Alright, so I know I've kind of exhausted the "isolated baalas teshuvah" topic, but I thought I'd share the essay I wrote for the Israel program I'm hoping to attend in the fall. I had to cut out some location-specific details so I hope it makes sense...but I faxed it to the office this morning, and ten minutes later when I called to make sure it arrived, the woman who answered the phone had already read the essay and enjoyed it so much she invited me for Shabbos next week! I want to go on this program more than anything
...I'd ask for your input but like I said, it's already been sent. Still, let me know what you think; I can always use feedback on my writing! :) But it's
really long- if you actually want to read it (which I don't expect) it would probably be easier to copy and paste it off of this page. And without further ado....
A friend once told me when I was still in the process of becoming religious, “You are closing your eyes to the truth.” I can’t think of a statement that could have upset me more – or that was more opposite to how I viewed my behavior.
I remember reflecting bleakly when I was younger on how different my dreams and ideals were from what society told me was true. Was I a pioneer, I wondered, looking beyond my tiny portion of reality to that which I could not yet articulate – or had the mainstream philosophy that the universe was easily explained and totally random turned me into a foolish escapist? In an attempt to find out “who was right,” the scientist or the philosopher-spiritualist, I developed an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, looking for answers in any and all ideologies. Little did I know that I would find meaning when I examined the one system of thought had been most obvious, but that I had somehow ignored all along: Judaism.
This is one reason why I am frustrated by the assertion that I, along with other baalei teshuvot, embrace religious Judaism looking for a way out of decision-making or serious thought. I have never thought about the intrinsic meaning behind my every thought or action, and challenged the norms I grew up with, until I became religious. The truth is that I looked past Judaism at a young age because the watered-down practices I was exposed to seemed to hold little conversation or depth, nothing which could be arguably confirmed nor denied. We celebrated Chanukah because we were Jewish, and we were Jewish because our ancestors believed in one G-d. Today, my teachers suggested, we’re not so sure; but who wants to disrespect three thousand years of history?
I grew up in ______, California – all I knew of Orthodoxy was the defamatory talk that slipped into conversations at the Jewish day school I attended, and that most of the Jews I knew – including myself - had some “wacky religious” relatives, far away in Los Angeles or New York. My happiest years were spent at a day school - it was certainly enough to instill in me a Jewish cultural identity which would have otherwise been filtered out of my consciousness, but my parents encouraged me to return to public school after a few years for a more structured advanced placement program. Thank G-d, at the right moment I was introduced to traditional Judaism – a system of thought in which the wisdom of my ancestors offered an answer to my questions more quickly than I could come up with them, which offered demonstrable proofs of its authenticity while inviting debate, which did not involve escaping the world I lived in but offered a deeper understanding of it than I could have ever imagined.
Though I lived in a Jewishly isolated corner of the country, my future mentor in my journey as a baalas teshuvah found me, as it happened, before I even realized I would need someone to fill this role. Shortly after Rabbi _____ and his wife, E., established a Chabad center near my home, E. telephoned me, asking if I would like to volunteer for one of their youth programs. Within a few months, I was a regular Shabbos guest at their home. By that point, exposure to my religious cousins and a few seforim they’d offered me had already kindled my interest in observant Judaism; but finding a local mentor in the Rebbetzin and a synogogue I loved going to, a family who were a living, breathing example of Jewish ideology, brought my Judaism to a different level, turning theoretical interest into practice.
Of course, enthusiasm about my newfound Judaism aroused simultaneous conflict – as if high school weren’t difficult enough without having to deal with the total upheaval and transformation of my lifestyle into something that was foreign (and crazy) to everyone I loved. I had always felt like I had little in common with the kids I went to school with; now, in addition, I seemed to be disappearing every weekend (I hadn’t yet worked up the courage to even try explaining Shabbos to them), I was wearing the only few long-sleeved shirts I owned in what must have seemed like ridiculous frequency, considering I went to one of the wealthiest schools in the nation; and I never ate when we went out, usually without bringing up that this was because I had started keeping kosher, not because I was starving myself. My parents thought that what I was doing was nothing less than cult-like and questioned the motives of the Chabad movement, and my explanation that I had no plans to identify myself as a “Lubavitcher” hardly helped.
It was because of these factors that I ended up spending much of my free time in my room – and although I may have felt sorry for myself at the time, I know now that it was a period of intense personal growth and blossoming commitment to my convictions. I knew that my family would eventually get used to my observance, when they learned it wasn’t changing my relationship with them or who I was as a person in a negative way; and thank G-d, they have. Of course, the occasional incident shocked them along the way, like when I had to forgo attending my Friday night prom and later, a post-graduation class trip. My parents knew how memorable these events were; perhaps my last real opportunity to spend time with the friends I’d grown up with, and I’ll never forget the lack of understanding in their eyes when they saw me getting ready for Shabbos dinner at the Rabbi’s house, as usual, rather than putting on a prom dress.
When I arrived at _______ and _______ University two years ago, I really wanted nothing more than to be in Israel, starting my Jewish learning at an Orthodox institution. Yet having agreed with my parents to have a “normal college experience” for at least two years before making any further decisions, and knowing that I would never survive in a dual-degree program without devoting my full attention to my studies, I vowed to immerse myself completely in the program.
(Had to cut out some stuff that’s too specific here…)
As for ____ University, the world in which I found myself more immersed, it was everything I expected and more - yet at the same time, I’ve learned that the elite world of academia is as misleading as it is tantalizing. When I started college, between speeches by international leaders on campus every week, and never-ending casual-but-egotistical debates on everything from the musical theory of Kivy (which would carry on at a jazz club later that night) to Kafka’s role in the existentialist movement, it was difficult to remember the modesty and Torah learning that had grown so close to my heart. The atmosphere radiated a sense of ultimate accomplishment – that every great mind currently living existed within the faculty, plethora of guest speakers, or the student body itself. Even more indulgent and self-assuring was that we had the lavish and adventure-filled world of Manhattan, the so-called “center of the world,” as our stomping ground. At ______ University, it is easy to feel like you know everything about the world – and plenty of my classmates do.
As for me, I have achieved virtually every dream I had for myself in coming to New York. I take classes which can only be described as “mind-blowing.” I have a solid group of friends. I am an editorial intern for a prominent magazine. And yet, these things are not enough – not when I am completely removed from the two things which mean the most to me: the world of Torah, and those who love it; and my family.
I don’t want to have many regrets, and I have never been the type to wait around for the things I want. However, all of a sudden I am looking over my shoulder in shock as I realize that I have been religious for about four years – and aside from the rabbi and his family, and distant cousins, I have been alone in my practicing the whole time. The thing which is most important to me in the world, my Jewish faith and relationship with G-d, I still rarely talk about even with those who know me best, around whom my role as “the religious one” is somewhat of a novelty, a quaint conversational piece when we meet new people. If anything, many of my friends, especially my non-Jewish ones, don’t feel comfortable discussing the real implications of my orthodox lifestyle and so they treat my behavior as “quirkiness”, as if I only wear long skirts and can’t answer the phone on Friday night in the same way that a little girl might refuse to wear any colors but pink, or decide that she would no longer go to school on Tuesdays. And in the smarter-than-thou academic liberalism of ______, my orthodoxy is nothing but a respectful nod to a religion long since established as false – which makes it extremely confusing when people discover I came to practice Judaism on my own, rather than through “indoctrination.”
Yes, I have grown tired of defending myself, of juggling seforim with my schoolwork because they were my only source of Jewish learning, of trying to keep a sense of joy in my heart as I eat Shabbos dinner alone. My heart is fully committed to Torah, and yet I am isolated from those who feel the same way, so my spiritual growth, to a certain extent, is at a standstill. But I have realized that I owe it to myself to go further, to create for myself the life that I truly desire, and this includes first and foremost, seeking the rich Jewish education and environment I have always craved and never had. For me, (X) seminary is a beacon of hope; the chance I have to end this galut I feel imprisoned by and not just be “the religious girl” my friends know, but a part of the Jewish world at last. So what are my goals for, G-d-willing, my time in Israel? Of course, to learn – for if I have always been fervently passionate in secular studies, how much more so must I value the lessons which will bring me closer to Hashem! Of course, “learning” is much more complicated than classroom instruction, and in my perseverance I am prepared to keep asking questions, being challenged, sharing experiences. But I also long to get to Neve to be, at last, in the company of Jews – Jews who I can learn from, even be inspired by; I am in pain every day that goes by that I don’t speak to a single person who loves Torah, and I pray that this will no longer be the case. Remembering my relationship with the Rebbetzin, E., kindles in me a longing to have Jewish teachers, someone I can listen to and grow from face-to-face rather than merely through a book or tape!
Rabbi Yose ben Kisma said in Perkei Avos that for all the silver and gold in the world, he could never live anywhere that wasn’t a “place of Torah.” I have never lived anywhere that fits this description, and I can honestly say that if I am ever to be remotely satisfied with my life, I have to seek such a place. The glimmering lights of Manhattan have been wonderfully bright, but they are nothing compared to the light of Klal Yisrael.
