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Web Exclusives | Fat Jewsdays? |
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| Written by Molly Frisinger | |||||
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Post College Life in an Unexpected Setting In October of 2006, as most people were fleeing southeastern Louisiana, I moved to Baton Rouge, the location of my dream job at a publishing house. It was a move to a city I knew nothing about in a state where I knew no one. In college, Jewish life seemed universal and almost unavoidable. Even my non-Jewish friends went to Purimpalooza. So, naturally, after renting an apartment over the phone from my parents' Texas home I looked up the web site of the local synagogue, just to check it out. What I saw was a reassuring message noting that High Holiday services would still be held despite the fact that Hurricane Rita had caused extensive damage to the building. They would be next door in the Baptist church. I resigned myself then to the fact that Judaism would not be the backbone of my social life in Louisiana. In my first months, I threw myself into the local culture. I learned to eat Cajun kosher (red beans and rice, hold the sausage). I discovered Abita beer and pelicans. I hiked through a swamp looking for alligators. I visited the Lower Ninth Ward in New Orleans, I ate beignets and I fervently followed the recovery news. In February, I ate king cake, an integral part of the Mardi Gras season. In Louisiana Mardis Gras is not just a day, or a weekend, it’s a whole season. Every Friday a coworker would bring in a donut-shaped cake covered in green and purple sprinkles. Everyone would all gather in the breakroom to cut our own piece and whoever found the little figurine representing the baby Jesus brought the next cake. Despite these new experiences, I continued to feel the need for some kind of Jewish community. Soon after High Holidays, the synagogue had dried out enough to hold services. There was no ceiling, floor or drywall, and most of the seats were enveloped in yellow caution tape. There was however well over a minyan, the Torahs had been returned to the ark and the rabbi managed to find humor even in the troubled atmosphere of a dilapidated shul. I had all the trappings of the Jewish community I had been longing for except one; people my own age. I pressed on never the less, attending Haddasah book groups with women my mother's age and a class on Jewish literature at the library sponsored by the Jewish group Nextbook. At an oneg, I got into an animated discussion about Clueless with a couple my grandmother's age and I attended an Israeli folk dancing class where most of the students weren't Jewish. It wasn't what I expected or desired, and it wasn't college, but it also wasn’t that bad. Six months have passed since I moved to Baton Rouge, a city known to me previously only in the titles of country music songs. I still haven't found my niche, a group of young, Jewish people like those I knew in college. But like my new diet, my new friends include a nice mix of Cajun and kosher. During my synagogue's Purim schpiel, the rabbi threw plastic versions of the ten plagues into the audience. There were flies, rodents, frogs, and a unique Louisiana plague—crawfish. And the next day, my coworkers all gathered in the breakroom for Hamentaschen, which they enjoyed, even without a baby Jesus inside. Though I don’t interact with hurricane survivors on a daily basis, signs of the damage are everywhere. Some of my coworkers had family staying with them until recently, and my neighbors’ fence, damaged by Rita, falls down every time it rains. My rabbi created a short film about the hurricanes. It shows the congregation supporting the survivors of Katrina, and in turn surviving Rita. In the end, the city responded to the extra traffic and the tremendous demand for housing in a characteristic way. They opened their homes and lives up to the people, and they made fun of the politicians at Mardi Gras.
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