A Stranger in a Strange Land

Growing up in a small town in Wisconsin which boasted a century-old Jewish community, Shabbat morning services were kind of a big deal.  My relationship with the community was built upon Torah readings, poorly but passionately sung Hebrew melodies, and the smell of herring at kiddush.  The weekly d'var torah (sermon) was our communal learning, and together we thrived in our small but dedicated congregation.  I never thought it odd that my sister and I were the only two kids in shul every week, and my sense of normal was very much shaped by the members who were at least two generations older.  As far as I knew, it was normal to go to shul every week and pray for a minyan (the required quorum of 10 to proceed with the service), normal to make changes to the service in order to suit the needs of our membership (like counting women for the minyan), normal to feel obligated to attend because my absence would be felt by every other congregant.  Spurred by my parents, my education, and my community, I was dedicated to my shul and loved it wholeheartedly.

Outside of the synagogue or my home, normal was being the only Jew around.  Unlike some young Jews in similar situations, I wore my religion like a badge of honor.  I gladly answered my classmates' and teachers' questions about my practices, dutifully did the extra work to make up for missed days of school around the High Holy Days, and enjoyed the respect that accompanied my uniqueness.  In a city overwhelmingly full of Catholics and Protestants, I loved being different.  To me, that was normal.

In college I enjoyed a slightly larger Jewish community, but even then I was still different.  I was nearly the only observant Jew in the music school, and the only consistent college-aged congregant at the shul a block away from campus.  Again I was surrounded by non-Jews in school and an older community at the synagogue (albeit younger on average than at home), and I knew I was right where I belonged.  It didn't bother me that I didn't have a close-knit group of Jewish friends with whom to share a Shabbos dinner or go out on Saturday nights.  In fact, I was markedly more comfortable in non-Jewish circles and preferred the feeling of adding to the diversity of a given group.

When I first moved to campus I was excited to participate in the Hillel (an organization for Jewish students on college campuses).  Surrounding myself once a week with other members of the Tribe was comforting.  Inside jokes passed freely among us, the kinds of jokes that our non-Jewish friends could never really understand.  We played Apples to Apples: Jewish Edition and laughed openly as we juxtaposed gefilte fish, Albert Einstein, and Jewish mothers and debated which one fit better with the adjective "misunderstood."  Yet while I was comfortable there, it was a decidedly atypical part of my sense of Jewish community.

There was, however, one unifying feature of all my Jewish interactions in Wisconsin: we knew we were all part of a much smaller community within the general public and as such, we made a point to include one another.  For what it was worth, many of us stuck together despite the unspoken feuds between various sects or followers of particular traditions.  Together we were part of the larger, global Jewish Community, and many of us honored that, at least among the Jews I knew.

In this neighborhood in Brooklyn, things are different...vastly different.  In fact, in New York City in general it seems easy to take our religion and practices for granted.  I'm still getting used to seeing Jews regularly in the subway, on the street, and in Ikea.  As I get used to this new reality, I also have to come to terms with the fact that being Jewish doesn't automatically grant you access into the Jewish community.  Apparently, when being Jewish is not unique and your existence doesn't threaten and isn't threatened by anyone else in the general public, there is no strong need to stick together just because you had a Bar or Bat Mitzvah in middle school.

Even in my search for a modern Orthodox synagogue in the neighborhood - where modern Orthodoxy has been pushed aside by the much larger and more conspicuous Charedi (ultra Orthodox) population - it's easy for my presence to be overlooked or ignored.  I'm just another Jew; nothing special about that, right?  Besides, the synagogue isn't the only place around here where you spend time with your Jewish neighbors, so even the importance of participation in the service is diminished.

I have to keep reminding myself that what I am witnessing and experiencing is more-than-likely specific to my neighborhood.  In fact, I spoke with a man (modern Orthodox) who works in the neighborhood but lives in a different one altogether, and he described this area as being uniquely unfriendly at times.  People have their own lives, their own personal bubbles, and according to him it's not unusual for them to be standoffish even to those they see daily as they run their errands and go about their lives.  Additionally, I may find that in synagogues with younger membership I will be more immediately accepted.  Who knows?  My experience is exceptionally limited for the time being and I can't let my current opinions define my entire outlook.

The hard part is that in order to find those synagogues where I will feel more comfortable, I might have to travel into the the neighboring areas or even into Manhattan.  This brings up a whole slew of issues to take into consideration, a discussion which I will reserve for another blog post altogether.  In the meantime, I'll use the upcoming Jewish New Year and the Days of Awe to think more deeply about what my Judaism means to me in my new environment, and perhaps to redefine my concept of "normal."

Around the Shabbos [buffet] Table

I've mentioned before that I don't have any close friends or family who live here in New York, but Tomm does have a few and this week one of those friends invited us over for Shabbat dinner at his place on the Upper West Side.  It would be a bit of a schlep for us, and Tomm warned me that this friend of his (a former roommate from college) could sometimes take a little getting used to, but I was excited to do something outside the apartment and, what's more, with people my age.  That and it meant I would get a week off from cooking Shabbos dinner.  Don't get me wrong, I really enjoy cooking and I especially love preparing such an important meal, but sometimes it's nice to let someone else do it.  Of course, I couldn't go empty-handed so I baked a lemon olive oil Bundt cake for dessert, which turned out to be quite a crowd pleaser!

The journey would have taken about an hour by train had we planned it perfectly, but in reality it was closer to an hour and a half.  We didn't mind, and our host was utterly nonplussed at our tardiness, especially since we weren't nearly the last ones there.  All in all, there were around a dozen of us, all somehow friends with the host but many of us strangers to one another.  I felt good knowing that I wasn't the only one meeting new people, and what's more, I was in the company of very like-minded 20-somethings among whom the conversation flowed effortlessly and endlessly.

I quickly got into a conversation with an exceptionally kind woman who works as a linguist.  As it turns out, one of her primary second languages is French, in which I have a minor!  Though we didn't immediately switch to speaking in a language nobody else in the room would have understood, we did swap suggestions for French films and talk about how we absolutely must get together for home-cooked French food.  Her husband meandered over to Tomm at one point and commented on our sudden friendship, to which they both agreed "Now we just sit here quietly and let them talk."  Such understanding men we have!

The group as a whole was rather interested to hear about where I came from, and humorously impressed when I jokingly slipped into a thick Wisconsin accent.  I laughed when someone spoke of "the country" as a place where "there is dew on the grass," as opposed to my definition which involves cow excrement and bales of hay.  Yet even greater than our differences were our similarities, and I lost myself in the stories we told, forgetting that I was hearing them in a studio apartment just west of Central Park.  Still, I was thrilled by the opportunity to play the role of the small-town-girl-in-the-Big-City and to feel empowered by my experiences rather than dismissed for my naivete (the latter being a sentiment which I'm sure is internally, rather than externally motivated).  

It was one of those evenings, and one of those groups, where there were at least five conversations going on independently at any given moment.  If there was a lull in your own it wasn't hard to jump into another and be welcomed immediately, so long as you had a good story to share.  The good food, good drink, and good company kept us there much later than either of us had intended, but it was all worth it and made for an excellent night's sleep.  

Though I'd never want to live on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, it's good to know there are plenty of people there with wide smiles, good stories, and a couple extra seats around the Shabbos table.  Someday soon I hope to return the favor.

Hallmarks of a Small Town Life

Throughout the last couple weeks I have been at home in the small Midwest town where I grew up and I must say, I've been thoroughly enjoying my time here.  I don't know if it's the time with friends, the summer school class I'm helping to teach, the feeling associated with being somewhere so familiar, or the simple fact that we're not dying of humidity, but I'm trying my best to soak up every last drop of this small town home brew before I officially move to New York and learn to sip cosmos.  (That line is strictly metaphorical, mind you.)

Last week, I had the good fortune to be around for a friend's 21st birthday party and got the opportunity to hop around some bars in town that, truth be told, I'd never stepped foot in before.  Among the party guests was one of my closest and oldest friends as well as some old high school classmates, and we had a wonderful time together.  Nothing crazy; just a healthy dose of companionship, storytelling, reminiscing, and a couple drinks between friends that left me with a contented smile.

Another close friend invited me to co-teach a summer school music class with her this week and I have been having a WONDERFUL time working with a select group of middle school band and orchestra students.  Having not taught instrumental music for a year I am beyond thrilled to be working with string players again, and this time I'm learning almost as much as they are in the process.  The class, entitled "Exploring Ensembles" has been focusing on composition, improvisation, and student-led ensembles with a wide variety of instruments.  These are areas which I have rarely explored as either a student or a teacher, and I'm finding - right along with the students - that improvisation and composition really isn't so scary!  In fact, I've been working specifically with a trio comprised of a guitarist and two violinists that are learning to jam together and are composing their own piece as a result.  Today when I told them I would not be with them next week because I'm moving on Tuesday, they all wined and nearly begged for me to come at least on Monday to work with them some more.  How could I say no to that?  It's only been four days and it has been an enlightening and enjoyable experience for all of us.

On Tuesday, a friend and I drove to the city where I lived the last couple years so we could go swing dancing.  Since it was my last time with that crowd for quite some time, they were kind enough to offer me a "going away" dance where all my favorite partners switched with one another to dance with me for a song.  The whole night was at once fun and bittersweet; having to say goodbye to the friends I've made through swing was challenging, but knowing that the skills I developed with them are coming with me to New York makes me hopeful that I'll be able to find another group of swing buddies in my new home.

It's interesting that I've been so happy here the last couple weeks.  Since I moved away for college and came home only on vacations and the occasional weekend, every time home felt stifling.  I quickly became accustomed to the amenities offered by a bigger city: diversity in culture and food, performances and fine arts, opportunities that simply don't exist to the same degree in small towns.  Coming home, by contrast, was challenging.  If I wanted to go out to eat I was faced with the same carnivore-friendly fare that left me wanting.  The stories that circulated always felt tepid and recycled in comparison to the dynamics of the bigger town I'd grown to love.  Everything always felt the same to me, and that lack of spice was bothersome after having experienced and participated in and tasted the various flavors of a city.

Now things have changed. After only a couple weeks in New York I was itching to get back to something safe.  Today, I found it quaint and pleasant to spend an hour at the neighborhood coffee shop/bookstore, schmoozing with the owner (who is also a friend of my mom's) and chatting casually about well-known community members by their first names.  Suddenly, talking with people around town and hearing their thick regional accent is inexplicably endearing.  Essentially, what had annoyed me and bothered me about my home town is now miraculously lovable.  Funny how that happens right when you're about to leave it all behind.

I remember when I was applying for college in my senior year of high school.  I had four schools on my list, two of which were very high, one was an adequate third, and the fourth I put on the list because, well, why not.  That fourth school also happened to be the last one at which I auditioned and I nearly didn't go to the audition because I was so disinterested in going to that university.  As it turned out, that university was the one I ended up attending, and in hindsight I think I got a better education and overall experience than I would have at any of the other schools.  The city itself surprised me in how it grew on me, and I'm quite confident that things turned out exactly the way they were supposed to.

Let's hope New York surprises me, too.