So you're a sophomore at Rutgers. Your mother says, why don't you meet a Jewish girl. Your friend takes you to this Friday night dinner where singles meet and you go and see all kinds of attractive young women in various states of dress and this young rabbi stands up and he's full of energy and jokes and starts talking to you about this thing called Shabbos, a day of rest, just like God had when He made the world. It's a weekly paradise he says of family and warmth and good food and meaning. You are intrigued. You are dizzy from all the chatter and pretty faces.
The rabbi invites you to a class where you'll hear more ideas and even get paid $50 for it. You need the money. Why not? Maybe you'll see that young woman in the red dress again.
The class is held at a lawyer's office in a room with paneled walls. The lawyer too is energic and friendly as he invites you to come to this thing called Shabbos which means an overnight stay at his house. No professor ever invited you over and you are thinking of going into the law, but a stranger's house? His wife will be so overjoyed to have you over, he says, and the kids love guests. Wife and kids and a professional with a fancy office, and they are Jewish. You figure it must be safe. Gotta try things, you think. You go to this gorgeous house on a street with more of the same. They take to the guest room where your very own towel is folded for you and then off to synagogue where you haven't been for years. The confusion about what's going on leaves you dizzy again but your host explains and seems to care. It all seems so organized and communal and a little bit spiritual. Is this Shabbos?
Afterward, he introduces you to people who keep asking you where you're from, and all the attention from grownups with careers is something you are not used to, but it feels kind of nice, and you go back to the big house for dinner in a lovely dining room where dish after dish is served. It's a new kind of food. You keep hearing the word kugel. It's tasty. Ah and then red meat. These people know how to live you think. The children are noisy and cute as they are paraded before you telling over tales they learned in school. You head is spinning now from all the faces and songs and food and friendliness and wealth. You wonder, can you have all this?
Fast forward one year. It's six-thirty in the morning. A knock on the door wakes you up and you mutter some words you recently memorized in Hebrew, a language you don't understand, but even the translation doesn't make much sense. You wash your hands with water from a dirty plastic cup that looks deformed with its two handles as you sit on the bed trying not to get wet. You stand up and drape a weird stringed shawl over your head and mutter some more words, then put on your pants and shirt as you try to dangle the strings to your sides. Your roommates are doing the same. You step outside into the noisy Jerusalem street past dull beige buildings and grumpy, unfriendly faces, and head to shul, as they call it. You pass a few bearded rabbis (the guy at Rutgers was clean shaven) who glance at you disapprovingly without speaking and you hope that the way you dangled your strings meets their approval. You feel as if you failed.
Morning services take an hour. It's long. You still can't believe that you have to do this every day along with the afternoon prayers and the ones at night. You feel bad that you don't really enjoy it. It's because your head is so full of filth they tell you. You try to concentrate on words that you don’t understand. The hour passes slowly. You try to follow and just when you think you are getting it, they surprise you with new passages that hadn't heard before. Nobody explains it, they just do it, and you try to find the words in your siddur. By the time you do, the men in the room are saying new things.
Afterwards is what they call breakfast, which means cornflakes and white bread on a dirty table in a dirty room. Then it's off to the beis midrash, the study hall, for three hours of Gemara learning, as they call it. You think, it's studying. Learning is not the right word. You learn a skill. You study a book. The word choice seems off like so many things here. The room is so noisy that you can't hear yourself think which may not matter because the material is so confusing.
The book is written in Hebrew letters which you are learning but in a language that's not quite Hebrew. It's very old and doesn't use complete sentences or seem to utilize a coherent grammar. At least it doesn't seem coherent but you aren't sure because you don't study the grammar like you did in French class. You just say it over and over again. Break your teeth on it they say.
You feel stupid all the time. The rabbis are so smart. That's what they say about one another. And everyone around you holds them in such high regard. You feel yourself getting pulled in by the sentiment even as it doesn't feel quite right.
You didn't know this before but your whole life has been a waste. College was a sewer they tell you. Never go back. America is dying and God wants you in Israel. The rabbis are very aggressive and seem to have an opinion about everything.
They tell you that some day you'll be married. They will let you know when you are ready. In the meantime, you are horny as hell and that's exactly where you'll go if you touch yourself. Don't even think of going out to meet a girl. You have to hold off for four years until you get enough Gemara under your belt. Four years? You hadn't gone three days without relief since you were fifteen. You hope that you will win the approval of the rabbis so that they'll introduce you to a woman. You remember that Friday night at Rutgers.
You think about your life in New Jersey. That's gone now. You are saved. You are so lucky. You could have wound up burning in hell. Your old friends are dissolving in your mind like tissue paper dipped in hot water.
This is your new life. You must learn Torah. That's why you exist. What about money? Don't worry about money. The money will appear if you learn Gemara. The rabbis all live in nice apartments, not like that fancy house where you spent your first Shabbos. But you don’t need that they tell you. That’s a baal habayis who isn’t souring. He’s getting reward in this world. He’s not like the rabbis. You wonder if he wonders what happened to you and why isn’t he living in Israel.
You have spent every last penny on tuition. The yeshiva will loan you the rest but you must pay it back someday. You couldn't even begin to pay for a plane ticket to go back to America. But why would you want to. It's dying. The future is in Israel they tell you. You look around at all the soldiers and junky buildings and hear people shouting at one another and think, how can this be the future. But what do you know? Your head is full of filth. The rabbis will straighten you out.
It's eleven PM now. You are exhausted. You feel as if you need permission to go to bed. Your roommates are laying down on their cots so you figure permission is granted.
You mutter some more words that you are supposed to say at night. You pray that Hashem, that’s the word for Him, doesn't kill you for your sins. It’s a strange word, sounds almost like a pagan deity. They don’t talk about Him very much, except to tell you how scary He is. An image of Yankee Stadium flashes in your mind. You hate yourself for thinking of such foolishness. You hope that Hashem wasn’t paying attention, but you remember that He sees all your sins. He reads your mind. What happens when He sees your dirty thoughts? Does that enrage Him? You think of Yankee Stadium again and fall asleep.
You wake up to knocks on the door, mutter the same words from yesterday, wash your hands, and put on the shawl. You fix your strings and head off to shul. It will be an hour there, then cornflakes, then Gemara.
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