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March 2000 Issue, Volume 2

The Ketubah Conundrum

By Allison Kaplan

Sometime between the nuptials of my parents and those of my peers, the Ketubah reemerged as a work of art.

It's not the text, of course -- that still spells out how the bride is worth 200 pieces of silver. (Came as a shock to me, too. I would have thought I'd at least be worth my weight in gold.) I'm talking about the design of the Ketubah.

My parents' Jewish wedding contract is a folded piece of paper with plain, printed words surrounded by a ghastly burgundy and orange border. They keep it stashed in a file cabinet. My friends, on the other hand, have commissioned works of art -- a fancy watercolor design, an intricate tree of life. Their Ketubot are framed and hung prominently on a living room or bedroom wall.

Hiring an artist to create an original and personal Ketubah is not merely an option for couples getting married today, it's become the thing to do. Even the rabbi gave us names of three Ketubah artists on one of our pre-marriage consultations.

I think it's lovely, the idea of turning a legal contract into a beautiful symbol of commitment, family, and Jewish home. But I can't help feeling that in creating the biggest, brightest, most elaborate Ketubah, some couples

completely lose sight of the significance of this most sacred contract. So Rustin and I decided to do some research. We wanted to understand what our Ketubah would say in Aramaic -- the technical, legal language used for Jewish contracts -- and we wanted to include an English version. Also, we were not so keen on spending around $1,000 for an original piece of art, which made it that much easier for us to gear our focus toward the language.

When put in the context of centuries of Jewish tradition, I can accept that the Ketubah refers to the bride as a possession. But I like to focus on how the Jewish marriage contract was actually ahead of its time, because it gave women some rights and legal standing, as Anita Diamant details in "The New Jewish Wedding," a book that has become the bible for modern brides and grooms.

I know that according to Jewish law, the Hebrew is what counts. But to Rustin and me, the English was just as important. If the Ketubah contains our promises to each other, we want to be able to not only read, but understand, what we're signing.

We started by reviewing my parents' Ketubah, figuring since they have a pretty good thing going, it wouldn't hurt to fashion ours after theirs. My eyes bulged as I began reading the English. Their deal states that my mom will cook and clean and create a model Jewish household while my dad provides. Horrified, I asked my parents how they could have agreed to this. Mom and Dad shrugged and said, this is what the synagogue gave them to sign in 1970, and they did so without question. With that, they kissed. Then Dad drove off to fill the gas tank on my mother's car and Mom made dinner.

We're in the 21st Century now. If Rustin and I fall into traditional roles, that will be our choice. But I'm not about to celebrate a document which assumes my place is in the kitchen.

We discussed this with the rabbi, who suggested we stick with the Conservative Hebrew text, but write our own English. Rustin had all sorts of ideas. He enthusiastically agreed to put in writing that he'll carry my lipstick whenever I don't bring a purse, and that I should always get off the couch to kiss him when he walks through the door. And strictly to demonstrate his respect for our forefathers, Rustin said he'd be happy to leave the cooking and cleaning to me.

Perhaps if he would get out of graduate school and begin providing, in accordance with the custom of Jewish husbands, we could talk. While I do agree to be in charge of grocery shopping and I like the idea of Rustin doing laundry, I told my fiancé our thinking should be on a grander scale for the purposes of the Ketubah. Honesty, communication - stuff like that.

We began leafing through Ketubot for ideas. Rustin was appalled by one Ketubah that spelled out "intentions" for the bride and groom. Intending is not good enough, my fiancé declared. Anyone getting married had better be willing to make promises. I knew I liked this guy.

We were about to start writing -- never mind how much it would have cost to hire a scribe for the final version or what kind of indestructible paper we planned to use -- when we came across the perfect Ketubah. It had a traditional Jewish look, with columns and Stars of David. The English text was modern and meaningful. Rustin had his doubts about the flowers around the edges, but he abandoned any hesitation when he read the clause on "achieving physical fulfillment."

I can just imagine the day when I'm camped out on the couch and my husband walks over to the frame on the wall, pointing to the physical fulfillment line right above my signature and the bold words: "This is binding."

I suppose I'll be forced to counter with the section on sensitivity and respect.

Getting all of this in writing might not be such a bad idea.

Naturally, our perfect Ketubah was out of print. Thus began an extensive Internet search which had us exchanging e-mails about various Ketubot that were too flowery, too blue, too legal sounding, too melodramatic. Finally, we found one that fit. And by ordering over the Internet, we saved $20 off the store price.

That leaves a few extra silver pieces for the dowry.

Send comments to Allison at Singlstyle@aol.com