son
LatestWalking to class past the political and cultural smorgasbord of Sproul Plaza at the University of California at Berkeley was a feast for the eyes. There was, of course, the Ralph Nader-loving table teeming with activity and the ever-desolate Berkeley College Republicans station. But the one that always caught my eye was the “Male Circumcision = Genital Mutilation” table. And yes, they had pictures.
I remember once, an outraged Member of the Tribe holding a sign that read: “For God’s Sake, My Penis Was Ruined” told me that the traumatic experience of circumcision had scarred him physically and emotionally. Forever. At the time, I was all like “Dude, chillax. Smoke a bowl or something” and I went on my way to my next class.
But now, 10 years and one telltale ultrasound later, I can’t stop thinking about this man, his sign, and his tsurus. Because with the knowledge that the fetus I now call Little Homie is indeed a boy-child, comes the inevitable deep breath as my husband and I mentally prepare for our baby-to-be’s eighth day of life: Little Homie is getting cut.
And I’m not happy about this.
Since I kick ass at Googling, I know that while the medical community at large generally considers circumcision to be medically unnecessary, there are statistics that support the theory that this practice is actually quite healthy and sanitary. And while some argue that circumcised men experience less sexual pleasure than their non-circumcised counterparts, I have yet to hear one complain.
And, beyond these facts and figures, I have been raised to believe that circumcision symbolizes a profound covenant with God. It’s a ritual that has existed for thousands of years, and I always believed that if I had a son, I would want him to take part in this time-honored tradition.
But this was how I felt before I saw Little Homie’s boy parts. And now, even though we’re shopping around for the best mohel in town (think Benihana chef with a yarmulke), I have a lot of reservations.
I’m afraid that the mohel will develop a palsy seconds before the blade meets my baby’s foreskin. I’m scared that Little Homie will get one of those extremely rare infections, and his penis will turn gangrenous and fall off, and he’ll never give me grandchildren—oy vey iz mir. And, I’m terrified that one day, Little Homie–for whatever reason‑‑will grow up to resent our decision to have him circumcised.
Ok, ok, ok, before you tear my “Member of the Tribe Card” into a million pieces, please know that I love being a Jew. And while I do not, nor have I ever, taken the biblical narrative literally, I am proud of my heritage. But I also believe that intrinsic to being Jewish—hell, to being a person—is to question long-held assumptions and beliefs, no matter how inviolable and sacrosanct they may seem. And in the end, it is Little Homie’s penis. So, ultimately, shouldn’t he decide what is (or isn’t) done to it?