The unkindest cut

When our son was born, my wife decided circumcision was barbaric, but my parents insisted it was an essential Jewish tradition. Behold the sad tale of how one foreskin tore a family apart.

Editor's note: This is an excerpt from "Alternadad"(Pantheon), the new memoir from Neal Pollack.

By Neal Pollack

Read more: Babies, Children, fatherhood, Circumcision, Life

Jan. 9, 2007 | A couple of weeks before my son, Elijah, was born, I was doing something very important on my computer when my wife, Regina, entered my office.

"I was curious about something," she said.

"Sure."

"I wanted to know if you had any feelings about circumcision."

"Nope."

"I was doing some research..."

With Regina, that's always a dangerous clause.

"The American Pediatric Association doesn't recommend circumcision anymore. It used to be medically recommended, but now they're neutral."

"I would say that I'm neutral on the topic as well."

"They don't use anesthetic, Neal. They cut off nerve endings and it decreases sexual sensitivity. In two words: It's barbaric. I can't do it to him. I just can't."

"You must leave me to think on this question for a while," I said, and yes, I do talk like that sometimes.

I went to the usual source for village elders who are trying to solve a tough ethical problem: An article in Mothering magazine. Regina had helpfully supplied the link for me. It said that Western cultures, until the nineteenth century, had no tradition of circumcision. The Greeks and the Romans passed laws forbidding "sexual mutilation" after coming into contact with the cultures of the Middle East. It became more common during the anti-masturbation hysteria of the Victorian era. Doctors claimed that circumcision cured everything from epilepsy and tuberculosis to headaches, eczema, and bed-wetting. At this point, the article became truly interesting and relevant, if a bit didactic and terrifying. It called circumcision a "radical practice" that didn't begin until the cold war era, "part of the same movement that pathologized and medicalized birth and actively discouraged breastfeeding." Until the 1970s, hospitals didn't even have to seek parental permission to perform the surgery.

The foreskin, the article continued, is a natural part of the human anatomy, and there's no reason it should be removed. And then the kicker: "Parents should enjoy the arrival of a new child with as few worries as possible. The birth of a son in the US, however, is often fraught with anxiety and confusion. Most parents are pressured to hand their baby sons over to a stranger, who, behind closed doors, straps babies down and cuts their foreskins off..."

That was about enough. The article was actually shrill beyond measure. I knew there was a reason I hadn't taken women's studies classes in college. Still, I thought, maybe circumcision is wrong after all. Maybe everything I'd always thought about my penis, and, by extension, the world, is also wrong. For the first time in two decades, I'd been forced to stare my Judaism right between the ringlets. I'd arrived at my first Reb Tevye moment; I was no longer the tailor Motel Kamzoil.

On the one hand, I thought, Jewish men get circumcised. It's what we do, or what gets done to us. I've been circumcised my whole life, and my dick works fine. Hell, I thought. It works better than fine.

On the other hand, maybe Regina was right. Maybe circumcision really did decrease sexual sensitivity. Was that something I wanted to deny my son? Wouldn't his life be painful enough? Wait a second. My son wasn't even born yet, and I was already thinking about the quality of his future orgasms. Something felt improper.

This was a very hard decision for me, so I did what any good Jewish boy would do in such a situation.

I called my mother.

"Hey, Mom," I said.

"Neal! Honey! It's wonderful to hear your voice! How are you?"

"OK."

"And how's Regina feeling?"

"She's hanging in there."

"Poor thing."

"Yeah. Listen, Mom, I wanted to talk to you about something."

"Of course, honey."

"Regina and I were thinking about not circumcising Elijah..."

It's hard to describe exactly what my mother's voice did at that moment, but "convulsed" is probably the closest word I can find.

"No, oh, no no no Neal. Don't say that to me. We're prepared to take anything. But you have to circumcise him."

Prepared to take anything, I thought. What did that mean?

"Regina did this research. And..."

"I don't care about Regina's research. She's not Jewish."

"But we were thinking..."

My mother began to openly weep on the phone.

"Oh my God, Neal! I can't believe you're doing this to me! You have to circumcise! You have to!"

"My wife..."

"Your wife is immaterial here. You can't betray six thousand years of Jewish tradition."

Suddenly, my generation's sin of intermarriage lay fully on my back. The fate of the entire diaspora rested on my decision. I saw a God I didn't particularly believe in waving an angry finger at me. An innocent medical inquiry had turned into Sophie's Choice.

"You can't forsake your people," my mother said. "Promise me." I began to quiver.

"I promise, Mother," I said.

"And please don't tell your grandmother about this. She wouldn't understand."

"Yes, Mother."

I sounded like Norman Bates, saying, "Yes, Mother" like that. When I hung up the phone, I went into the bedroom, where Regina had propped up her feet.

"Well?" she said.

"My mother says we'd betray six thousand years of Jewish tradition."

Regina had been ready for that answer. "Oh, does she, now? We'll just see about that! I will not circumcise my son! I will not put him through that pain! I can't bear it!"

"Yes, dear."

Now, just as my mother had five minutes earlier, my wife began to weep.

"You can't make me do it, Neal! You can't! Promise me!"

"Yes, dear."

"Hold me."

"I need some time to think."

I went to the back of the house and closed the door. My parents had said some other strange things to me during the pregnancy. On one family visit, they'd been teasing me, saying that Elijah would probably end up being a "Republican engineer," whatever that was. I said that I'd love him no matter what he became.

"Now you know how we feel," said my mother.

Nice.

Regina pounded on the door.

"Neal! I'm furious with your mother! I'm not Jewish and she's going to have to deal with that! We have to talk, now!"

At that moment, I wanted to buy a plane ticket to Uruguay and never come back. I've always wanted to go to Uruguay because I know that if it got boring, I could be in Brazil or Argentina by lunchtime. But there I was instead in Austin, Texas, and my rational brain had ceased functioning. Something deep, primal, and lizardy emerged. I clawed at my face and pounded my head against the door. What the fuck was wrong with these people?

Next page: My brain was a fetid goulash of guilt and resentment