A Hasidic Encounter
By Marci Cooke
"Don't go," warned my mother. "Hasidim are the Jewish version of the Hari Krishnas -- you avoid them, dear. "Gee, mom, it's only a playgroup, Iıd like to meet other moms my own age, if you donıt mind," I replied. Still, my mother cautioned me that Hasidic Jews brainwashed people...blink your eyes and pouf, like them youıre cutting off your hair and shopping for a wig.
As a new stay-at-home mom, I had been looking for a playgroup for my six- month-old-daughter. I noticed a newspaper ad about a mom/baby playgroup for Jewish women. I called and discovered that the playgroup was held at a Lubovitch school. Even my husband groaned. "You mean those fanatics with the curls?" Yeah, well...
Here's everything I thought I knew about Lubovitch: The men were rude, disrespectful and quick to judge: according to them, if you are not Hasidic, you are not a real Jew. They oppressed women and furthermore, these meek women didn't even realize they were being oppressed. They were proselytizing, smelly, dirty and wore really ugly clothes. Never dancing with a man? Walking behind a man? Wearing a wig in public? I'd rather be Amish. My impression, however, was about to change.
The classroom set aside for the playgroup looked like a typical preschool, except for the pictures on the walls of famous Hasidic men. A woman introduced herself to me. "Hi, my name is Channi." "Hi Connie," I said. She corrected me: "No, the Ch sound is, you know, that hairball in your throat kind of sound." Oh, sorry. Despite the Florida heat, this young woman wore a long-sleeved white blouse, a long denim maternity dress with pantyhose (in Florida, pantyhose stick to your legs all day long) and, obviously, a wig.
None of the other moms were Hasidic, but Channi seemed to expect this. Most moms, including me, wore shorts and sandals. Still, Channi seemed to like us even though we dressed, according to her standard, well, like harlots. By the end of the playgroup, we had introduced ourselves, playedgames, sung normal American songs like the Itsy Bitsy Spider, and were invited back.
During the next several months, I got to know Channi and found her to be a fascinating person. She talked about Hasidism when asked but did not try to convert us, as my mother had warned. You see, it's not likely that someone like me would get to speak with Hasidim. They seem to exist in their own closed world, never venturing into your more secular one. When you see them on the street, they are always appear to be scurrying, never stopping to browse at a window display or look you directly in the eye and say hello. They appear either somber, scared or pissed off (it's hard to figure out which).
Nonetheless, Channi, joyful beacon of light that she was, chose to venture into my world and accepted me for the Jew that I was, even after admitting to her that I could not recite a single prayer if my life depended on it. In fact Channi invited me to Friday night services, even though she knew I'd have to drive there. "So what," she said casually, "Why do you think we have a parking lot?" and she laughed. Not one to judge, she acknowledged that the lifestyle she had chosen for herself was not for everyone.
Channi, who was raised Lubovitch, was 32 years old and had three children, with one on the way. But even as a Hasidic Jew, Channi was not content to stay home raising children. For one thing, she had a masters degree in childhood education. This surprised me because I had always thought that Hasidic women were not encouraged to seek a higher education. She also had a nanny caring for her kids at home and worked full time as the school's principal. I'm not sure if she was a typical Hasidic woman. If she was, though, I would say Hasidim has been through social and cultural changes, just like other groups. Perhaps there is no such thing as a typical Hasidic woman, only the stereotypes we non-Hasidim place on them.
While most people saw being ultra Orthodox as a list of rules and regulations, a ball and chain, if you will, Channi saw it as a means of obtaining a deep inner peace, with the Sabbath being the icing on the cake, a time where G-d grants you an entire day to reconnect with your family; and in this busy world, she could think of nothing that she needed more. Shabbat was a celebration, a refreshing mini-vacation from life. This was a concept I found hard to grasp. Our family never observed Shabbat. I usually spent Friday evenings on the phone, watching television, or, when I was older, driving over a friend's house.
I moved from Florida five years ago, but Channi left an indelible imprint on my spirit. For a group that was supposed to stick to their own kind, I was touched to find at least one who reached out and embraced members of a world of which she'll only capture a glimpse.
I also captured a fleeting glimpse of a world that I was invited to embrace, but declined. I guess Friday night will remain pizza night in our family. And Shabbats? Well, lets just say I usually go shopping on Saturdays. I have seen the other side, and while it's a nice place to visit, I wouldn't want to live there.
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