Choosing a college was the first big choice I had ever made. I knew Seton Hall University gave away good scholarships, was close, and I figured I had nothing to lose. Two months later, I was accepted to their six year B.S.E. Elementary/Special Education/M.S. Speech Pathology program. The first time I set foot on campus, I was with my parents at the reception for accepted students. I was worried about going to a Catholic university, yet intrigued by the idea that it was built upon faith in God. Looking through the photos I had taken later that day, I found one that caught my eye. It read, “A Home for the Mind, the Heart, and the Soul.” In that moment, I decided that Seton Hall was going to be my home – it represented a faith; not my faith, but a faith nonetheless, and I knew that my own faith, my Judaism, would not leave me in my six years there.
When I sent in my decision to attend Seton Hall, I was still on cloud nine. You don’t really think about the whole “Catholic University” thing until you’re swept into a room at Orientation Weekend and sit through your first mass. (For those of you who have never experienced a mass, it’s a lot of sitting and standing – think Kol Nidre services but without the impeding hunger). Nothing was forced, it was all just encouraged. That’s why in my first weeks, not only did I attend a mass, but I also signed up to volunteer with the servant leadership club on campus, waved to the priests I passed by, and had a very pleasant conversation with a French nun at Sunday night football. I wanted to embrace my new campus, while still adhering to my religion.
Now, I know many of you nay-sayers will tell me that I am not allowed to step foot into a church. I will calmly respond that one does not always feel comfortable whipping out a siddur in the middle of the night when you need a little faith and your roommate is sleeping. My 2 a.m. trip down to the chapel my first week away was a cherished opportunity to both daven and collect my thoughts in a place of quiet unlikely to be found elsewhere on a college campus. I have no regrets or apologies; it is not the first time I have sought to collect my thoughts some place quiet in the middle of the night and found solace in a church, and it probably won’t be the last. If praying near a cross threatened my Judaism, I would have to reexamine just how strong it was to begin with, but that’s another argument for another time.
As months passed, there were times when I missed my Judaism. Don’t get me wrong, it was always with me, but it is hard to feel close to your traditions when every pressure of your environment tells you your religion sets you apart from your peers. Mix that with the rather unholy experiences going on in the college environment, and even a Catholic university isn’t all that pure and perfect.
I will never forget the excitement I had when my mother picked me up to go home for winter break. I would be home for the first night of Hanukkah! My family has never been religious—I’d always been the one trying to bring tradition into the house, but I was eager to share in the celebration of the holiday in my Jewish household. Upon entering the house, I ran into the dining room to ask when we were lighting candles. My dad told me he hadn’t had a chance to pick them up, and we would just light them the next night. I was heartbroken. I began crying. My sobs were interjected only by the frantic texts sent to my long-distance boyfriend, who told me to FaceTime him. I sulked off to my room and perched up on my carpet, phone in lap. The FaceTime opened to Erik holding his phone up to his computer screen, where I could clearly see eight virtual candles. He’d downloaded some app—which it was didn’t matter—and suddenly I was crying again. Naturally, he had no idea why.
“Why are you crying?” he asked, still holding the candle phone app open.
“Because you are perfect,” I told him.
I’d like to say it ended there, but alas, the cheesy corny goodness was just beginning, as we then said the Hanukkah prayers aloud together, lighting the virtual candles for the holiday. I cried and laughed and thanked God for giving me such a perfect boyfriend and a memorable—albeit unusual—first night of Hanukkah. I had made it through my first semester at Seton Hall, and celebrated the first night of a Hanukkah to remember. It was all going to be okay, and I now knew without doubt my Judaism was not something that would be left behind.
Sherilyn James is a student at Seton Hall University.
