The Day I Became a Man... excerpt

This is an old Brooklyn story....

just another of the curious experiences I had when I first arrived in the city...

I was newly arrived in New York City from Cape Breton Island.  The year was 1987.
I was a young woman of 26, feeling adventurous and full of the right kind of naiveté .

What a city!

I soon made it my business to get up early every morning and get thoroughly lost for the day.  On foot!
No matter the direction, no matter the weather and especially no matter the warnings...
It was my whimsical way of getting to know New York.

I was especially intrigued by the ethnic neighborhoods. It was an easy trip around the world.
I  immersed myself in the little pocket worlds of Chinatown, little Italy, alphabet city, Flatbush... 
Indian, Caribbean, Puerto Rican, Korean, Thai...an endless variety.

For reasons unknown to myself, I was especially drawn to the Hasidic quarter 
just over the Williamsburg Bridge in Brooklyn ...
This was the enclave of old world Jews...the Orthodox followers most easily identified
by their long black suits and curly forelocks, their kerchiefed wives with their big families.
It was like a trip back in time...old Europe...minutely preserved.
There was something about the place that my soul craved.

Maybe it was their exclusivity that made me want to connect all the more.
There was a sense of ancient wisdom protected against the onslaught of modernity.
I come from similar stock...Germans from Russia...deeply religious, conservative and clannish.
I seemed to share many of the same values...thanks to my strict grandmother.
Their food was my food.  I even dressed similarly...head covering, long skirts,
dark stockings, modest sleeves.
I liked their intensity, the sense of seriousness mingled with a kind of hidden joy.
I fit with them in a strange way...somewhere on the 3rd subterranean level of my being. 

Their sense of separation and focus were as nearly mine as could be.
I fairly haunted the place trying to soak up the comfort that it gave me
while trying to understand why I was so drawn to this people.
I even wondered if I should convert...

As I walked through the neighborhood, they were as curious about me as I was of them.
We could sense an affinity, but on the street level of life, I was not one of them...but I could be. 
It was a bit confusing.  I was nearly identical and yet I was not.
What I lacked was the wig under my headscarf and the baby carriage with several children trailing behind.

We looked upon each other as different species might, circling, sniffing and wary.
Furtively glancing, not quite giving way to a smile, but strangely stirred.
If you got too close, there would be a quick and definitive toss of the head,
as the inner blinds were drawn tight against the outside world of strangers.
"Goyim" entered my vocabulary that year.

My growing sense of understanding brought me to the realization that I was
both attracted and repelled in nearly equal measure. 
The subtleties began to emerge.

But I was already hooked, though I thought less seriously of conversion... 
By now I had an understanding of what that would require and while some of it
may have been laudable, much of it would have been crazily regressive to my soul.
Weighing the comfort and stability of a community such as this against
the price to be paid by its female members left me in little doubt of my future direction.

And so I enjoyed what remained to me and continued to visit regularly and observe
from a distance.
I could generally be counted on to make my rounds on Fridays. 
The streets were livelier then as the Hasidic families made their preparations for the Sabbath.  
There was something special in the air.
If only I could get a glimpse into the inner experience of these people...
I yearned for an opportunity to taste that life but I knew that the chances of that
ever happening were nearly impossible.   

And yet, the impossible happened!  In the most improbable ways!  This is one story.
The other one is told in my book entitled simply "Prayer".

My last stop of the day was at my favorite bakery.
I forget the name, but I can see it in my mind's eye as though it were yesterday.
It was pretty basic and utilitarian in appearance...old and in need of sprucing up,
but that's the kind of place I like.
What counted more than the decor, of course, was the quality of the baked goods.
Judging by the crowd of customers leaving, heavy-laden with Challah loaves,
babka and rugelach, I knew this was the place for me.   I became a regular.

The woman behind the counter had taken note of me as the months went by.
She had initially been quite reserved, almost suspicious. What was I doing there?
But she had warmed up a little over time...just a little, mind you.

But one day as I was leaving her shop, she beckoned me closer and asked in her Yiddish accent  
"If I would be so kind as to do her a favor?"
I was surprised, but I said "Yes, of course". 
Her voice lowered as she asked  "Do you have a car?" "Yes...yes, , I told her.
She leaned in, suddenly conspiratorial and with a sense of urgency.
"The sun will be going down soon and the Rebbe is old now and walks with a cane.
Can you give him a ride to his building?   It's not far, I assure you...just a few blocks
from here.  Please, if you could do it for me..."

What Rebbe, I wondered?!   It was closing time and I was the only customer in the shop.
She nodded gravely to a figure seated in an unobtrusive corner.
I had never noticed him before. Apparently he had always been there...
But, as I was to learn, he was retained by the bakery to ensure that the kosher rules
were observed in minute detail.

I agreed to help.   She gave the Rebbe a nod and then rushed over to help him
as he rose with difficulty from his chair.   He was a heavyset, elderly man of about 70 years old.
He was almost too big to fit in my old volkswagen. I apologized as he maneuvered
his bulk into the front seat. I reached out to help and was immediately rebuffed
by the two of them.   It seems a woman was not to touch a man, much less a Rabbi.
I stood back as the two of them got him in and closed the car door.
The woman thanked me and rushed off to close up shop in time to get home before sundown. 

I started down the street with the old man gesturing this way and that until we arrived
in front of his apartment building. 
I opened the door for him, this time remembering not to reach out to help.
As he turned his back to go, he thanked me and murmured that, if it were possible,
could I bring him home next Friday?

The following Friday, I was there, of course. I felt both elated and a bit strange about
our arrangement. The woman behind the counter discreetly nodded as I held the door
open for him for the trip home. Nothing more was ever said.
As we drove off, the Rebbe made a little conversation.   He offered to give me a little tour
of the neighborhood. 
Reminiscing, he told me about this house or that shop replete with details on each family,
where they had immigrated from, how they had made their way in America. 
Entire family histories unfolded slowly and with care.  
I drove slowly as well so his stories would not be rushed.
I was enthralled with this living history. His narratives were so filled with insight, pathos and humor. 
As one could imagine, much of it was difficult history.  but he told it with deep humanity.
It was an intimate portrait of his people, spanning decades and oceans and generations. 

I knew that this was a momentous opportunity...one that I could never have imagined, much less arranged.
Could there have been a better guide to this place and its people?
 
We arrived at his place just before sundown. I thanked him for the tour and bid him good evening.
"Maybe next time, I can show you a little more." And then he was making his way up the walk.
I waited until he was safely inside....


And that is how our unlikely friendship began...