The pointing finger is not the star.

I look Jewish. If you've known me for more than ten or fifteen years, that might seem a ridiculous statement, because, I don't look Jewish. Am I going to get myself into trouble here? I have a round, moony, pale Midwestern face, blue eyes, reddish hair, and I'll just say it, a tiny, straight nose. My accent is decidedly reformed Minnesotan and my speech is peppered with cornpone-isms like , "I'm going to see a man about a horse.", "Straw's cheaper, grass is free" ( in response to someone saying 'hey!'), and "That dog'll hunt." When the weather is hot, I actually say, "Hot enough for ya?". I can't help myself. It's in my genetic makeup to say things like I'm reading from an ancient Andy Griffith Show script.
But I look Jewish. Real Jewish. Women in our local Ralph's grocery store ask me kashrut questions. Do you trust the half moon K on this orange juice carton? (Sure) Where do they keep the Duck Sauce? ( Uh. ) What holiday is it NOW? (Shavuot) Now here's the thing, I don't know very much. I mean, I do, compared to some. It's all relative. But seriously, I know nada. The ladies at Ralph's don't see the Midwestern in me. The non-Jew. The goyishe kup. Because what they do see is my hair, which is covered by a scarf, tied behind my head into a sort of scarf-bun. (Think Erykah Badu's turban, but not so huge. ) They see the quite modest length of my skirt (always a skirt) and my elbow length (at least!) sleeves. They see the ultimate frum accessory, my baby. I look Jewish. I look religious. I look the part, ready to clarify all of your pressing grocery store confusion.
Looking the part, while not being utterly meaningless, is only a signifier. It points the way to what I am, and what I do, and what I believe to be true (ok, and some things I, let's say, struggle with). But even this isn't enough, just to believe.
I wasn't born this way, Jewish. And I can observe every mitzvah I get my hands on, but it still doesn't make me Jewish. No amount of candle lighting on Friday nights will do it. No matter how strict I am about saying blessings before and after I eat will change my status. Depending on whom you ask, the conversion I completed eight years ago made me Jewish, but not Jewish enough, or even at all. So I'm going around again. Another conversion, and another wedding. Same people.
Don't ask me why I'm doing it. Certainly don't tell me why I'm doing it. When I try to explain it to myself, or an inquisitive new friend at Shabbos lunch, the words crumble in my mouth. It's not logical and makes little sense to the feminist, artsy-fartsy, liberal person I thought I was. I think it's fun. (is that shallow?) I like Shabbat. I love the emphasis on study. It's where my heart is. How corny is that?