Shabbos in the Hood

This week marked my first Shabbat (or Shabbos as it's known in its Yiddish pronunciation) in my new neighborhood.  Before I tell you about it, I think it's important for you to understand a little more about this particular neighborhood in Brooklyn.

I'm learning that Brooklyn, and New York in general, is an astonishingly diverse place.  As I mentioned in my first post since arriving, the variety of languages, nationalities, and traditions is astonishing.  There are, however, certain neighborhoods throughout New York that have noticeably higher concentrations of certain ethnic groups, as delineated here.

My neighborhood is a Hassidic hot spot of not just NYC, but of the world.  Hassidic (sometimes transliterated as Chassidic) refers to a branch of ultra-Orthodox Judaism which puts significant emphasis on absolutely following the letter of the law and its accompanying rabbinical commentaries.  Additionally, Hassidic Jews typically avoid many attributes of secular life and form insular, close-knit communities among themselves.  Most people recognize ultra-Orthodox Jews by their black hats, long beards, payes, and black coats, and the women by their long black skirts and dark long sleeved-shirts.  This is worn in even the most oppressive heat and humidity, but it is all a part of the centuries-old traditions that have allowed these Orthodox communities to flourish.

This part of Brooklyn is situated directly next to a large Chinese community -- [insert joke about Christmas and mahjong here] -- and has a handful of Mexican and Puerto Rican restaurants thrown in for good measure.  Still, when Tomm (a modern Orthodox Jew raised in a Jewish neighborhood) came here for his interview I distinctly remember him only saying "I'm not Jewish enough to live here."  He was only half joking.

So now imagine me, a traditional Jew raised in a small town whose Jewish population hovered somewhere around 50 people, suddenly thrown into the heart of American Hassidism with a Jewish population estimated at over 100,000.

Thus it was with some uncertainty that I began thinking about where I would go for Shabbos services on Saturday morning, since a Hassidic shul (synagogue) isn't quite my thing.  I did some research and found there were four modern Orthodox congregations nearby.  Great!  Having nothing else to go on, I decided to try out the one closest to the apartment, a measly three short blocks away.

I'll spare you the unnecessary details of the shul, but suffice it to say it was old.  Big and old.  It had probably been around for generations and was probably a pretty sizable congregation at some point, but judging from the number of empty pews during the service the community has shrunk considerably.  As is standard in Orthodox synagogues, the women had their own section separate from the men (because men are too easily distracted by our beauty), and by the end of the service I was one of only six women there.  According to Jewish law, women are not required to attend prayer services so it's typical for there to be more men than women in a synagogue, but this seemed sparse even by my standards.

I was obviously the youngest person there by a significant margin, so naturally I felt very at home.  The congregations in which I've grown up and to which I've belonged have usually been on the older side and I feel quite comfortable in a congregation primarily made up of people my parents' age and older.  But that was just about the only thing that made me feel comfortable there.  First of all, there was little to no singing among the congregants, so I felt the service was seriously lacking in ruach, spirit.  Second, nobody seemed to do any part of the service together, so I didn't sense any community.  But what struck me as odd was that nobody said hi to me or welcomed me until long after the service had ended.

Perhaps it was presumptuous, but I've grown up believing that Jews look out for one another, and that new faces should be welcomed wholeheartedly.  In fact, there was a sign in their social hall that said something about always being the first to welcome someone new.  During the short social and snack time after services known as kiddush, the women did say hi to me and one even offered me some job hunting advice, but overall I felt the reception was cold.

I told Tomm about it later and he admitted that he wasn't entirely surprised.  There are two types of small communities, he said, and they're either open or closed.  Both my community at home and the one I've been a part of for the last six years are small but very open.  They welcome newcomers with open arms and an invitation to lunch, they play Jewish Geography and search endlessly for connections to people they know, and there is never a shortage of smiles to suggest that they are sincerely happy to meet another member of the tribe.

But it seems that the shul I walked into was of the closed persuasion.  They are probably a small, aging community where new is not always good.  Perhaps the changing neighborhood has not treated them kindly.  Or maybe they've just lost too many young people to the more glamorous Jewish neighborhoods around New York.  Equally possible is that New York Jews are simply different than Midwest Jews.  Whatever the cause, I'm not convinced I'll find my new community in that shul.

At least I've got three other places on my list!