God Said What?! #MyOrthodoxLife

By Miriam Racquel (Meryl) Feldman

A mysterious letter shows up from an old college boyfriend throwing Meryl's life into turmoil. When a local rabbi warns her that her ex, David, has been brainwashed into a cult, Meryl is pulled into the mystical world of religious Judaism in a way that her stubbornly atheist self would never have expected. O

• Language: English
• Publisher: Miriam Racquel (Meryl) Feldman
• Release date: Mar 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9781737745419

Book preview

I sat in a small office in Berkeley, California as the kippah-wearing rabbi gazed at me with sympathy. It was 1989 and I hadn’t been on the planet that long—a mere twenty-three years—but my life, which had been securely on course up until that point, had just gone off the rails.

The rabbi gestured to the return address on the envelope of the thirteen-page letter that I had recently received from David, my pseudo-boyfriend, someone who I’d lost touch with in the past year as he traveled his junior college year abroad.

This Israeli school that your friend is in? It’s basically a cult. My stomach sank.

A cult? How could he be in a cult? He may be open-minded, but he’s not stupid.

The rabbi—a stranger who I had found in the Yellow Pages in my search for guidance—leaned forward and continued, There are Orthodox religious Jews who stand around the Western Wall in Jerusalem, trying to ‘catch’ unsuspecting secular Jews, especially young college students. They act very friendly, invite them for a Friday night Sabbath meal, and charm them with delicious food. They intrigue their ‘guests’ with conversation regarding the meaning of life and then try to entice them into signing up for religious- oriented programs and schools called yeshivas.

My jaw dropped open an inch. What had David gotten himself into?

David and me, 1988.

I tuned back into the rabbi’s words. These very friendly Jews want to influence non-religious Jews to become Orthodox and change their lives around. They want them to live as they do and hold onto the relics of the past. You know, things like keeping the restrictions of the Saturday Sabbath and a kosher diet. They then marry them off and encourage them to have a ton of kids.

My head jerked back. Do you live like that?

No. He shook his head yet again. I’m different than the Orthodox; I don’t believe that those restrictions apply today. Orthodox Jews believe that those customs are God-given and that’s why they’re practicing them. The Reform movement respects these old traditions, but looks at them as human-designed—ones that evolved with the times—many we no longer keep.

Oh. What’s the kosher diet thing about? I pointed to the letter. David mentioned that he’s keeping some kind of diet there. I’ve heard of kosher before, but I grew up eating everything.

A kosher diet means no shellfish—like lobster and clams—and no pig—so no ham, no bacon. The Orthodox also don’t eat meat and milk together—no McDonald’s cheeseburgers. Someone who eats only kosher can’t just go to any regular restaurant because of the restrictions.

But David and I ate out all the time—we ate whatever we felt like at college and went out to restaurants as well. Why would he want to change that? I was so confused.

That’s the brainwashing I’m talking about. They convince their victims like David that these rules were decreed by God and that all Jews must keep them.

All Jews must keep them? That’s crazy. Why would they think that? I scrunched up my nose. "I grew up right near a community of religious Orthodox Jews—in Monsey, New York—and I saw the way they lived. It’s like they brought the Jewish ghettos of the past to America. My parents always told me, ‘Don’t drive through there; the religious are the worst drivers. They pay no attention to the rules of the road. They don’t even speak English!’’’

My heart beat faster as my memory raced back in time. But sometimes I did need to drive through there and I saw them—the women and girls with their long-sleeved shirts, thick stockings and wigs, the heavily-bearded men in their black hats and ankle-length black coats. I threw out my hands in exasperation. And this was in the blazing heat of summer. I always thought they were crazy. And there were always a ton of kids running around. They didn’t even have TVs. None of the rooftops had antennas. They’re completely cut off from real life. I covered my face with my hands. How could David fall for something like that? He wasn’t raised like that. He should know better. I mean, he goes to college. Did his brain fall out or what? I could feel myself rambling.

Like I said—he's been brainwashed.

I slid my hands down to my cheeks and looked at the rabbi. My voice slowed as the seriousness of the situation began to sink in. You know, he says he’s not coming back to finish college. He wants to stay In Israel. In that school.

The Yellow Pages Rabbi shook his head for the umpteenth time. I know, it’s a real shame. These religious really charm young people like David. After a few months in these schools, weeks sometimes, you don’t even recognize them. Then they marry them off for life. A lot of them never return back to the States.

My stomach fell to the floor, a quick elevator ride down.

The look on my face must have concerned the rabbi because he quickly added, But there may be time for you to still do something about this—you can go to Israel and try to get him out. He may not be too far gone.

Go there and get him out? But I can’t, I have tickets to Guatemala. I’m going there in two weeks to do volunteer work with the refugees.

Well, then you may never see your boyfriend David again. Or at least if you do he’s going to look a lot different. A lot.

What am I supposed to do? Change my tickets and hop on a flight to Israel and try to convince David that what he’s doing is crazy? Should I drop everything and try to rescue him?

The rabbi stared at me. If you truly care about him, yes.

I sat motionless as if held by some invisible glue. My thoughts swirled as I tried to replace my old view of David with this new one. I forced myself to get up from the chair and stuck my hand out to the rabbi. Thank you for your time. You’ve really given me a lot to think about.

He handed David’s long letter back to me, shook my hand, and looked at me, concern in his eyes. Good luck. I hope it’s not too late.

I walked out of the office with heavy footsteps. Why would David do such an irresponsible thing like getting involved in a cult? And why should I care anyway? He had told me that he wanted to be free to see other girls while he traveled, that we should still remain friends with no strings attached. I had been so in love with him and that had hurt so much. Though we had exchanged letters, the frequency had died down after a few months. I’d spent the year trying to forget about him once he stopped writing. But it was me who he reached out to and me who he invited to come visit him in Israel. Looks like there was some string attached—but what did it mean?

I scanned the densely packed parking lot. It looked like a throwback to the 60s, dotted with flower-splotched VW bugs, brightly painted yellow vans that tilted as if the slightest exhale could knock them over, and a few other rust-dented relics of the past. It took me a few moments to spot my own car.

A sense of peace and calm filled my world as I approached my ancient and loyal friend. My little green Toyota waited patiently for my return. Amidst a storm of emotions sat my familiar anchor. I folded my lanky, 5’10" frame inside and stuck the key in the ignition. As steady as ever, she started immediately, emitting a loud purr as my feet fell into their familiar pattern over her pedals and I threw the shift in reverse.

As I drove home, I revisited the time David and I had together in college. Back to the vast cornfields of the Midwest and to the deep conversations that filled our nights and days on the tiny college campus of Grinnell, Iowa. We had explored various cultures and lifestyles, debating, philosophizing, and fantasizing. We were curious about the way others lived. Our other friends came from around the world—Grinnell was small, but a lot of the student body came from abroad. We often hung out together in the student forum, each friend sharing what it was like growing up in South America, Pakistan, Greece, or wherever they came from. David and I hoped one day to travel and visit them in their home countries.

But a religious cult? What the heck? I didn’t see that coming. Religion was not popular at liberal Grinnell, where coed dorming was considered cool, do-and-think-without-restrictions normal, and old-fashioned values out of style. I didn’t know much about fundamental religions, but I didn’t think Grinnell’s do what you want, whenever you want, with whomever you want philosophy fit in with their conservative values.

I searched my memory for a grain of sense while I bumped down the roads home, shifting along the hilly terrain of Berkeley, not having shock absorbers to ensure a smooth ride. Not having shock absorbers to smooth this news from David.

I let myself into my funky, spacious rental that I shared with a few fellow Grinnell grads and sat heavily onto the kitchen chair. I hung my head and traced the blue and green circles decorating the old linoleum kitchen table. I was not a happy camper. Too much to think about, not a lot of time to do it. My thoughts looped in abrupt circles in disturbing opposition to the orderly ones dotting the table.

Me, windblown, by Pacific Ocean, 1989.

I hadn’t heard from David for months, and now he sends me a thirteen-page letter? He was throwing such a crazy wrench in my plans. Since I had the summer off from my job in the resource room at University of Berkeley, I was going to use that time to go to Guatemala for a few weeks, continuing my volunteer work with refugees. My heart was connected to the plight of refugees after I had befriended some Lebanese and Iranian asylum seekers in my travel to Germany as a junior in college. But now, I felt my heart tugged to see David. How annoying was that? When he left abroad for his junior year and I graduated and headed out West, he wanted to be just friends. I wanted commitment. Such a familiar conflict of interest for many of my college friends.

Me at Marine Mammal Rehab Center in Marin County, California, 1989.

And though the rejection had stung, our relationship had begun as friends and I wasn’t going to throw the baby out with the bathwater. And who knew what the future could bring? I had the hope that our paths would cross in the future, bringing our hearts together once more. Was David’s letter the arrow pointing to that intertwined path or just a distraction from my journey—one that I had forged without him, no strings attached? If we were just friends, then why drop my plans? I mean, a friend could just say, No thanks, got plans —let’s meet up another time. But with my more-than-friends hope, which had been delegated to the back of my mind, now rearing its confusing head, the no seemed minuscule to the, Yes, I’ll change my plans and hop on a plane to come to you. Where was my independent, feminist spirit? Ugh.

My stomach’s noisy grumbling interrupted my thoughts. I was starving. I was so in my head trying to figure things out that I’d forgotten it was attached to my body.

I grabbed some whole wheat bread from the counter, some cheese from the fridge, and put the combo in the toaster before returning back to my swarming thoughts. First things first, I needed a plan.

I sat at the table with the warm sandwich and reread The Letter. I skipped over the pages that talked about his adventures abroad, to the last few pages that were the most worrying part. I ingested the words real slow as if they might have magically changed since sharing them with the Yellow Pages Rabbi.

My inner uh-oh alarm rang with each exclamation mark.

You won’t believe what I’m doing now! I finished my program in Yugoslavia, traveled around Europe, earning my keep by playing guitar on the subways and now I’m in Israel! I had planned to fly to Guatemala and travel some more… Wait, what? Did the Universe think that was funny? What were the chances that he had planned to go to Guatemala, too?

The sound of my crunching brought me back to The Letter "…and then make my way home to finish off Grinnell. But my mom convinced me to go to Israel instead because my sister was there with her fiancé. Then I was hanging out at the Western Wall—it’s called the Kotel in Hebrew—and met a really nice man who invited me for a Sabbath meal. You know the Jewish Sabbath thing, right? From Friday night to Saturday night, you spend time together eating meals, singing, going to the synagogue, and having really interesting conversations. The people are great, super friendly, and so intelligent!

"Anyway, my hosts told me about a school that I could learn at—I could even start right away. So I did, and wow! I’m loving it! I’m wearing a kippah now and a garment with white strings called tzitzis attached to its corners. I eat a special diet—only kosher food.

"And I’m not coming back to finish Grinnell. I’m staying here to learn more. I totally want to stay in Israel and live this way. I’d love for you to come visit. Call me.

Love, David

The knot in my stomach ached as I stared at the long international telephone number David had scrawled on the last page.

Should I call him? Why did one letter from this guy throw me off-kilter? Besides the whole cult thing, was I still so in love with him that I would risk my heart again? And was his invitation a sign that he loved me more than just a friend? I dropped the plate into the sink and startled at the loud clink of the Corelle hitting the porcelain.

I took the letter, grabbed the long-corded phone, and headed towards my tiny bedroom off the kitchen. I’ll give him one call—just one chance to explain to me what’s going on.

I sat down on my floor mattress and stared out the large floor-to-ceiling window. The narrow rocky green patch of yard stared back at me. Butterflies crowded in my stomach, and my heart beat rapidly as I cradled the receiver to my ear. My fingers pulled at the numbers on the black rotary phone, and I played out the words I would say. Hey, David you’re in a cult. Stop being stupid and come home.

Direct and to the point, but probably not the best choice. I mean, if someone is in a cult, do they have any idea they’re in a cult?

I jolted from the ring on the other end of the line. David answered.

It was just like I had spoken with him yesterday, his voice was that familiar. We gabbed a bit, catching up on what I’d been doing in California and what he’d been doing in Europe for the past six months. My stomach relaxed—he was the same David I knew and loved.

Fifteen minutes into the conversation, he began to share what he was doing in Israel. As he spoke, my stomach knotted up, and the butterflies, which had now disappeared, were replaced with stones.

He was really far gone. The reality was much worse than I expected. He spoke of miracles, finding God (can God get lost?), praying, learning all day, and eating healthy kosher food. This did not sound like the David I knew.

C’mon David, you’ve got to be kidding me. You really believe in God now? I asked. And you think God said all that? You think God cares what you eat? And who says God is a He anyway? We certainly didn’t learn this at Grinnell, and our teachers were really smart.

Yeah, our teachers were really smart, but the teachers here—they’re smarter. The rabbis that I learn with know tons of Hebrew and can read from all the ancient sources. It’s unbelievable how much they know. I want to become a rabbi. And the women here are just as smart; they’re called rebbetzins and I know that you’d love them. Come check it out. There are places here for you to learn too.

What about finishing up at Grinnell? You have to graduate. What do your parents say about all this? I pressed the phone against my ear as if the force I squeezed it with could will him to come back to reality.

David and his parents, Gene and Aliza, at high school graduation, 1985.

David chuckled. My parents are really upset. When I call my dad he yells like crazy. I have to hold the phone away from my ear because he shouts so loud. But I don’t want to come home—I’m staying here and learning.

I sighed.

He went on. And my mom—she’s even madder than my dad. She grew up in Israel in a secular settlement and had bad experiences with religious Jews. She’s going crazy that I’m keeping kosher and hanging out with rabbis.

David, is this a rebellious thing? Are you doing this just to annoy your parents? I pleaded silently to whatever force would listen that this was just a stage he was going through.

I love my parents, you know that. I just also love what I’m doing here. Come, you’ll see. I’ll give you the number of a Berkeley rabbi and rebbetzin. You can talk to them and think about it.

But I’m heading to Guatemala in two weeks, I said. And I don’t want them getting me like they got you. David, you’re totally brainwashed. I already went to a rabbi, and he said that you’re in a cult. C’mon, come home. Come visit me in Berkeley; it’s really beautiful here. The ocean is incredible, full of seals and otters. The forests are amazing. I’ve met such cool people. You’d love it. And then you can head back to Grinnell and finish up school.

Meryl, it’s not a cult, David laughed. Your great grandparents did what I’m doing. And I’m sure Berkeley is nice, but I want to stay here.

Who cares if my great grandparents did some religious stuff? What’s that got to do with me or you? You sound so weird with the God stuff.

A few hours of bickering later, and afterthoughts about a phone bill I wasn’t looking forward to, we left off with the plan that I would get back to him about coming to visit. He insisted that I call the Berkeley rabbi who came highly recommended from his new Israeli rabbi friends. Yeah, right, like I’d do that. So they could try and get me too? Uh-uh. I wasn’t having that.

I hung up and rubbed my ear. It was sore from cradling the receiver for so long. I also realized two things. One, unfortunately for me, my feelings for him were still strong. Two, if I did go to Israel to try to get him out, it wasn’t going to be easy.

Dusk shadowed my room, and it felt small and stifling.

I picked up the phone and played with the curly cord. Ok, maybe I can do this. I can make my alma mater proud and be open-minded. Look at me—speaking to two rabbis in one day! Before then, I hadn’t spoken to a rabbi since those dreaded Sunday school classes.

I dialed.

A woman answered, her unexpected, thick New York Jewish accent startling me. I quickly hung up.

That voice reminded me too much of the Jews in Monsey. I wasn’t that open-minded.

And I certainly wasn’t interested in going backward in life—not back to the East Coast and not back in time to the old traditions that David spoke of. This was the 20th century and I was fully a part of it. Just like everyone else I knew. No religious person would convince me otherwise. I was smart, college-educated, and I knew better.

I emerged exhausted and drained from the emotional battlefield of my room. The whiffs of freshly-made food brought me back to reality and the familiar silhouettes of my housemates at the kitchen table lightened my heart. One of them had made some brown rice, tofu, veggie concoction that fit in with my semi-vegetarian food policy, a policy I had, of course, adopted at Grinnell. I had volunteered with farm veterinarians in the Grinnell countryside and my affinity towards cows caused me to adopt an avoidance of eating beef. I figured I would eventually work my way up to full vegetarianism. If you love ‘em, why eat ‘em? had become my crunchy-granola lovin’ motto.

I lowered myself into the chair.

You look beat, Jennifer said. Jennifer, one of the most compassionate humans ever, was a friend I had known since nursery school. She’d been the one to encourage me to check out Grinnell when I’d expressed my unhappiness with Duke.

Well, I spent my day visiting a rabbi to figure out what David got himself into and then talked to David for hours to try to convince him to finish college. Just got off the phone with him. I ladled some of the sticky substance onto my plate and took a taste.

I filled my friends in on the details—all the details. Like women of centuries-old, my friends had the patience to listen to my whole story—all the innuendos, all the He said, I said, and all my behind- the-scenes thoughts.

Being on the phone with David? It felt like walking into the Twilight Zone. I said between bites.

Ooh, sounds freaky. And doesn’t sound like the free-spirited David I knew from Grinnell, Cathy sympathized, and Jennifer nodded in agreement. Cathy also had a grand soul and a well of compassion that ran deep. Jennifer and I had met her at Grinnell and she loved the idea of settling in California after graduation, so she had joined us on our West Coast adventure.

What should I do? I do care about him, but this wasn’t in my plans. I cradled my chin in the palms of my hands, forming an open heart space for my head. And there we sat, my girlfriends and I, pow-wowing, leaving no stone unturned, and no particle unexamined. Like emotional detectives, my partners in crime searched their hearts, minds, and souls to help me weigh how much David meant to me against my independence. To go or not to go—that was the only question left.

Who does he think he is? Waltzing back into your life with months of silence leading the way. I mean, didn’t he call it quits when he left for Europe, dumped you and all? Cathy asked.

Yeah, he dumped me. What a creep!

Yeah, what a creep! My cheerleaders said in unison.

We continued to rip David apart into little tiny pieces. With gusto.

I’ve been doing great. I’ve been happy. I’ve made a life for myself. I’m going to Guatemala as planned. I don’t want to go to Israel. I’ve been there before and I didn’t like it—got burnt to a crisp, dehydrated like a prune, and almost died. I stabbed my fork into the pile on my plate. And my cousin the Zionist spoke nonstop about Judaism. It was super intense. Not doing that again.

And then…Gasp! Jennifer pulled the trigger and lodged a bullet into my girl heart and soul. She pointed at me with her fork, and said, Even though he did the creep thing, he did send you a really long letter and he did ask you to come visit. Looks like his heart and head are still turned in your direction. What’s your heart telling you to do? Forget your head for a minute.

The energy in the room changed from battle zone to quiet stillness. My heart? Yeah, I guess if I get real honest... I want to go see him. I sighed. How annoying.

My cold, concrete mind waved the white flag and surrendered.

Two weeks after meeting with the Yellow Pages Rabbi, I boarded a plane to Jerusalem instead of Guatemala City. Instead of rescuing South American refugees, I would rescue David.

Packed tightly in my seat, I struggled to free a large book from my overstuffed backpack. Written by a Jewish feminist, it argued against the dogma of religious Judaism. I propped it up on the tiny tray table, my hands firmly gripping its edges as I turned the pages. The author affirmed that which I already knew—that the Bible was written by men, called rabbis—and was in no way given by God. I smirked at the memory of the Charlton Heston mountain scene airing annually on my little color T.V.

I read on.

The patriarchy dishonors women by separating them behind a curtained partition in the synagogue. Modern women must resist and overcome this misogyny. I fisted my hand in the air as the author laid out her arguments. I flipped page after page, embedding the proofs in my head, highlighting in bold yellow the ones that were the best ammunition against David’s brainwashed mind.

My shoulders tensed at the author’s words that chauvinism is all too rampant amongst the religious, seen in part by the oppressive dress codes forced on women. Head coverings were essential to subjugate women and teach them that they were less.

How could David have swallowed any of this nonsense? No, of course he wouldn’t. How hard could it be to prove him wrong? I mean, c’mon—hadn’t we marinated ourselves in the women’s rights movement? Adam and Eve and the apple story—who were they kidding? No way David believed that. We’d both been raised with the Big Bang theory and evolution. We shared our gene pool with primates. The Adam and Eve thing was a fantasy—a fairy tale—most likely a product of someone’s odd imagination. Confidence pumped through my veins and I sat up straighter in my seat. My twentieth- century reasoning would save David.

Would you like a blanket and pillow? the flight attendant asked, interrupting my thoughts.

Sure, thanks. I placed the navy pillow behind my head and leaned back.

I was a warrior! In a few weeks, David would for sure be with me on my return flight home. The religious zealots may have gotten to his brain and lured him in with their convincing arguments, but that wasn’t gonna happen with me. They wouldn’t lure me in with their off-beat logic, nor with my feelings for David. They would not get me. I’d argue with them till they pleaded with their God to take David away if it meant getting rid of me. I would never become an addition to their head count of transformed, youthful, religious robots.

But what if it was too late? What if David was too far gone into this cult? My stomach sank. I was scared; the David I knew and loved may already be lost.

Feeling chilled, I wrapped the blanket around me.

We’d laughed, we’d loved, and we’d seen the world the same way. And now? Perhaps others had corrupted his open mind with something different—notions about the world and how to live in it, notions that frightened me. Was the separation between us too vast? Was there no future to share?

Despair threatened to drown, exhaustion ensued.

I glanced around at the darkness that engulfed the cabin. Twinkling floor lights illuminated my fellow passengers, sleeping peacefully, their quiet snores filling the silence. My head rested against the tiny pillow, my legs awkwardly twisted, as I toed off my shoes and tried to settle down for a long, uncomfortable night.

I couldn’t sleep.

My mind traveled back in time. What was it about Judaism? It seemed to be such a confusing, persistent theme in my life. And somehow, I always found myself at odds with it.

My grandparents on both sides were of Eastern European stock, from Czechoslovakian and Hungarian descent. They were Jewish immigrants who had come shortly after WWI to the golden shores of America. Among their extended family, they were the fortunate few to have escaped a future of Nazi gas chambers and grisly death camps, as they sought an ease of life that was not found in their poor, little towns. Leaving the majority of Jewish rituals and restrictions behind, they found the perfect place among the heavily accented immigrants of Brooklyn and the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Settling as welders and tailors, they did as their neighbors and adopted the 11th commandment—Thou shall blend in.

From left to right—my father’s parents, Benjamin and Sarah Cook and my mother’s parents, Louis and Helen Trattner.

Like other immigrants, in addition to their desire to assimilate into American culture, my grandparents shared some of their traditions from the Old Country with their grandchildren. Jewish holidays like Passover and Rosh Hashanah were filled with the warm comfort of family and food in my suburban New York childhood home.

Help your grandparents up, Mom said to my older sisters. Being four years old, I waited eagerly at the edge of the stairs, my straight brown hair resting on my shoulders. I loved when my grandparents came.

As they slowly reached the top of the stairs, I hugged each gray-haired elder tightly. I took the bag of fresh-baked challah bread from Grandma T.’s hands and ran into the dining room. The bag felt warm to the touch and I dumped the steaming loaves onto the white, fancy tablecloth. I breathed in the scent that filled the air—it added to the smell of my mother’s chicken soup that boiled on the stove.

Look how nicely I set the table, I said as my grandparents made their way to the room. The table was large to fit all of us and dotted with plates of jelled gefilte fish and bright red borscht. The curtains of the dining room were wide open, allowing my grandparents to take in the acre of shallow woods in our backyard. Thick trees loomed over our porch like a forested canopy.

We sat for what felt like hours. My grandparents laughed and spoke in a way that I had trouble understanding: I knew it was English, but they left words out and mixed sentences around. It sounded different than how my sisters and parents spoke.

After we filled our bellies, we walked down to a huge horse farm that sat at the end of the block. The vast mountains loomed all around us.

My grandfather patted my dad on the back. You made it.

Growing up, there was a horse farm at the end of my block.

The bold choice my grandparents made to settle in the Land of the Free set the tone for my parents’ generation, who grew up as true, red-blooded Americans, sans the thick Eastern-European accents. Although comfortably Jewish in culture, my parents seemed apathetic and even, at times, downright displeased by the Orthodox aspects of Judaism.

My parents settled in my hometown of Pomona, that suburban paradise nestled in the valley of the Bear Mountains, as a direct result of running from religion. They had originally bought a home in neighboring Monsey, but when my father saw Orthodox Jews buying up the houses around us, he quickly sold our home and we fled ten minutes down the road. Pomona was more beautiful than Monsey, but more importantly, it was free of religious Jews. No head coverings were to be found there and no talk of God. My father’s aversion to Jews with yarmulkes, and a dislike of anything smacking of religion—anything that worshiped the unseen realms over the mind—colored my childhood. His parents had rejected the religion they had been raised with, and he continued to carry that torch. They left behind the laws that didn’t fit in with the modern world.

My father’s intense emotions towards Jews who worshiped the God and religious code of the Old Country surfaced often and most strongly when we had to drive through that Orthodox Jewish shtetl of Monsey.

Dad pointed out the car window. Look at them. His tension filled the car and I shifted myself closer to the passenger window. They multiply like flies and have ten kids each. Look how their multifamily houses are ruining Rockland County.

I glanced out the window. Construction material littered the ground, dumpsters overflowed. Skeletal cement structures lined the narrow road, right up to the edge.

Don’t drive through here if you can help it. It’s dangerous. They don’t speak English and don’t care about the rules of the road.

They took down all the trees, I said. And where’s the grass? Where do the kids play?

I glanced up to the rooftops of the buildings. They were smooth and empty of wiry TV antennas.

His hands gripped the steering wheel. They don’t care about grass and trees. They want to live like they did in the ghettos of Europe.

I nodded, and a wisp of hair flew in my face, covering my eyes. I brushed it aside and watched the multitudes of children playing amidst the mess—girls running with their heavy, black tights, long sleeves and braids bouncing about, and young boys wearing yarmulkes, with white strings flying out from under their shirts.

Hey, watch out! I yelled.

My father swerved our car sharply to the left, just missing the rusty station wagon that had edged too far into our path.

My father called the name of God in vain, his hands white on the steering wheel. Waves of his anger flooded the car, pushing me further against the window.

We drove on, silent warriors having survived our fated mission. Fifteen minutes later, we reached the end of Monsey where the narrow road gave way to Route 59.

My father’s hands relaxed on the steering wheel, and my fingers loosened their grip on the seat.

Don’t drive through there if you can help it. My father repeated, as if I hadn’t already learned my lesson.

Those memories of driving through crowded, backward Monsey, with my father’s mix of anger and fear in the air, were lodged in my cells. Not only were religious Jews stuck in a time long past, but they were dangerous to be around. Though we seemed to have this thing called Judaism as a common denominator, our differences were vast. The religious rejected modernity, my family embraced it; they worshiped the spiritual, we worshiped the logical. We were not alike at all.

In that uncomfortable plane seat heading to Jerusalem, I realized that my confusion about Judaism and its role in my life embedded itself in the contradictions of my childhood. The brave choice my grandparents made to leave the shtetls behind meant leaving the restrictions of Judaism as a religion behind as well. And who could blame them? Certainly not me. Who liked being different? Who would want to stand out like a sore thumb—funny clothes, onerous religious obligations, dietary restrictions, and ancient beliefs? No. Coming to America meant breaking free of thousands of years of oppression from the non-Jews, and—equally as important— oppression from God.

My grandparents brought challah recipes and Passover gatherings. They left behind head coverings and restrictive laws.

But what was that singular thread called Judaism that bound me to the religious Jews of Monsey? Was it that Judaism was a religion? Well, it wasn’t mine—my family rejected religion. Was it that Judaism was a culture? My family’s culture was American.

And as American as we were, my parents took assimilating only so far. Certain things were inexplicably off limits.

The fire blazed as my ten-year-old self lounged on Frisky, our English Springer Spaniel whose silky, brown and white fur made a great pillow. It was December and large white snowflakes cascaded down on our front lawn. The white plastic electric Menorah sat in the front window, its light bulbs lit to announce day three of the Hanukkah holiday. My sisters and mom had gathered on the floor amongst colorful wrapping paper strewn in chaos from the numerous gifts we’d just opened.

Why can’t we have a Christmas tree? My friend, Amy, has one and it’s so much fun to decorate. The lights are really pretty, I said.

Sitting in his favorite living room chair, Dad broke his stare away from the fire and swiveled towards me. Cause we can’t. We’re Jewish.

So what? I retorted, picking up my head and facing him straight on.

Let’s call it a Hanukkah bush, instead of a tree, my older sister chimed in.

No. We’re not getting a tree or a bush. We’re Jewish, and Jewish people don’t have Christmas trees.

But we have Christmas stockings. I gestured to the large red and white stockings hanging from nails on the brick fireplace. And you stuff them with candy canes. That’s not Jewish.

We’re not getting a Christmas tree and that’s that. Mom rose and grabbed a fistful of blue wrapping paper decorated with the typical Jewish

Reviews for God Said What?! #MyOrthodoxLife

[Test · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Very well written! You feel like you're there with Miriam as she goes through her story! So many times I thought it wouldn't work out with Dovid (some of whose teachers probably thought Chabad was a cult too) but thank Gd it all worked out.
Also refreshing to read how someone came back home instead of the other way around as seems to be customary today by some.