The Linden Shabbaton -- Will You Be There?

Once upon a time, I went to a Shabbaton in Crown Heights, and it was probably one of the most amazing Shabbats of my life (despite being completely overwhelmed by what can only be described as a massive crowd). Once upon another time, I indirectly ended up at a Shabbaton in West Orange at my dear husband's family's shul, and that, too, was amazing. So, I suppose, you could call me a proponent of the Shabbaton experience -- it's like an awesome camp experience, for adults!

Enter, if you will, The Linden (NJ) Shabbaton on May 6-7, 2011, for young couples and families, buyers and renters. Someone once told me that if Linden were compared to a pair of jeans, it would be "relaxed fit." Now, I'm not a pants-wearing kind of gal, but I remember relaxed-fit jeans, and they were cozy and comfortable and made me feel at home in my own skin (thank heavens for jean skirts!). At Congregation Anshe Chesed in Linden, shul isn't a fashion show, and it's not a place to see if you're keeping up with the Schwartzes. Linden folks, I've been told, come together in a relaxed environment to focus on G-d and community.

Thus, during this Shabbaton, the Linden community wants to invite the curious and hopeful to take a gander at what it means to be comfortable and relaxed before your friends and community, as well as HaShem.

And if I haven't caught your attention yet, how about this: The Shabbos Park. This is a place where all of the couples -- children or no children -- get together and hang out on Shabbos afternoon. During this Shabbos afternoon powwow, the rabbi holds a class for women, while the men entertain the children (and themselves, one hopes!). All I can say is, drool. Learning for women while the men (who are really kids) get to play with the kids? This is a definite win-win.

According to my sources, Linden is a beautiful, safe, and very affordable community. The location is great, and the community is devoted to simplicity and spiritual growth -- all according to a "relaxed fit" atmosphere.

For more information on The Linden Shabbaton, just shoot an email to the shul. I just might be there. Will you? It never hurts to check out a new community -- you never know when you might fall in love and find that perfect fit for which you've been searching.

And, for what it's worth, Anshe Chesed's Rabbi Hess is on Twitter and he has a blog! Talk about a tech-savvy community.

Ir Ha'Kodesh?

Photo taken from kumah.org via Google Image Search.

Another Shabbat has come, another week has passed, and I've officially been (Hebrew calendar) married for 2 months and 1 day. Tomorrow, on the Gregorian calendar, actually marks the two-month anniversary of my being wedded to the man, the myth, the legend, Tuvia (a.k.a. Evan). It feels like boatloads longer that we've been hitched. We got married, settled quickly, and finally having all of our stuff in one place has helped us feel like an old married couple. We have a home. A home in Teaneck, New Jersey. So?

See, there's one thing I can't get over: When people ask me how I like living in Teaneck, it's always with a tinge of hesitation, like it's a loaded question. And when I say it's wonderful, facial expressions almost turn into a question mark. As if to say, "wait, you like it there?"

So what is it. What do you know/think about Teaneck? What is your impression of Teaneck? Have you heard about this city, its Jewish population, its rep in the greater Jewish world?

Tell me about it. Let me know what you think about this city I now call home, this city that I absolutely love.

And with that, I bid y'all a Shabbat Shalom!

Falling in Love, With Teaneck, New Jersey.

I. Love. Teaneck!

Okay, let me start over. I know, we're new and it's that honeymoon period of newness and awesomeness, and technically we haven't even moved in yet, but we spent last Shabbos in Teaneck and, frankly, I'm in love. The community is young, vibrant, impassioned, and ALIVE. Alive. Yes, I felt alive and active and excited the entire time I was around the other individuals and couples in the apartment community. I mean, we were only there for one Shabbos, and I already feel like I have a new community-family, because they opened us with welcome arms (EDIT: of course I meant "welcomed us with open arms, but I spoonerized that, and it's so funny, I'm leaving it there!), put a roof over our heads, fed and fed and fed us, and took part in conversation and Jewish geography with us. What's more to ask for?

The amazing thing about the community is that the welcoming wagon is a serious one. We're moving in on Thursday/Friday and folks are willing to host us for meals, cook for us for the first week, help us literally move the boxes and furniture, and to help unpack. I mean, wow. I'm not saying other communities aren't so gracious, but it's the proactivity of these folks that astounds and elates me.

I didn't spot a single doily over the weekend, but I did spot some strange and interesting styles of covering ye olde locks, which I may or may not write about depending on how I think the community would react. The interesting thing about moving to Teaneck is that I'm starting to feel an underlying sense of self-censorship, but not actual self-censorship. Like, I shouldn't blog about certain things for fear of people reading them and/or getting their panties in a bunch about my most-of-the-time benign comments, but at the same time knowing that I can't help but blog about them.

So, just to test the waters (like a 3-year-old with a crayon and nice, clean white wall), I have to mention this interesting hair-covering style. I think I'll call it the "Captain Jack Sparrow." It's where you take a scarf and sort of tie it back, pirate-style, but with all your locks still dangling out freely. Like the un-tichel, tichel. What I don't get is how it fits into the whole tefach of hair thing. It's sort of like edging on not covering, while still covering. I did see one woman at a kosher restaurant elsewhere in Jersey recently sporting such a scarf, but she definitely had a fall on underneath. I give mad props to the women who choose to cover like this, I just don't know how the greater Orthodox (modern and otherwise) community approaches that kind of style.

Speaking of, I'd really like to get some knowledgeable source in the arena of the halakot and community standards of hair covering to guest post something for me as far as what is hardcore, what is lenient, and what is necessary and what is not. I want to be a whole heckuva lot more informed than I am right now.

I also am seriously pondering the sheitel or fall, now. I don't know why. I'm very not down with the sheitel, but I'm not sure WHY I am. Some look so chic. But is that the point? I'm also struggling with what to do with my hair -- cut it? Let it grow? It's at this uncomfortable impasse where I can't really leave the back out but it really doesn't want to stay up despite the amount of clippy and rubber things I attempt to keep it in with. It's Hair Wars 2010. Suggestions? I haven't had it long since 2001, so it might be fun to grow it. I wonder how Tuvia feels?

I have a bucketload of posts I'd like to write, many of them based on experiences (all good, by the way) in my new Teaneck community. I got the impression that most of my new friends don't read or keep up with blogs (although they seem to be obsessed with Friends and Seinfeld, so I'm planning on watching EVERY season/episode from start to finish on BOTH of those), so I might just be in the clear. I pride myself on a positive dialogue about any and all of my queries and curiosities when it comes to halakot and community standards, and I don't see that changing. Any baggage brought to this blog by individuals I can't freak out about. After all, it's baggage.

Stay tuned for more exciting and intriguing adventures in the life of Chaviva G. Hrm ... maybe someday kids will call me "Mrs. G." Which, of course, reminds me of one of the greatest shows of all time: The Facts of Life!

Another Shabbat in West Orange, NJ.

I know, I know. You're asking yourself: Where is this post going? The last time I blogged about my experience in West Orange at a very large, Orthodox shul, I got a few ... unsavory ... emails about my words. My experience this time around was actually worse, if you can believe it, despite going to what was hopefully deemed the "quiet minyan." I found out later that maybe went to the non-quiet minyan, but rather to simply a second, regular minyan. Someday, I vow to find a quiet minyan at this shul. I spent most of my Shabbat thinking about how irritated I was with these folks, but for the sake of the shul and for the sake of my sanity, I've decided to focus on something deliciously positive about my experience this weekend: the Our Way Family Shabbaton.

When Tuvia and I walked into shul Friday night, I saw a huge group in the lobby signing (as in, sign language, not the gangsta' signs you might be more familiar with). I've always found myself fascinated by those who use sign language, especially those who aren't deaf/hard of hearing, but who are devoted to the language and opening the world up to those who use sign language every day. We quickly learned that it was a Shabbaton, welcoming the deaf and hard of hearing, through a branch of the Orthodox Union, known as "Our Way." At seudat shlishit tonight, two of the individuals gave a d'var, one of them speaking with a sign language interpreter, and the other signing and speaking his way through his d'var, with the interpreter reading his words aloud.  It was, in a word, fascinating. It was also really frustrating because the two women in front of me were jabbering inconsiderately while I was trying to understand what the man was saying. Sigh.

So the entire experience led me to a few question:

• What are the halachos of being a frum, deaf/hard-of-hearing Jew? 
• All of the interpreters there were women -- how does this work into everything? 
• Can a woman sign/interpret the reading of the Torah? 
• Is it okay for a frum Jewish male to tap the shoulder of a sign-language interpreter in order to ask her a question or get her attention? 
• How do you deal with hearing aids or cochlear implants on Shabbat? Is the Jewish community more accepting of cochlear implants than the wider community?

Perhaps most importantly, I just want to know what it's like to view the world, the Jewish world, through the lens of a deaf/hard-of-hearing Jew. So much of Judaism is based on texts, writings, and traditions that easily can be read. But what about the niggunim, the tunes of songs, the joy of hearing voices meld together -- it's one of my most favorite things about Shabbat, the songs, the voices swimming heavenward. I would have liked to approach one of these individuals and asked if they'd be interested in writing a blog post for me, to answer all my queries. But I felt awkward, unsure of myself. I can sign my name, successfully, but that's it.

How do you speak Hebrew in sign language? Are the letters the same? Can I spell "shmi Chaviva" with the letters I know as "s, h, m, i, c, h, a, v, i, v, a" ...? Or do I need to sign something special to say "shmi" and then, only then, spell Chaviva?

I'd like to contact Our Way, just to see if someone would be willing to write a guest post answering my questions, helping me to understand the world through the ears of the deaf/hard-of-hearing frum (or just) Jew. If anyone out there in blog land knows of someone who'd be willing to do this, let me know. Or, maybe, if you're one of these people or you have a child or family member or friend who goes through the motions as a deaf/h-o-h Jew, let me know. I'm absolutely intrigued. This community is a very unique one that probably doesn't get as much as attention as it should, as far as awareness goes.

On a closing note, I have to say "mad props" to Our Way for establishing -- in a very Jewish fashion -- the Our Way Jewish Deaf Singles Registry!

Passion, Fire, and Self-Respect.

First it happened in the House with Joe Wilson. Then Kanye west spewed his guts without thinking on the VMAs. Whatever happened to self-respect? Restraint? The human filter of decency? Here we go ...

"So you're completely out of Selichot books?" he asked the clerk.

"Yup. But, you know, my shul is right down the road. I've got more than enough Selichot seforim there, and, you know, our's is a little bit, well, shorter. Because, you know, we're closer to G-d," the clerk said with a snicker, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

I think he was joking, but maybe only half joking. And this was how our weekend in New Jersey for Shabbat and Selichot ended. Sans selichot seforim and with a clerk making jokes left and right about being "closer" and nearer to G-d.

I don’t want to say I didn’t have a good time in West Orange, but I feel like there were a lot of things playing against me. We arrived at Tuvia’s mom’s place about 10 minutes before the absolute latest candle lighting time (that was using the 18 minute leeway). I’d wanted to shower, but there was no time. Tuvia ran off to shul, and I, being frustrated, exhausted, and all-around grumpy, stayed home, lamenting my hair (sad, I know). Add to this that the weather was miserable, and, well, this kvetcher is set.

In the morning, I arose to the most hideous display of Chavi-hair ever. Tuvia suggested I throw on a hat “Want to be married today?” he asked. I thought about it for about a half-second and decided that no, that would not be a good idea. I didn’t want to confuse all the little old ladies and family friends. I did my hair the best I could, got dressed in a new skirt, and plodded off to shul. Tuvia’s grandmother set me down in a back-ish seat of the shul to daven, because I actually wanted to focus on my davening, and didn’t want to intermix with the chatty folks. And I was good to go until right before the Torah service when these women came and sat all around me. I suddenly realized that there are some things that I will never – I repeat never – be able to adjust to in the Orthodox shul.

I understand that there’s this unspoken thing that says that it’s okay to schmooze in shul during davening. That the older women are permitted because they’ve seen it all, and I get that. But most of the time they whisper. They have the respect – the self-respect – to whisper. But the women who go to shul, sit in the sanctuary, and do nothing but talk? I don’t get it. If you’re going to shul to socialize, not to daven a SINGLE WORD, then why are you sitting in the sanctuary? There’s a whole shul of space where you can air your dirty laundry without disturbing the beauty of the Torah or the importance of Kaddish or the Shemonei Esrei. And even when the guy in front of the bimah would stop the reader, in order to garner the attention of the crowd, to get everyone to shut up and listen, these women just kept talking. At full strength, full volume, as if they were in the crowd at a Yankees game. I was baffled. Truly baffled. I could have moved, but would it have solved the problem? No, it wouldn’t have. The men were talking. The women were talking.

Whatever happened to sacred space? Respect for the book? Self-respect? Shame?

Things only got worse. I mean, women at my shul jabber away, and I found a different location and sort of made it clear that no one can sit next to me when I’m davening. And it works. After the service, I go to the social hall, and we all do our thing. We talk. We schmooze. But the Kiddush was, well, something out of a horror film. It was What Not to Do at Kiddush 101. Now, it was a big Kiddush. They were honoring a pillar of the community, an amazing man who just hit 85 and is still going strong like a young buck. The man deserved the festivities, but the people – the congregation – didn’t show this man any respect. There was nothing but gluttony, selfishness, rudeness, and an utter lack of self-respect. It reminded me of that scene in “Mean Girls” where the main character imagines the cafeteria and everyone’s slinging food and acting like jungle creatures. Or maybe like a soup kitchen from the Depression Era. Kiddush can be outlandish at my shul (people pushing and shoving and acting like they’ve never seen kugle before), but at this Kiddush? Because of the pure magnitude of people and food, it was like a massacre – of food, of respect, of everything that I cannot adjust to Jewishly.

I’m a Midwestern girl. I may have a backwoods Ozarkian family, but my parents taught me patience, they taught me manners, and they taught me not to eat out of things with my hands, not to double-dip, to use a napkin, to pick up after myself, to not cut in line, to have respect for your elders, and just generally how to act like a decent human being – not an animal.
But there, in this shul, I had people shoving me out of the way for a meatball, I watched a 10-year-old girl double-dipping chicken in a sauce dish about a half-dozen times, a kid trying to reach five people ahead of him for a plate even though he was, well, five people deep. I watched adults dropping food on the floor, and leaving it there, probably assuming the help would pick it up. I watched people setting their dirty and disgusting plates down on tables with fresh food when there was a trashcan about a foot away. I had to step back from the crowd. And watch. I was disgusted. Is the Jewish way to be self-fulling? The idea that Jews – especially the Orthodox type – are messy, impatient, cheap, and pushy?

I’ll never be like that. And you can sure as hell bet my children won’t be that way. No sir. Not this girl.

I can’t explain the disgust I felt during that experience. After a while, I just wanted to go home. I didn’t even go back for mincha or maariv or the special talks they had with their scholar in residence. I wanted to not be there at that place, with those people, who lacked a sense of self-respect and common decency. I wanted to run away, find an Orthodox synagogue where the people are calm, patient, kind, respectful, and want to be there more than anything to daven, to share a sacred space with G-d, and then get their social fill afterward in a calm and respectful manner.

Does such a place not exist? Is this going to be my Jewish pipe dream?

We ended up going back for Selichot around 11:45 on Saturday night. There was a speaker and then davening at 12:54 in the morning. There weren’t nearly as many people there, but the crowd was calmer, more relaxed, more attuned to what was going on. Or maybe everyone was just exhausted. The chazzan’s voice was mournful, soul-piercing. My eyes welled up when he cried out the words, speaking to G-d with the most beautifully sad voice. And then it was a rush of quiet davening, and then it was over. Where was this during Shabbat? This passion, this fervency, this communication with G-d?

Sometimes I feel at a loss. Like I’m walking a lonely and quiet path, where my way doesn’t meet up with the majority way. I want to daven in organized chaos – the sound of voices mumbling together, but mumbling with a purpose, devotion and a passion. Not voices discussing other people or random things irrelevant to the prayers at hand. I get that davening isn’t for everyone, and I get that not everyone wants to go to shul to daven, and that shouldn’t deter people from just going, I guess. But how is someone like me supposed to reconcile all of this?

Overall, this weekend left me confused and frustrated. I feel very much like no one understands how I function as a Jew – religious, passionate, thoughtful, serious, hopeful. Sometimes the cheese does stand alone. To be Orthodox, must I alter my personality into something that it isn’t? Something loud and pushy and unconcerned with prayers and people?

Where is the fire? What happened to the fire in our souls?

In a Monsey Moment: Oy Vey!

Yesterday, while driving back from New Jersey after a fun and family filled weekend, Tuvia and I decided to stop in Monsey, NY, since we pass by it at least twice a month when we're schlepping back and forth between his former residence in NJ and our current abodes in Connecticut. The experience of Monsey is something I've always wondered about, after reading about it and hearing about it in blogs (both good and bad things, that is). So, at the spur of the moment, we pulled off and realized the hub of Monsey shopping and dining life wasn't that far off the highway.

Our first stop was Rockland Kosher, a gigantic supermarket in a building filled with a dozen other stores selling lingerie, clothing, books, and other necessities for the kosher home. There were Jews, garbed in black, white, navy blue and about 30 shades therein, rushing in and out of the building, pushing strollers, payess waving in the wind. I gave Tuvia his "emergency Crown Heights kippah" -- a black, velvet number that I keep in my purse in case of emergencies. I was wearing modest clothes, at least, until I stepped out of the car I felt like I was. A long peasant skirt that floated along the ground, a brown tank-top that covered most of the skin up to about a fist-lengths below my neck, topped with a black 3/4-length cardigan. I walked around the grocery store with my arm clutched across my chest, reaching over to my purse on my right shoulder, trying to cover the skin that did show. These women were wearing long black or navy skirts, and under their cardigans of similar varying shades of blue and black were tight, choking button-down shirts. The sheitels were perfect, the hair looked real, and few women actually had head coverings other than sheitels.

And every aisle we walked down, little Tzippies and Menachem Mendels were staring at me.

Tuvia didn't notice it, he said after I asked him, but people were looking. Here were me, in my very peasanty skirt, and Tuvia, in khakis and a polo shirt, shopping in the kosher supermarket surrounded by immas and abbas and bubbes and zaydes, and I was reminded of how it felt walking home in Mt. Pleasant in Washington D.C. where the Latino men slink out of the bars every five minutes whistling and cat calling. Except, this time, people were piercing and calling out with eyes and up-down looks, not words. Maybe I'm paranoid and it wasn't that bad, but I felt naked, I felt completely exposed, I felt like they could smell on me that I wasn't fluent in Yiddish or Hebrew and that Tuvia and I weren't married, sinners!

But the really fascinating thing about the Rockland Kosher experience was that from side to side, front to back, the entire store was filled with two things: Toys and Snacks. Every aisle we went through there were mommies pulling toys down for kids, and kids picking up bags of candy and chips and snacks. It seemed like nobody was buying real food, just Israeli treats and cheap plastic toys. The store had the Israeli and unique Kosher brands separated from the national brands, and more people were shopping the former than the latter. Is it a trust issue?

The best steal of the day, though, was a dozen eggs, which I purchased for only $1.30 or so. You can't find eggs that cheap anywhere. I don't care who you are. I remember when they used to put eggs on sale for $.99, and now you're lucky to get them for under $2.00. What a steal! I could have bought 20 dozen for that price. We checked out, thanks to a few Latino men working the counter, marveled at the in-house mikvah (in case you buy a pot or pan or something and want to tovel it instantly!), and schlepped off to look for dinner.

There were a few strip malls with some options, including a cafe, a barbecue joint, and the Purple Pear (a dairy restaurant), which I had heard about from friends, so we went there. Now, for those of you who haven't been to Monsey, the Purple Pear is probably the most "normal" place you'll find there. If you're a Modern Orthodox Jew or someone who is a little more metropolitan and likes to wear jeans with your tzitzit, then this place will feel comfortable. We walked in and there were some women in pants, men with ball caps, and a sushi chef shoved nicely in a nook in the corner. The restaurant is so jazzy, a dark red and black theme with a chalkboard menu that makes it feel very cosmopolitan, very bistro-like. I wanted to hijack the joint and move it back to Connecticut (did I mention the only kosher "restaurants" we have are a Dunkin Donuts and some Cold Stones and a Ben and Jerry's?). Instead, I ordered sushi and a coffee, Tuvia got an omelet some fries and a bagel (he was elated to see that "bagel" was the first option instead of the "add $1.50 for a bagel" option). It was so nice to go someplace kosher, to feel a real dining experience out where there are other people doing what you do, just more often. The service wasn't great, but better than what I expected at such a busy kosher place anyway.

As we pulled out of Monsey yesterday, I was a little saddened. On the one hand, I was excited to be leaving a place that seemed so far out of reach and so black and white (literally), but sad that all these options and neat stores and this frummie lifestyle were being left behind. I'd kill for a kosher coffee house, and I often joke with Tuvia about quitting my present path and opening a coffee shop/bookstore for the kosher crowd and anyone else willing to try my favorite pastry and coffee offerings. Coffee houses are home to me, and not having that option were you can nosh a scone and coffee while reading some Rashi drives me nuts. Someday, maybe, when I'm a retiree and rich?

Or maybe, just maybe, someday we'll move to Monsey, reopen the drive-in for classic films (except on Shabbos, of course) and start up a coffee shop/bookstore and take on the town. Livin' it up. Live it up.

But chances are that will never happen. What is for certain, however, is that Tuvia and I will make sure to stop in Monsey more often. Maybe look up some soon-to-move friends, eat at the Purple Pear, get some kosher pizza, and feel the flavor of the community so that those initial feelings of being eyed and examined by the black-and-white garbed as someone on the outside looking in. After all, I'm sure I was analyzing them as much as they were analyzing me. And in the end? We're all just Jews.