My Personal Narrative
The first real conversation didn’t happen in a synagogue or a sacred space. It started quietly — almost accidentally — somewhere between exhaustion and curiosity. I had been searching for something, even if I didn’t know what it was. My days felt full, yet somehow hollow. I had built a career I was proud of, led teams, served customers, and created community within the walls of my CVS store — but something deeper was missing.
Then I was assigned to Deal.
When I first walked into the CVS in Deal, I thought it would be just another store, another challenge to take on. But the moment I started observing the people, I knew this place was different. There was something special about the community — an unspoken closeness, a rhythm of care that stretched far beyond the store aisles.
On a monthly basis, I’d review my reports like any store manager would — sales, traffic, year-over-year comparisons. But something new caught my eye. Month after month, customer traffic wasn’t just growing; it was soaring. The numbers were more than data — they were proof that connection mattered. I realized people weren’t just coming to CVS for medicine or groceries. They were coming because they trusted me, because I was one of them.
As I became more open about my Jewish identity, something beautiful started to unfold. Word began circulating throughout the Sephardic community — whispers that finally, CVS had a Jewish store manager. I started to notice more smiles, more people greeting me with warmth that went beyond the typical customer exchange.
It became almost comical — if I had a dime for every time someone asked me, “What’s your last name?” I could probably retire early. When I told them my name was Marchese, many would tilt their heads, curious, trying to place it. And when I shared that I was in the middle of my conversion to Judaism, their eyes would light up.
“You’re converting? That’s amazing! We’re so proud of you,” one woman said, clasping her hands together. Another man patted me on the shoulder and smiled, “Welcome, my brother. You’re one of us now.”
These weren’t just polite words — they were sincere blessings from people who barely knew me but already accepted me as their own. That kind of kindness is rare. And before long, I had earned myself a nickname that made me laugh every time I heard it: “Frank with the Yarmulke.”
It spread fast — customers, delivery drivers, even regulars from nearby shops would use it. But the nickname wasn’t teasing; it was affectionate. It meant I was seen. I wasn’t hiding anymore. I was part of the fabric of this community — visible, proud, and connected.
Day after day, I met people who cared deeply about my journey. “How are your studies going, Frank?” someone would ask while picking up their prescription. Another might say, “You need anything for Shabbat? I can grab something from the market.” Their care wasn’t performative — it was genuine.
One man, Moshe, became more than a regular customer — he became a friend. He took a real interest in my conversion, offering guidance, encouragement, and insight. Even now, we still talk often. He reminds me how far I’ve come and how faith isn’t just learned — it’s lived.
But there’s one story from that time I’ll never forget.
It was a Friday afternoon, around 2:30 or 3 o’clock. The store was calm, the golden light from the windows spilling across the aisles. An elderly Jewish woman was shopping, moving slowly but gracefully through the store. When she reached the register, she looked up and saw my yarmulke.
She smiled and said softly, “I’m going to treat you like my own grandchild and tell you what I tell mine every Friday — make sure you’re home for Shabbos.”
Her voice trembled slightly, the way wisdom often does. I smiled back and told her, “I only work until three on Fridays, so I can go home, get ready, and head to shul.” Her eyes lit up. “Good,” she said. “Then you’re doing it right.”
That moment hit me hard — not because it was dramatic, but because it was simple and true. It captured everything I loved about this community: their care, their devotion, their joy in sharing faith with others.
Within just a few months of being in Deal, everything I saw back in February — that sense of belonging, that heartbeat of faith — became my reality. The community didn’t just accept me; they inspired me. They showed me that Judaism isn’t just practiced — it’s lived, breathed, and shared.
But it wasn’t just Deal that made my decision. It was also how the Reform Jewish community embraced me — fully and without conditions.
For the first time in my life, I felt seen as a gay man and accepted for exactly who I was. There were no whispers, no shame, no rules about what love was supposed to look like. I didn’t have to hide anymore.
That was something I could never say about my time in the Catholic Church. I had spent years trying to balance my faith with who I was — always afraid of being found out, always pretending to be someone I wasn’t. Confession was torture; I’d stand in line rehearsing my words, my palms sweating, terrified of saying out loud that I was attracted to men. I’d lower my voice, hoping the pastor wouldn’t recognize it was me. I lived in a constant state of fear and guilt.
The moment that finally broke me came one ordinary afternoon. I had been working at the church office and forgot to take off my engagement ring. I was in love then — hopeful, open-hearted, proud of who I was becoming. But pride wasn’t safe there.
I remember hearing footsteps from upstairs — my pastor coming down. My administrator leaned in, her eyes wide, and whispered urgently, “Frank, your ring — take it off!”
I tried. My fingers were swollen, and it wouldn’t budge. So I did the only thing I could: I sat on my hand to hide it. My heart was pounding, my stomach tight. That was the moment I realized I couldn’t do it anymore.
I’m done hiding.
That day, something inside me shifted. I decided that my faith should never make me feel ashamed of who I am. It should lift me, not shrink me.
And when I walked into Temple Etz Chaim for the first time, that’s exactly what happened. No one looked twice when I mentioned my fiancé. No one flinched when I said I was gay. They smiled. They welcomed me. They saw my heart before my label.
That acceptance — combined with the community I found in Deal — sealed my decision. Judaism wasn’t just the faith I was choosing; it was the home I had been longing for.
When I finally sat down with my rabbi, I told him everything — my story, my doubts, my fears, and the feeling that had been growing stronger every day.
He listened, then said gently, “Frank, that’s what makes Judaism beautiful. We don’t ask you to erase yourself. We ask you to be yourself.”
His words felt like oxygen. For the first time, faith didn’t feel like a closet. It felt like freedom.
From then on, every conversation — with my rabbi, my customers, my friends, and even here — became a step toward wholeness.
It’s the story of a man who stopped running from his truth and started walking toward it.
A story of belonging, of faith, and of finally finding home — not through grand revelations, but through the quiet, steady rhythm of community, courage, and conversation.