Eli Reiter's Writings

[reiterthewriter]

The Banality of Eli

We had just left the synagogue when the yelling started.

In seventh grade, I was in a boys’ choir. We were going to be the next biggest thing in Orthodox Jewish music. (Many Orthodox Jews don’t listen to women singing. Boys choirs are a welcome alternative.) It was right after 9/11 and the choir leader wrote a patriotic power ballad that would “play on all the radio stations.”

We left the Lower East Side synagogue after practice and walked onto the street. As we exited the sanctuary, I heard a women yell. I looked around for a source. There was arguing but we couldn’t see where it was coming from. Then, a man holding a woman over his shoulder walked out from the bar next door. She was kicking and screaming.

“Leave me alone!”

“Shh. Quiet! We’ll get you home soon.”

“I don’t give him permission to take me! This is kidnapping!”

He dumped her into the passenger seat and slammed the door, muttering. I was 12. It wasn’t kidnapping, but something bad was happening. It wasn’t good and someone had to do something. I looked towards my closest adult, the group leader. He wore cool glasses and Ferragamo shoes. During the spectacle, he stared intently at the drama, like it was pay-per-view television. He whispered to us to ignore them, to look away.

Why wouldn’t he do something? I was so angry and confused that he just stood there. Why didn’t intervene? There was something bad happening there and he didn’t want to stop it.

So I used my only tools that I had as a child. My eyes. I stared at him. Furrowing my brow, I conveyed my thoughts via my eyes, because I didn’t have the words for my feelings. The choir leader looked at me and made eye contact. He shrugged and looked away.

I vowed that I would react differently in that situation. That I would stand up for the underdog. The victim. The powerless.

The world felt a little less safe that day.

…

While waiting for the train last night, there was a scuffle between a man and woman. He was pushing her away with his left hand. In his outstretched right hand, he held a cell phone away from her. I stared at them in the New York way: looking at the wall next to them but keeping an eye on the situation. Invisibly watching.

I silently prayed that they were playing around, but no one was smiling. The train came. She stepped away from him and turned around to grab her purse from the bench. She quickly walked onto the train, five feet behind her, sneering at me. Things were escalating.

But I got onto the other car. I didn’t run. I wasn’t afraid. It’s just so easy to avoid a problem. All it takes is walking to the next car.

There’s a 12 year old boy staring at me, disappointed.

[reiterthewriter]

Dinner with the Enemy

If one person could break up Orthodoxy, it’s Rabbi Avi Weiss. 

At least that’s what I believed growing up. I only had a vague idea of what he looked like, sounded like, talked like. But I knew that in the game of word association, you would say his name and the first thing that would pop into your head is “women rabbis.” Or, if you’re more Haredi and linguistically inclined, “ruiner of the fabric of Judaism.”

Some hated him while many summarily rejected him with a “feh” and a wave of the wrist. 

One thing is for certain. Rarely is the word “rabbi” used before his name.

I met him for the first time last night. It was not what I was expecting. Worse, or better, depending on your perspective.

I am part of a fellowship for college students run by Yeshiva Chovavei Torah. Although I socialize and run with Open Orthodox friends, I still retain much of my Ultra-Orthodox beliefs. While I’m deeply conflicted on many Modern Jewish issues, I still end up in the men’s section with a high mechitza. But I attempt to allow other opinions to filter in, for the sake of nuance and truth.  

When the Moetzet made its pronouncement this week, I was where I am usually, on the fence. The Orthodox Rabbincal group issued an edict signed by many leading rabbis stating that Open Orthodoxy is not part of Orthodoxy. They “reject the tenets of our faith, particularly the authority of the Torah and its Sages.”

Coincidentally, this week’s speaker for the fellowship was Rabbi Avi Weiss. (They were scheduled months in advance.) I have never met him or heard him speak. I have never heard him speak and do not know what he looks like, but I was excited. For all the wrong reasons.

Seeing him amid this week’s controversy incited my pintele yeshiva bachur. My inner yeshiva student. The little man inside me who is a rabble rouser. A trouble maker. Someone who likes conflict. That’s what was on my mind as I spent the nearly two hours on three trains and a bus on my way to Riverdale. I was looking forward to see the ugly nature of this rabbi I kept hearing about.

The meeting was in Hebrew Institute of Riverdale. The Bayit, as its called. The house. We settled down in the study hall, ate a pizza dinner, and waited for Rabbi Weiss to arrive. As with any celebrity encounter, he was shorter and older than I had imagined. Also, much nicer. Unassuming, he walked in and started introducing himself to each fellow. He would ask their name, their school, and just exchange pleasantries. A sweetness emanated from his face and warm handshake.

We then set up our chairs into a circle around him and started to hear him speak about what’s needed in a rabbi and a Jewish leader. He spoke so softly that he would have to lean in to hear him.

He broke up the topic into three main foundations. We had our notebooks out, afraid to miss even a word from this great rabbi. I had mine out too, but mostly to doodle. I wasn’t convinced Rabbi Weiss would be someone I would care to listen deeply or remember for later. I was waiting for the right moment to attack.

The first foundational facet that leadership requires is the love of people. Loving Jews and non-Jews alike. All people. These were not the words I expected to come from the mouth of the person causing a schism in Orthodoxy. He offered the metaphor that Jews are family. If a family member acted in a certain way, rather than a Jew that we didn’t know, how would we respond? Speaking from personal experience, Rabbi Weiss explained that it has changed the way he interacted with people both in and out of his community.

The second aspect of leadership was more of a call to action. It was a call to action. Rabbi Weiss explained how leadership by definition change and how change was lonely but imperative. While he warned that people are resistant to change and that it could be lonely at times, leadership was important. At this point, he became more circumspect. He talked about loneliness and how the only antidote to the loneliness of being an innovator was his family. They stayed by his side and always supported him.

At this point, I started to actually take notes.

Rabbi Weiss then said that “after a speech, listeners should feel just a bit uncomfortable.” It was a nice idea, but I internally rolled my eyes. Of course this is what the provocative rabbi said. It wasn’t unexpected. The gears of my inner Yeshiva student were turning.

Then he talked about the third aspect, the soul of the Jewish people. Judaism should not be reactive, but proactive. Rather than reacting to something new, we should be pre-emptive and be sensitive to the needs of the community and the world around us.

After the talk, there was a question and answer session. My cohort asked a variety of questions, some about knowing when you might be wrong and have to step down.

Someone asked about schisms in the community. He talked about being hurt by some of the Rabbis that signed the Rabbinical Council of America’s edict that Open Orthodoxy, the movement that he founded, is “not a form of Orthodoxy” and that his ordination program for women, Maharat, does not confer Rabbinic Authority. Some of the signors were his former Rabbis at Yeshiva University.

At this point, he could have named names. We were listening intently and were obvious supporters of the cause, both by virtue of us being there and based on the fact that he had curried favored with us. If he would have spoken ill of any rabbi, we would have believed him. He had the power to besmirch rabbis that have embarrassed him in public. We were a small group in a closed off room. He could have gone in for the kill.

But he didn’t.

Even after being degraded by many leaders, after being named in countless op-eds as the person ruining Orthodoxy, he remained silent. Resolute, but silent.

He only talked about being hurt and wanting to increase dialogue with the various factions.

I am still not sure where my allegiances lie. But I do respect Rabbi Weiss for taking the high road. Regardless of how this debate within Orthodoxy ends, I will always cherish the opportunity to meet and interact with him.

I never thought I’d write this, but we need more leaders like Avi Weiss.

[reiterthewriter]

Reading Black Women in Public

“I’m so glad I saw a white guy reading Roxane Gay on the train.”

I was riding the G train early Saturday night and was reading Bad Feminist, Roxanne Gay’s essay collection. She’s a Hatian-American cultural critic and writer.

Her essays are about her personal experiences, on topics ranging from pop culture to feminism. Her blackness informs but doesn’t dominate her writing. I never saw it as a “black person’s book.” It’s more like a “bestseller that has been on my shelf that I’ve been ignoring too long.”

The comment makes me sad. She excitedly yelled it across the subway, like it was a huge deal. It shouldn’t be. Gay writes about personal experiences, but they are universal. Not belonging, being a mess, wanting to improve, rinse and repeat. Its not writing for black people any more than its writing for people.

It makes me sad that me reading a book by a black women is something worth noting. That it is progress.

It bums me out that a writer of accomplishment is and always will be labelled by her most identifiable trait: the color of her skin. That this is progress shows that we still have ways to go.

I’m bummed because its 2015 and this is New York City and people get excited when a white man reads a black woman’s book.

[reiterthewriter]

Rubber Band Experiment Taught Me How Wrong Gay Conversion Therapy Is - Opinion

“After slipping it on, I pulled the rubber band and released it so it hit me. I did it probably every 10 minutes. There was no system. But I wanted to keep doing it as a regular pace. At first, the rubber band didn’t hurt too much. Thin bands are more painful and I had a relatively thick one. But soon my wrist skin became sensitive and every snap increased the subsequent pain.”

The Forward published my personal essay.

[reiterthewriter]

Anti-Orthodoxy: A Collection of Experiences

This is a series of short essays with a central theme. While they are roughly in chronological order, they follow more of a narrative arc.

…

Dear storytelling host who introduced me as “The most Jewish man you’ll ever meet”,

I know, I know. You meant well. But good intentions are only slightly better than ignorance.

It’s your zany sense of humor, I know. You have a kind soul. You experienced the same thing, growing up in Miami or Greenwich, CT, or whichever place in White America you’re from. Maybe you experienced it as a girl. As a blonde. Heck, maybe someone even called you a ginger once. (What nerve!) But that’s not the same. Not even close.

Because now, every word I utter, every thought I will to have expressed in front of the audience, will be dirtied by your introduction. But that’s the wrong word. Introduction. You didn’t INtroduce me. You OUTroduced me. Outed me as something I didn’t ask to be outed as. Othered as someone I didn’t ask to be othered as.

You weren’t racist. You were something different. No better, no worse.

You labelled me. And that’s one of the worst things you can do to someone.  Label them. Box them into a confined space. You gave the world permission to look at me through the smallest possible frame.

And that’s unfair. No one gets to label another person. You don’t possess the power. And, as I write this letter to you, I try to reclaim my identity.

Maybe, when you hear about this letter from a friend, you will know my name. And I will have returned to my former status as Eli.

...

“These Jews buy up all these houses and keep it in their families and don’t tell anyone about the neighborhood so that they could keep it all for themselves.”

Tonight I went to a book release event at a bookstore. It was for the release of a guide book to Brooklyn. There was a panel discussion with three speakers. One was the editor in chief of the whole guidebook publishing house, another was a New York Times Bestselling author and New York Times columnist. These were well respected people in the literary world and beyond. One of the women wrote a memoir that is one of my favorites. She blends memoir, essay, and anecdote so beautifully. I was slightly in nervous fanboy-mode.

After the panel discussion there was a Q&A, where people asked questions about the best places for dates, Brooklyn’s biggest secrets, etc. An older man wearing a flannel shirt and khakis with a knapsack on his back raised his hand and was called on. He didn’t ask any questions so far as to just offer comments and observations.

“There are parts of Brooklyn that no one has ever been to. No one has ever heard of. That’s because these Orthodox Jews buy up houses and build them up and raise their families in them and don’t tell anyone about these neighborhoods. They keep ‘em secret from everyone else and keep it all to themselves.”

The three panelists, all of whom are articulate, fell silent. These are people who possess voices that have been heard on This American Life. And yet, nothing. Some of them even murmured agreement. The man went on. No one said, “now now” or “come on” or “ah, it’s not so simple”. No one offered a disagreement. These people of words were unable to publicly decry hate and ignorance. Their voices and words have been read by millions. And yet, nothing.

It was surreal, like I was in a room experiencing something totally different than the people around me. As I looked around, no one in the audience reacted. No one raised their eyebrows or folded their arms. What the actual eff?

Like, seriously? It was a book event on a Monday. There were 60 or so people, all of whom were educated. Does no one see what’s wrong with this? Apparently not. Sometimes you think you’re hallucinating. I really wish I was.

Once again, I return home disappointed. Heartbroken. Once again, I feel forced to write about it. Again. And again. And again. I’m tired of it and I don’t want to. But I refuse to shut up.

….

It happened again last night.

It keep happening. I’ve written about it before and I will keep writing about it whenever it does until it stops.

Last night, I attended a comedy show. Afterwards, I approached the host to thank him and compliment him on the job well done and the large audience. Just being friendly and cordial. We started talking and not three minutes in, the inevitable happened. He did the thing that people keep doing: He complained to me about a run-in he had with an Orthodox Jew. Being one myself, I must answer for my people.

As he aggressively harangued me, I nodded with forced empathy. Inside, I was raging. Yes, Jew in his story was wrong. But so was what was happening here. As the comedian told me with relish how he grabbed the guy’s black hat off him, swore at a man I don't know, and flung it “like a Frisbee”, I smiled and shared in his victory. But I could not have been more distant from another human being than I was in that moment.

This has to stop. This is a well-known New York comedian. We have over 50 mutual friends on Facebook. You would think he knows better.

I don’t know why this form of ignorance and intolerance is allowed and accepted. I am not answerable to my people as any other member of any other group is answerable to his or her people. Judge me for who I am and I will do the same in kind. Don’t, and I will hold my tongue. But that’s only because I don’t want to be around you any longer.

If you detect a tiredness in this post, it is because I am. I’m tired of making the same old arguments. Picking the same old fights. Beating the same dead horse. But I have no choice. Injustice still exists and I have no immediate plans of shutting up.

I will keep writing about it and talking about it until things change.

….

It's not all bad.

As my feet crushed the dry leaves in Prospect Park, I passed her. She had sea blue eyes and curly auburn hair. Our eyes locked while our bodies kept moving. We passed each other, took two steps, and turned back around.

“Do I know you?” We asked in unison.

Not really. She went to school with me. In a college of 25 thousand, we may have seen each other in the halls a few times. But we attended a club meeting together once. She didn’t remember my name or my major, but that wasn’t important. She remembered me.

“I’ve always respected you for wearing a kippah. Most people would have put it in their pockets when they leave the house. There’s just too much anti-Semitism and anti-Israel sentiment on campus.” We talked about it for a while. She’s religious, but hides it. But seeing me publicly perform as Jewish gave her comfort. She didn’t feel lonely anymore.

I write a lot about Anti-Semitism and Anti-Orthodoxy. The subject really bums me out. But this interaction made me warm inside. I’m happy I was able to help.

[reiterthewriter]

Brother Teresa

On the train home last night during rush hour, the car was relatively empty. All the seats were filled but there was plenty of standing room.

At one stop, four boisterous men got on. All over six feet, all possessing Nordic features, all wearing power suits. All talking loudly. The train continued underground as the end doors slid open, the ones that attach train car to train car. 

There is a music to it. The handle hitting metal, the sliding of the gates, the noise of the train at a higher volume. The humidity of the underground hit us. A man in a wheelchair wheeled himself in. He had an American flag flying behind him. Perhaps patriotism would help him in his panhandling efforts.

“Great,” I thought. “Him again.” I had seen him this morning and just wanted to be left alone. The four men paid him no mind. After saying something inaudibly in accented English, he wheeled his way through, hoping someone would stop him to give him a quarter. Nope. He made his way to the middle of the car, where the most alpha of alphas were standing.

“Excuse me,” he squeaked. One of the men looked down. “Sorry, dude.” The man wheeled around the group. “Wait man, one second.” One of the guys said. The man in the wheelchair paused.

A large muscular hand appeared in the broken plastic blue cup the man was holding. The hand held a fifty dollar bill.

“God bless you.”

Indeed.

[reiterthewriter]

A Jew Walks into a Bar...

There is nothing compared to seeing a headline to a link that reads “Two of NYC’s Most Notorious Landlords are Arrested.” My brain yells. PLEASEGODDON’TBEJEWISHDON’TBEJEWISHDON’TBEJEWISH. My sweaty palms click the link. I’m afraid to look. My eyes quickly scan the page as I look for a picture or a name or some identifiable feature that tells me who the landlords are.

There it is. A photograph. Two Chasidim in a courthouse, surrounded by people who are not their friends. They’re being led away. They are wearing the requisite long black coats, black hats, and side curls. Crap. A flood of emotions hit me. I’m sad. And I’m angry. And I don’t know how to respond to these feelings.

I know it will come up in a conversation with a non-Jew soon. Someone will approach me with complaints. As if I’m the one to blame. As if I’m the spokesperson for the Jewish people. I won’t know what to tell this man, who usually corners me at a bar, buying ten minutes of light anti-Semitism with a pint of beer. He usually has a story to back up his grievances. A run-in with a Jew. Sometimes it’s a car accident, a hit and run. Other times it’s his landlord who is not very nice to him. Maybe he once had a business deal with an Orthodox Jew that went sour.

But now I’m trapped, left to apologize and explain away someone else’s actions. I’m left to pick up the pieces. I usually respond with averted eyes, as loud pop music fills the pregnant silences. What am I supposed to say? What does he want me to say? What am I supposed to tell myself? I don’t know. I don’t know. I want to say that I’m not the spokesman of the Jews. That I’m not an elected representative. That I’m just a Jew who talks to Gentiles. That I can barely speak for Eli. That my head covering is not a license to come over with a litany of complaints. But I guess my head will always carry the mark of the other. I mumble apologies and try to down my beer as fast as possible.

[reiterthewriter]

Swag.

I was riding the F train home late last night. Usually, by the time we hit Church Avenue, most of the car piles out. That’s where the “normals” live. To my surprise, after the car emptied, a group of loud black teens got on. Oh no! Youths! Two girls and three guys. They were speaking loudly and one had a phone playing music for everyone to hear. A few were horsing around, dancing to the beat. I did was I always do, burying my face in my magazine, engrossed in middle of a long article about the mistreatment of women in Afghanistan. 

The group settles at the other end of the car. The train arrives at the next stop and suddenly I hear BOOM BOOM BOOM. I look up. One of the kids is running across the car, stomping loudly as he leapt with giant strides. He crouches and scoops up a hat on the floor He then runs back to the other side, stopping at one of the still open doors. “Yo!” he shouts. A man walking on the platform looks up. The kid throws the hat to the owner. The hat sails through the air as the doors close behind it. The man catches it and smiles. 

The young man joins his friends, reinvigorated with swag. I look at them in awe. As they pat him on the back and he wipes away the invisible dust on his lapel, he notices me smiling at him. He moonwalks over. Sitting next to me, he puts his hand out. We shake. I touch the epitome of cool. He returns to his friends.

[reiterthewriter]

What it means to be an “underprivileged” college student

First day of class and the professor hands out the still warm syllabi out to the class. Your blood runs cold. Your sweaty palms turn the pages. Past the course adjectives and schedules and office hours and requirements. You turn and turn until you find the most important part of the class. It will determine your grade. The section titled Books Required. Shit. You know that if there is a list you are screwed. That means more than one book. But maybe not. You’re hopeful. If the professor requires a number of books, maybe they’re trade paperbacks that you can find easily in the library. You see the first book. You skip the title and look at the year. If it came out less than five years ago, there is no hope. Shoot. Numbers and terms like “second edition” and “2015” are in bold. You’re screwed. You look up for a second to the front of the class. The professor is answering a question and pauses for a breath. You raise your hand and ask the embarrassing question you have no choice but to ask. The question that puts you in a group that the whole class is quite aware of. “Do we need the fourth edition?” The professor shifts in his seat. He almost rolls his eyes. “Whatever it says on the syllabus.” No!

After class, you rush to the library. You pray to Allah and Vishnu and Hashem that maybe the library has the book. I mean, come on. Everyone says how great your school library is. But, shocker. The history of the Balkans is not a popular book. Okay. Okay. Let’s not panic. You move to plan B. That fails. No public libraries in the five boroughs has it. And you’re expected to have read to page 87 by Thursday. What are you going to do? The book costs 80 dollars new and there are no used versions online. It only came out a month ago.

You do the only thing that’s left: an interlibrary loan. Your school library reaches out to other American libraries and, if you’re lucky, they will send over a copy to use for three weeks. This process takes twenty five days. You’re lost in class from day one. Terms and dates just roll over your head. You’re out of your element. And it’s only week two! Amazon has the first 20 pages online as a sampler. But by the time you discover that fact, the class is already past page 165. By the end of week three, you get an email. Your request has been fulfilled. Your book has arrived at your school library.

Excitedly, you approach the desk and give the bored librarian your card. You do the math. If you stay up all night tonight reading, you will catch up to maybe page 95. You’ll be a quarter of the way done and then you can read on the train and then when you get home and by the end of week four it will all be good. Great! Lying to yourself never felt this good. The librarian returns and you’re excited. Finally! The cloud of desperation breaks for a second as you mentally pat yourself on the back for gaming the system. Who pays for books? Psh! You momentarily forget how behind you are in class. The librarian takes your card again and checks out the book. You take your prized procession. Like the beginning of the Lion King, you hold up your new book. The spine gives a satisfying crack when it opens. You turn to the copyright page. You want to revel in your genius.

“First edition.”

You can never win.

[reiterthewriter]

Why Trevor Noah would make a great host (and why South Africans are amazing people)

I was slowly following the motorcycle deep into Cape Town, not sure where it was taking me.

It wasn’t a coincidence that I left for South Africa on Martin Luther King’s birthday. I wanted to learn about race in South Africa. As a student of history, I’ve always been interested in race and how we historicize it. Americans are notoriously euphemistic about their shaky racial past. We lie, deny, couch, and forget our history of slavery. Like scared cats, we don’t want to be honest and straight. Apartheid in South Africa ended just 20 years ago. How did people talk about race? I wondered. For me, it would be like going back to 50’s America. How did the races interact? Did having a black president, Jacob Zuma, matter? Did Mandela’s death matter? Did South African Whites admit OPENLY that they were part of a racist culture?

So, there I was, following Werner in his back leather jacket and helmet, driving his Harley slowly so I wouldn’t lose him in these windy streets. We were in Cape Town. But not in the Cape Town of rows of bars and tourist attractions. We were in Durbanville, a suburb of the "touristy" Cape Town. The Westchester to Cape Town’s Manhattan.

My quest for understanding the people led me to Couchsurf. I wanted to meet locals and talk to them. Plus, you know, money. Eight days did not leave me with a lot of time to soak in the local culture. I knew a few things about Motorcycle Man. First, he had a beard. Second, he drove a motorcycle. Third, I knew his name. Sounded vaguely German. But he sounded like a nice guy via email. According to his couchsurfing.comprofile, he liked metal music. Seemed like a fun dude. I waited at a nearby McDonald’s after getting lost and soon I heard the engine of the bike. We said our greetings and I walked to my rental car and followed him home.

That was around six PM. I had only landed two nights prior. I was super tired from jetlag and the lack of sleep from the previous night at the hostel. Earlier that day, I climbed a mountain and suffered heat exhaustion, making a wrong turn and walking up the ominously sounding Devil’s Peak. Near death experiences really wear me out. (Another story for another time.)

I got to bed a little after midnight.

Werner was a gracious host. As I munched on his passion fruits and lychee nuts, we talked and talked and talked. As the ashes from his chain smoked cigarettes floated to the floor, I hungrily cleared out his produce.‪#‎KosherTravelerProblems‬.

But I learned a lot about South Africa in our time together. And Werner displayed a few characteristics many of the South Africans I met had. We spent hours talking and talking and talking. They don’t hide from their past. In talking about Apartheid, not only are they honest and open about it but they are very matter of factly. Werner talked about having racist classmates as a child. About the reverse racism after Apartheid ended. About the lingering resentment that black people had. As a newcomer, I offered an ear. He knew so much, waxing poetic about the wars between the Dutch and various tribes. He made the interesting point that South Africa had the rare system where the minority was oppressing the majority. Werner was a good host. That was obvious. I slept really well on his extra mattress. But he taught me about South Africans. About their approach to tough subjects.

South Africans are an honest people.

Which brings me to Trevor Noah. He is from South Africa. And based off his semi-offensive tweets, he is brutally honest. Which I why we fell in love with Jon Stewart in the first place.

We are fans of the Daily Show not only because its funny. We watch it because it’s honest. Because clips of C-span and Fox News are played and we laugh even before Stewart has uttered a word. We watched Stewart to combat the obfuscation of the Bush White House. To cry on his shoulder after Obama broke our hearts. That is why we watch The Daily Show. He cuts through the noise.

Honesty is what we need in the host’s chair.

The last year’s news cycle has been dominated by one thing: race. From Ferguson to New York, Selma to the White House, the subject of race hovers in the American zeitgeist. We need someone to talk to us honestly about the ideas of racial struggles that persist in a “post-racial America”.

That is why we need Trevor Noah, a South African. Race plays a huge role in his comedy. He has a complex racial identity. His parents' relationship was even illegal at the time of his birth. His mother was jailed and fined by the South African government because she was half-white and his father was black.

We need his South African honesty, his fearlessness in approaching touchy subject matters.

Yes, the road to honesty is bumpy. His tweets are caustic. But so is Stewart. And that’s why we love him. And that is why he would make a killer host for the Daily Show.

[reiterthewriter]

Familiar Straphangers

I don’t know who noticed whom first.

There is this odd quirk I have on the subways. Maybe it comes from anxiety, maybe it comes from the strict Gentiles-will-kill-you education I had growing up. Maybe it’s because I think everyone is looking at me. Regardless, it’s this: I always look around on the subway. When people get on, when they get off, when there is silent tension at the guy with too much luggage, whatever. I’m monitoring the situation, at least in my train car. The air marshal of the underground.

Maybe it’s for the education. I learned how to dress based on how I saw other dress. What works and what doesn’t. New York is great for a cheap fashion education. A hint of observance can go a long way.

Being vigilant on the subway means that I often see the same people on a regular basis. The ones that take the last car on the F train from South Brooklyn to wherever. Their jobs, their lives, their destinations. And I remember their faces. Their postures. Their fashion choices. What they read.

But sometimes I see them elsewhere and don’t always know quite exactly where I know them from. I know that I know them, but not quite how I know them.

This leads to some unfortunately awkward situations.

There are people I see in the street, in the bookstore, or a myriad of places who just look familiar. I think I know them from somewhere. And, if I’m feeling courageous, I approach them.

“You look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?”

They invariably shake their head, no.

It’s even worse if I see them on the train. There is nowhere for me to escape. I cannot leave the air of awkwardness that I had just created.

I can’t ask them the question I’m really thinking.

“Do I know you from real life or just the F train?”

Recognizing someone from the train is too creepy. This city of eight million is supposed to be semi-anonymous. To challenge that implicit assumption is a paranoia-inducing.

I thought I was the only person who did this. Who studied and logged the faces if my fellow commuters. Until last night.

I was at a bookstore, attending a reading of a friend. His new memoir had just been released and I was there, supporting his endeavor. As I came late, I was standing in the back with a considerable crowd. There was a woman standing next to me. She was short with close cropped brunette hair. We kept looking up at each other. I felt a tingling.  She looks familiar.

Is it from literary circles? From storytelling? Radio?

Every few minutes we made eye contact, breaking New Yorker rule #1: never make eye contact.

I finally worked up the nerve.

“Scuse me, do I know you?”

She smiled and shrugged.

“I know you from the F train. We ride it together.”

“Wait, how did you know?”

“I always look around and notice my surroundings.”

Finally. Someone like me.

We talked for a few minutes like old friends. Or at least like people who share the same mundanity of life: riding the train.

Except we made a hobby out of it.

She asked me what my stop was. We spoke about where we both got off. About why we rode the train. What we loved, what we hated.

We said our goodbyes, but I know it’s only a matter of time till I see her on the train. I’m looking forward to it.

[reiterthewriter]

Youth

I was waiting on 191st street, waiting. Next southbound 1 train: 25 minutes.

Delays. Waiting. The New York subways on the weekend. There is nothing like it. It makes us hate the city. Hate ourselves. Most of us just sit, grit our teeth, and clutch our copies of the New Yorker. Most of us just accept our fate. Some mutter to themselves.

God, I have to get out of this city.

Across the platform, across the tracks, across the bars with the scribbles only the mole people with their hard hats can understand, I hear a noise.

There is a faint creaking of metal thirsty for oil. Followed by another sound of tire on tile. I look up.

There is a boy, no older than thirteen, riding his bike up and down the narrow platform. Ever so often, if there is enough room between him and the wall, he arches his back and pulls the handlebars towards him. The wheel goes up. Houston, we have liftoff.  

He is popping wheelies.

Back and forth. Using the small empty space as a park.

He reaches the wall and turns around. Once again. The inevitable acceleration. His feet pedal and pedal, rubber soles forcing the bicycle in motion. His calves feeling an ever so slight burn.

The jerking of the front wheel. The brief liftoff. The tenuous balance of a bike at a 45 degree angle.

He is flying! Saying screw you to gravity.

All the while the adults sit there, bored with themselves, bored with the city, bored with the years that have brought them to this point.

He fought gravity and won, but there is another battle he conquered. The one with reality. He created an imaginary world and saw beautiful things that most people would never even dream of.

Boys will be boys.

[reiterthewriter]

Construction Worker

The ground was cut open.

On the west side of Manhattan, as children left the theater school of LaGuardia, cohorts of men were operating. They were doing surgery on the ground. With their orange vests and yellow hats, they demanded authority. Passersby did not question the instructions to walk around the work site. To go through a maze of meshed wired fencing and concrete barricades.

Rush hour, at least here, was slowed.

The able bodied surgeons stood in groups. Some supervising and but most just watching. The ground was bare chested. Wires pointed in many directions. Pieces of pipe were in disarray. The concrete told a story of a forced entry.  Jagged edges made vertical columns. The men were triumphant, proud of the mess they had made.

One man in particular stood out. He was skinnier than the others, but no less manly. His goatee and bronze skin shined in the light from the setting sun. His hands rested on his hips. He stood over the fault, one foot on each side. His blue jeaned legs were far apart. Like God and his creation, he was surveying his handiwork.

He looked around. His eyes squinted, making sure no one was watching. Nope. The coast was clear.

He slowly reached into his jacket pocket. His right hand emerged, holding a long thin sugared rope.

Laffy Taffy. Quickly, he stuffed it into his mouth, confident than no one had seen him. 

[reiterthewriter]

South Brooklyn

The F train tumbles along, hitting nameless detritus as I fight to stay awake. It is shipping me south, to Brooklyn. 

The subway always makes me queasy, as I feel like my commuter comrades are smarter and more successful then me. I feel like an ignorant in my own country, my own city, even my own county. I grew up in Ultra-Orthodox Brooklyn. My fellow riders are from the other Brooklyn. It’s nearing midnight and my neighbors are people unfortunate to be out this late while living in hipster flyover country, the area of Brooklyn no one ever heard of. The Brooklyn of Hasids, Russians, and weirdoes. The part of Brooklyn that is so south, you have to ask the guy sitting in front of the map on the train to move over so you can see where you live. The part that people think is in Queens. The Brooklyn that will outlive Girls and Whole Foods and Fair Trade coffee. That Brooklyn.

The car is about seventy percent full. The cold is a fleeting member of the train. The doors open. It visits. There is Latino man texting, his jeans speckled with paint. His pierced eyebrows are slightly raised. I wonder what he is writing, maybe he’s telling his family things are going well. Even though they aren’t. Living in Bumblefuck Brooklyn in an overcrowded apartment while working for a boss who is skimming off his salary.

A skinny white man is standing next to his bike, clutching on for dear life. It’s his fixed gear bicycle, the vogue mode of transport. His lifeline to White Brooklyn. But this bike is different. There is a plastic cover over the back wheel, a way for the bike to go faster and look cooler. It’s idiosyncratic, even for the affectation that one is accustomed to in Brooklyn. But there is a quality in his eyes, a look that is mildly apologetic. He knows he is a pariah, bringing a bike on the train. There’s a quality of fear as well, as if he is sharing his final moments with his bike. It may be stolen at any moment. This is New York. Worse, this is South Brooklyn.

A chubby man in a pea coat and leather cap talks to an older woman next to him. He looks vaguely hermaphroditic. Is that his mom? His aunt? The fat rolls masks his gender as he talks about cooking and Broadway shows. The older woman smiles kindly. She clearly loves him (or her?) She shows her pride. Such nachas. He (or her) gesticulates wildly as the heart pendant around his neck shakes and sways. He (or her?) has a pin in his lapel. Not an American flag like politicians. But a yellow minion figure, from the film Despicable Me. Throughout this time, his leather worn cap remains firmly on his head.

There’s a brown lady with a brown bag sitting next to me on the blue subway benches. Another minority.

The automated train keeps chugging, the cold impersonal announcements mirroring the cold impersonal relationships in this interim community.

The machine, like the people, is impervious to its surroundings. Her bag reads Michael Kors. Is her curly hair wet or is that product? Does she accept the fate of genetics or does she fight back? Her bags falls over as the train jolts ahead. It grazes my arm. Finally, there’s some connection between me and someone else.

We are both a slave and master to this city of nine million. We complain about it and curse at it in the worst of times. But we also miss it when we leave and relish the few moments it is charitable to us. When the train is on time. When we find a seat. When we see a friend on the 4. These mere moments keep us going in this cold city. This time, it was the simple bag making contact. I love New York. If not forever but for these tiny moments.

[reiterthewriter]

Leaving the Bubble

We sit across from each other, the shaky wooden table between us. It’s sticky. I could hear the sounds of the elevated train passing through. It was headed to a foreign land, Manhattan. I’m reading a book while my client sits across from me, writing an essay. A Chasid saunters over.

“Who’s the rebbi and who’s the talmid?”

He’s probably just being stupid. Being a troll. They aren’t used to seeing any studying of non-religious books here in Borough Park.

“I’m sorry, we’re busy.”

“Nu, vut do you teach?”

“Everything. English, math, Science, Social Studies, everything.”

“Hmm.”

That morning I was early for a change. I got out of the house with ten minutes to spare. As I walked the five blocks to the train, I realized that I had forgotten my cell phone. But I didn’t want to risk being late. So I walked to the stop. As I approached, I saw a train pass. Darn. Just missed it. I climbed up the metal stairs but could not see the train coming. One could see the train from a few stops away, usually. But this time, there were no approaching trains in site. Bummer. I was waiting and enjoying the warm sun on my face. But then I noticed a familiar face walking up the metal stairs. Moshe was an acquaintance I knew from Rabbinical Seminary. He lived in the area and I would see him periodically. But he wasn’t always a welcome site. He is a Syrian American Jew, the one with an affected Brooklyn accent. In accord with many Syrians, he works in apparel. He’s in “shoes”, whatever that means.

I wasn’t that happy to see him because of a run in three years earlier. I was in middle of my first semester at Hunter College and I was struggling. I was not prepared for the heavy course load. My religious education did not offer the, ahem, foundation for success in a mainstream institution. I was considering dropping out.

We saw each other on the F train and he asked me what my major was. “Philosophy.”

“Philosophy? That’s heresy! How can you study that? They’re all Atheists!”

Ah, the knee jerk reaction to an area they knew nothing about. Yes, every December, Jews celebrate Chanukah, the celebration of the triumph of the Jews over the Greeks. We learned that it was less a physical war than an intellectual won. The Greeks lost. Therefore, Greek thought was apikursis, heresy.

I needed encouragement and all I received was hostility.

Since then, I’ve seen him in passing but we were never together in the same place. I usually passed his thin frame on the street, walking by.

Then, today, I see him walking up the stair, wearing a pea coat and a tan scarf. We make small talk.

“What are you doing these days?”

The standard Jewish question, laden with assumptions that you must be making money and/or immersed in Torah study.

“I’m a senior at Hunter, about to graduate.”

“In what?”

“History.”

“What, you wanna teach?” He smiled ruefully. Teaching and secular education, two things he didn’t approve of. They didn’t make money or help your soul, so what was the point?

“Maybe. But I want to work in the business world for a year before graduate school.”

Soon, the train comes and we talk about his own experience getting a bachelor’s degree in business. It was a joint program between local college and the seminary in Maryland. He shrugged.

“I didn’t learn much. Learnt everything on the job. It’s not like History where it’s easy to learn in a classroom.”

We started speaking about my next year’s plans. I asked if his company was hiring.

“Why, are you looking for a job?”

“Well, I want a year off before grad school. And I wonder what the business world is like.”

“If you wanna be smart, to be good at business, teachers make money by opening education companies.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, do your own thing. Start a company and make money from that.”

Luckily, my stop came. I exited and walked down the stairs to the bagel shop just a few hundred feet away from the subway.

Now, here I was, sitting before a young man of 19 soldiering through a practice SAT essay.

It was only three years ago to the day that I took my SAT. The feelings of anxiety and loneliness were pervasive as I too went on this rite of passage, taking the SAT. Every American does this. It’s the American Bar Mitzvah. You take it and then you are a Man. Sometimes you have to take it twice to become a man.  But no one in Yeshiva did. My classmates, save for a few, didn’t go to college. That’s the source of evil and sex and evolution. I couldn’t wait.

His test is on March 15, 2015. Mine was on March 12, 2102.

Three years ago to the day, I was practicing myself. I, too, was alone, drinking coffee less than a mile from here.

For me, the SAT was my ticket out of the Shtetl. To college. It was a college readiness exam. And I wanted to prove to the world that I am, in fact, ready for college. To say that I am, in fact, ready to enter the annals of America. The stories institution of America’s storied institutions.

A few weeks before the test and I was buckling down. Wherever I went, my flash cards were within reach.

loquacious, abhorrent, malleable, tedious

But I was ramping things up.

It was a Saturday night and the Sabbath ended early, around 7. But it was too late to travel far from the neighborhood because most coffeeshops that were away from the prying eyes of Jews would be at least an hour away. The big blue books of the SAT attracted unwanted attention.

Without a choice, I headed to the one area of presumed avant-gardism in all of Borough Park:

Starbucks.

Sure, it was filled with Chasidim and Russians, the mainstays of the neighborhood. Distractions. But I needed a table to work on. The jazz music was getting louder and louder and I was getting more and more perturbed. What is the area of a triangle? Which sentence completion is correct? Shoot, is the answer undermine or underscore?

As I was growing frustrated and increasingly sensitive to the noises around me, I started playing with the unopened sweetener packets in front of me. I purposely left my phone at home so this was the best distraction available to me. I made lines of mock coke and just tinkered with it, making a ghetto version of a zen garden.

Waves of anxiety hit me. Is this going to work? Will I be successful? Will I do well on the SAT and get into college?

The test was a week away.

 That was three years ago. The test went well. Luckily, with the help of countless teachers and helpers, I’m on the cusp of graduating from college.

Now I’m sitting across from someone else who was in a similar situation. A Yeshiva-educated student who wants a better life. To go to college and experience America for all its wonder. To have the basic knowledge needed to be a full-fledged member of American society.

Enter random Chasid. He wasn’t being a troll. He was genuinely curious. He saw us poring over thick books with softcovers. He saw the magic. He didn’t know what he was looking at but he wanted in.

The man wanted to know how someone leaves without leaving. That is, going onto better things without abandoning one’s faith.  To enter America without leaving the security of the Shtetl. Sure, Chasidim go on to college. But usually they’re ex-Chasidim. Can one still be religious and go to college?

We got to talking. He lamented his own life choices. Working for his in-laws, not getting an education. Now he’s in his mid-30’s and doesn’t know anything.

I shook my head and listened to him. Because I was in his shoes in the not so distant past. Soon, we said our goodbyes and I returned my attention to the student across from me.

He was still working hard, using historical figures like Rosa Parks to prove a point to a faceless grader.

A minute later, another Chasidic man approached our table.

“I overheard your conversation. Can I have your number? My nephew might need your help. He also wants to learn this stuff.”

[reiterthewriter]

South Africa Day 1, Part 3

As it got darker, I needed to get to bed. The lack of sleep, being on the opposite end of the world, and the jetlag made a bad combination. It was time to head back to the sweatbox. I aid goodnight to the Zimbabwean doctor sitting on the opposite couch. Arching my back, I left the hostel lounge and rounded the corner to my single room. Fishing for my key, I found it in my back pocket.

I picked it up and really, for the first time, examined it. It was a simple key, one that I would not even trust my diary with. With one simple pattern that should evade intruders, all my valuable were “secure”. My money, my laptop, my US passport. All that at the mercy of the shitty key Gods. The key looked pretty banged up as it was. There was a keychain attached to it. A plastic piece with a crude drawing of  zebra on it. It said a foreign word but I still had no idea where I was. The zebra was really a hint to what was to come. A crystal ball for my trip to South Africa. It held my trip’s goal and inner desire: to see animals.

I came to my door, room #A9. The door has a crude painting of a penguin. Who did this, a child? The paint was obviously chipping and the door had not been kept up. I slid the key into the hole and felt how loose it shook. This was not a perfect fit. I turned the key. It loosely moved but I didn’t hear anything latch open. I guess it was secure after all. That is the one of the good things about a poor quality lock, I guess. I silently prayed to the key gods and danced a bit with the keyhole. In and out. In and out.I turned it this way and that. This day has been so crazy already. Obviously, the door won’t open and I will be locked out. Finally, the door opened and I walked in.

Ah, my chalet. My villa. At 380 Rand, a relatively large sum, I expected a nicer room. But this arrangement was not made under great circumstances. It was made under duress, after having no place to sleep. I closed the door and switched the half-lock. At least with my body here, it will be intact. It was warm. The window was open but it was 90 degrees. Just 48 hours earlier, I had travelled to the airport in snow boots. This was not Kansas.

I put my little things in the top drawer of the dresser. I pulled the blankets away and lied down. The springs creaked. The sheets were off white. Not originally, but time had dyed it. I tried to make myself comfortable. I was overtired and anxious and nervous but glad to be in a semi-safe place to sleep.

The hard pillows weren't helping as I chose an activity that might help me sleep. I took my laptop out and double-clicked a pirated episode of Brooklyn Nine Nine.

I tried to sleep. The video was a welcome distraction from my anxiety and I soon fell asleep in the already sweaty sheets.

Soon I heard loud knocking. Shit! Who was it? I tried to stay as quiet as I could. There was a man yelling in Zulu. Fuck! Was he trying to rob me? All the internet’s chatter about the dangers of South Africa came to mind. I stayed alert to play dead.

After about thirty minutes of knocking, it soon stopped. I was safe. But I stayed awake till sunset, too wired to sleep. Soon enough, the roosters started bearing witness to the sun’s appearance and I soon forced myself out of bed.

It was time for day 2 of my vacation.

[reiterthewriter]

Being a Liberal Racist

http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2015/02/09/dont-like

How could a person like me be nervous?

As the 1 train comes up for air above ground in Harlem, I stop to contemplate my surroundings. The article I’m reading sucks all the reality out of me.

The train has orange teaspoons for seats, the ones where you can either stand or annoy the person sitting next to you. I had just left an Upper West Side party, where privilege was palpable. It was in the air but on no one’s lips.

There was a man at the party who shared the same first name as I, a large rotund man with a Trump-like comb over. “Who are YOU? Who do you know here?” He had me cornered in the large room, where he made small talk with both everyone and no one. It was as if he was saying, “What are YOU doing here”? What was I doing there? I didn’t know. I soon left to go my friend’s place. It would be a more relaxed and quiet affair.

As the 1 train careened towards Harlem, I felt smug. Those Upper West Siders don’t care about anyone but themselves. I continued reading the critical essay in the back of the New Yorker. It put my internal conflict into words. At least in terms this soon-to-be liberal arts graduate can understand.  What is the cause of poverty and crime in black communities? Is it institutional racism or self-perpetuating cultural cycles? Sociologists have a name for these camps: those who emphasize the role of institutional racism and economic circumstances are known as structuralists, while those who emphasize the importance of self-perpetuating norms are called culturalists.

It’s a review of an anthology of scholarly writings on black culture. I am getting more and more excited as I continue to read it.

I remember a quote from Chris Rock. “Progress doesn’t mean black people got better. White people were crazy and now they are just less crazy.” As I look around at the surprisingly crowded 1 train, I realized I’m surrounded by African Americans. The theory in my hands matched the reality all around me. The train stops at 145th and I walk across the Manhattan Island just under a mile to my friend’s apartment. My feet walked on the cracked sidewalks of James Baldwin’s former kingdom. But a weird feeling arose in my chest: fear. As I crossed eastward over Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard, I wrestled with these feelings. How could liberal me feel fear? Does that make me racist? How can I be scared here and also intellectualize these complex issues? I don’t know. I’m sorry. And I’m not. I don’t know what to feel.

It’s not a feeling I’m proud of. To quote Chief Keef, this is the stuff I don’t like [about myself]. But I do know that I will continue to look inward to find the source of these feelings. And to continue to look outward and read and seek and ask. And maybe, only maybe, will I find the answer. Until then, I’m sorry.