One of the greatest decisions that my parents madei n raising me was to send me to the Hebrew Academy of Cleveland for the first four years (kindergarten through third grade) of my schooling. HAC is a Jewish day school that studies both secular and Judaic studies, but leans towards Ultra-Orthodoxy, or in American Jewish slang, is "black hat." Beginning my education in a more right-wing religious school set a tone for my Judaism. HAC established a strong foundation of belief and put, for better or for worse, practices into place that have lasted until this day, (they're probably also the source for my penchant for food that speaks Yiddish).
Though many might have considered the education a bit close-minded (I'll never forget how my second grade English teacher had to staple together the pages in Dear Mr. Henshaw that dealt with Christmas) I consider it to be the factor in my life that allows me to explore the many aspects and views of this religion freely and without fear. I know that most likely I will come home safely to the house that was built back in kindergarten, but also realize that every once in a while old wallpaper needs to be looked at and changed, furniture replaced.
But I digress. The most important thing that my parents gave me by sending me to the Academy and by living in Cleveland Heights ("Where you're either black or black hat") was the ability to feel comfortable around people different from you.
Or so I thought. I had a bit of a revelation this morning. I arrived at minyan and begin to put on my tefillin (phylacteries) standing above a seat. Before I could finish wrapping and sit down though, somebody had taken my seat.
"Come on man, what's your friggin problem?" I growled in my mind, carefully deleting the expletives out of respect for my tefillin (see what I mean about putting practices in place? I still imagine inanimate objects blushing or getting insulted). "It's pretty clear that I was gonna sit there, jerk."
I often get this way when I'm tired, but after I moved away to a new seat I noticed that in my mind I was preempting anything that someone might say to me. Especially after seeing the young ultra-orthodox guy who once gave me a tongue lashing for the way I wore my gun while praying (that's a different story). My thoughts began to turn, or more correctly, curdle, on the people sitting near me.
They were classic hareidim, ultra-religious to the last stitch in their long frocks. Curly side-locks, hats, scraggly beards in the best case scenario, fuzzy upper lips in the worst. My defense mechanism was running like Usain Bolt.
"Dontchu be taking my seat, ya penguin," it whispered at the man praying next to me. "Why are they taking so frickin long to start... come on already man."
Two 18 year old boys sat across from me shooting glances and smiles at each other. "What do they think they're looking at? Are they laughing at me? For real? At least my moustache doesn't look like a comb-over!" (I know, I know, it's blonde, and my instincts don't actually phrase things this cleverly in person either)
The kicker came at the end. At some point I switched the raggedy siddur (prayer book) that I had picked up with a smaller one that seemed not to belong to anyone in the room, despite having a beautiful inscription on the inside cover. I figured if it was someone's they would tell me. Of course, my brain also defensively snarled, "What, and he'll take it away from me in the middle?" When I had finished davening, I kissed the siddur and put it down. Comb-over-stache picked it up, kissed it and placed it next to him.
"Great, here we go," I thought, "a speech on how I should ask first, probably with some words like 'gezel' (stealing) and a whole lot of blah-blah to nod through while looking at the floor."
And rightfully so to tell the truth. If somebody had taken my siddur without asking, I would have chewed him out in my head for a good 15 minutes at least.
"Sorry," I said sheepishly, and truth be told, I was genuinely sorry.
His lips turn upwards in a big smile, and he enthusiastically motions to me and the siddur and gives me a big thumbs up.
"It was my honor, my merit, for you to use my siddur."
I blush. "Thanks,"I say to him as I leave, "shkoyach"(good job).
Shkoyach indeed, brother. Lesson learned.
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