By Lauren Matthew

The Jewish State

There's quite an impressive pile of clothing on my closet floor.

It isn't what you might think, either. Despite what my mother saw from me when I was a teenager, I hang my clothes up when they're clean, and put them in a laundry bag when they need to be washed.

It's an interesting pile; to the outside eye, there's no rhyme or reason to it. The garments that are stacked in it aren't worn out, or old, or even out-of-style. They're not waiting to be taken to the dry cleaner, or to the Laundromat, or anything like that. And it's not that they don't fit anymore, either.

They're waiting to be given away. They're waiting because I no longer wear them, because they are not tzniut (modest).

I know that, outside of the Orthodox world, there are few women who keep to these strictures. And I admit, when I began my religious process, I didn't think I'd be able to wear skirts all the time (I think pantyhose are the work of demons out to damage my sanity permanently). I didn't understand the reason for dressing a certain way. Shouldn't, I thought, the inside matter more than the outside?

Well, yes, it should. And it does. But something my rabbi said a while back made the reason behind modest clothing much more understandable and beautiful to me.

It was simple: people should know you're a Jew, just by looking at you. I wouldn't be studying and doing everything I've been doing if I didn't want to be a Jew, if I didn't already want everyone to know what I believe. So why, I thought, had I not thought of this before?

I think I know.

There are certain pieces of clothing that become a part of you. There are always favorite shoes, a favorite shirt, a sweater or sweatshirt that feels like home, worn and soft. Clothing, for a lot of people, is a second skin -- one I was not ready to shed.

I wasn't ready to say I don't wear pants (unless I'm in my apartment, lounging around, or cleaning). I didn't even realize I didn't. I just looked at the drawer full of jeans and thought when the last time I wore any of them was. Then I started piling them up.

Some things were harder to put in that pile than others. I really used to like tank tops in the summer. I hate feeling hot when it's humid outside. But they went into the pile. So did some very pretty shirts that are too low cut to be tzniut. I'm sure someone else can give them a good home.

The pile of clothes is going to Goodwill, probably by the end of the week.

The last visit I made to my parents' house, I explained my decision. I explained to my mom that all my shirts, from now on, had to come at least to the elbow, if not over it. I very much thought that she would think this was crazy; my mother has always been a firm believer in individuality and freedom of expression. I was afraid she'd see this as a case of the nail that sticks up getting hammered down.

She didn't. What she saw was me -- expressing my beliefs through what I wore. Following my conversation with her, she grabbed a bunch of clothing catalogues from the basket she keeps magazines in. She went through them until she found shirts with three-quarter-length sleeves. Then she asked me to pick some. I just smiled.

While I was at my parents' house, I also gave my mother back something she once gave me. I haven't worn it any time that I can remember; I think the last time I wore it, I was seven, and it was school picture day.

As I was leaving, I put a closed zip-lock bag into my mother's hand.

"What's this?" she asked me, turning it over even as the question came out.

It was the little gold cross she gave me, when I started school. It's a tiny little thing, and despite how simple it is, it's quite pretty. She just nodded at me.

"I figured someone should have it. Someone who might wear it,"I told her.

My mother nodded. She, herself, won't wear it; she's not big on necklaces. Or jewelry of any kind, really. She told me she remembered picking the pendant out for me, that I had gone with her (I don't remember this; I think I was too young). It was a mother-daughter shopping trip, she told me. But she wasn't sad.

"Now I'll have to go with you," she told me, hugging me goodbye, "and help you pick out things you can wear."

People always say that those that convert, once they've gone into the mikvah, are reborn. They are even given new names for their new lives. But first, all the relevant things must be learned, everything must be understood.

I had to be comfortable enough in my new skin to shed my old one.