It’s always enlightening to realize how much I don’t know. I’ve spent my entire life ensconced in the Jewish Orthodox world, and in spite of that– or perhaps because of it– I hardly know anything. I mean, I know what brachah to say and when. I can even tell you what order to put your sneakers on in the morning, but I can’t really tell you why. I’ve been doing it all so long that I never thought to ask. It’s when I start spending time with people outside the Modern Orthodox community–who do things a different way or ask me questions about why I do something–that I have to think about it.
This all came to light when my friend and wise editor of New Voices, David A.M. Wilensky asked me to be his Chasidic tour guide in Crown Heights the other day to help him purchase a lulav and etrog. Never mind that I speak about as much Yiddish as I do Afrikaans (read: none) and that I’d been to Crown Heights only once before in my life; I am Orthodox and that was enough to make me more wise in the ways of the Lubavitch than David, who comes from a Reform background. By that I mean I was able to pronounce “heimeshe” on the bakery sign with a more convincing accent than he was. I wear skirts but he wears tzitzit so really we’re even.
[EDITOR’S NOTE: I do wear tzitzit every day, but I never wear a kippah.]
David and I inspected some of Crown Height’s finest specimens. The four species (the citron, referred to by Jews as the etrog; and the lulav, which is made from palm, willow and myrtle branches) were being sold in every conceivable place. We rifled through etrogs on tables on the street and in luggage stores. One particularly organized selection was set up in a museum.
[EDITOR’S NOTE: It purported to be a “Children’s Musuem,” though I saw no evidence of it ever having been used as such.]
David found The One on a dark table on the sidewalk. We checked for blemishes by the light of our cell phone screens, and approved of what we saw. The Israeli guys manning the booth could not have been much older than 16, and they found us as entertaining as we did them.
[EDITOR’S NOTE: It’s the best etrog I’ve ever had. It’s green, the perfect size for holding with the lulav and it has this great little indentation to rest your thumb on when gripping it.]
Finally I was of some use: I was the designated communicator, and between my rusty Hebrew and their basic English we closed the sale. They did a bit of bantering in Hebrew while they wrapped up our purchases and I strained my ears to catch what they were saying. (“Are they making fun of me?” asked David when I smirked at something they said. I shook my head, thrilled that I could understand. 15+ years of Hebrew classes and I still barely understand full conversations).
The culture clash was not nearly as dramatic as I’d expected when anticipating this trip. There may have been a bit of sideways glances at our unusual pair, but no exaggerated staring and pointing when these two clearly non-Chasidic people strolled into their midst. No fistfights over whether the Rebbe is coming back–although that would have made for a fantastic article and YouTube special–and no derisive comments behind our backs.
[EDITOR’S NOTE: Simi may be vastly underestimating how good they are at making derisive comments behind people’s backs. It’s hard to prove that someone didn’t make a derisive comment behind your back.]
It’s the journalist in me that wanted a spectacular showdown, but in truth I was pleased with the experience. And here’s the cheesy moral of the story: we can all coexist. We don’t have to be best buddies or live together, but there is so much we can all learn from each other, even if it’s just learning how much we have left to learn.
Simi Lampert is an Orthodox Jew and a realist, in the way that cynics like to say, “I’m not cynical, I’m being realistic.” She is a senior at Yeshiva University’s Stern College, and is the editor-in-chief and founder of the YU Beacon. Her column, Modern Unorthodox, appears here on alternating Tuesdays.
