Yitzy hasn’t asked about his dad yet. Only once did he look up at me after swooping gleefully down the playground slide, fixing inquisitive eyes on me and asking seriously, “Daddy and you aren’t fighting anymore, right?”
“No, no more fighting,” I said with a smile. “Mommy’s happy now. Are you happy?”
He nodded his head quickly and ran off to join the other children at the monkey bars. His new short haircut, free of side curls, made him look just like every other American kid, and I felt a profound satisfaction at seeing him blend in, knowing he felt the kind of easy social comfort I never had.
It was shame that kept me as far away from Williamsburg as I could get, that first year. Every time I glimpsed the familiar Hasidic costume from across a busy city street, I would cringe inside, as if I were the one being spotted by an outsider. I couldn’t bear to be reminded of my past. I discovered quickly the true opinions of outsiders who interacted with Hasids; people described them to my face as pushy, offensive, and unhygienic, never guessing that I might be taking the criticism personally. I was too horrified to tell anyone where I came from, but eventually the truth would always surface, and panic would always accompany that moment.
It takes a long time for shame to fade away, but surprisingly, underneath it there is pride. When I finally did return to Williamsburg as my new self, I was wrapped in a scarf and sunglasses to avoid being recognized, but I strolled through the outskirts of my old neighborhood awed by the sense of distance I now felt toward what had once been my only home. I finally saw my life with estranged eyes, and suddenly my past struck me as wildly colorful and exotic. What had once seemed to me the most intolerable version of mundane life was now transformed into a rich and mysterious history. I had spent my childhood longing for the suburban backdrop of a stereotypical American upbringing because nothing could have seemed more foreign at the time, and later I discovered that those American girls searched vigorously throughout their formative years for unique experiences that would define them as different, a struggle they found endlessly frustrating. They view me with a somewhat jealous eye, because despite its difficulties, my life has marked me indelibly with the tattoo of distinctiveness.
It was while walking along the recently renovated Kent Avenue that I reflected on how neatly the tables had turned. The landscape of my childhood had drastically changed. The run-down warehouses had been replaced by shimmering glass condominiums, and hipster men in tight jeans hunched over their bicycles as they whisked past me. I realized that everything I had dreamed of as a child had come true. I had stood here once, at the river’s edge, longing to be transported to the other side of it. I had longed to find purchase in that world of toppling height and breathtaking brightness and renounce any connection to Brooklyn. I still don’t like visiting Brooklyn, no matter which part of it, for that reason. Too much time spent there and I begin to feel trapped. But I visit occasionally, simply for the pure thrill of delicious memory and the satisfaction of knowing that part of what makes my fairy-tale ending so glorious is its very improbability. Even Roald Dahl could not have dreamed up such a journey as this. I have freed myself from my past, but I have not let go of it. I cherish the moments and experiences that formed me. I have lived the story.
What twenty-four-year-old gets to say that to herself, that all her dreams have come true? What more could I truly ask of life? There are days when I am full to bursting with gratitude for having come so far, farther than I ever even dared to anticipate. And although the excitement of trying new things fades with repetition, the excitement of freedom never fails to gratify me. Each time I exercise it, I feel a separate joy that curls through my limbs like syrup. I never want to give up even a fraction of that wonder.
Epilogue
The finely attired man who delivers my breakfast sets it up on the wrought-iron balcony, lifting the silver dome covering my oatmeal and berries with a flourish. I’m sure he is wondering why one comes to New Orleans to order oatmeal, but after two days of crawfish in butter sauce, I’m craving the familiar comforts of home. It’s the café au lait that I can barely wait to taste though, creamy, sweet coffee that I can’t seem to find anywhere in New York City but which reminds me of the coffee of my childhood, served up in pitchers in school and summer camp. I realize now that the coffee they served us was mixed with chicory, just like it is here, which explains why they would feed it even to the younger children. How delightful to discover something I have in common with this strange and beautiful city. We like our coffee done the same way, you New Orleanians and us Hasids.
I have discovered more similarities between the world I grew up in and this city suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. The thick, invisible barriers between the races remind me of Brooklyn, where everyone knew their place, and the places never mixed. The intimacy in this city, the way everyone seems to know each other, reminds me of Williamsburg. Perhaps the world I grew up in is not so unique after all but simply the product of living in the past. Like New Orleans, a city that lives in its history, what is Williamsburg but a re-creation of a deceased ideal?
After the man departs, I pour coffee from the silver pot and pull my chair to the edge of the balcony, looking out onto Chartres Street at seven a.m., only moments after the celebrating crowds have departed to their various rooms to sleep off the alcohol.
The cabdriver asked me where I was going to party this weekend. I don’t drink, I told him, and I don’t party. Instead, I want to see the city, and not the part they show the tourists, but the real city. I want to meet the people who have lived here all their lives, and I want to hear their stories.
I should have explained to the driver that it was my first time traveling on my own, my first time traveling to a city with no Hasidic residents, with few kosher restaurants. It is my first time traveling without the Orthodox costume, and without the intention of limiting myself to the permitted experiences. Would he have understood just how monumental an occasion this was? Why would he, when hundreds of people pile into his cab a week, asking to be delivered to Bourbon Street? Travel isn’t a luxury to most people; it’s something they take for granted.
I have not taken this trip for granted. Yesterday a man with pale blue eyes and a cross dangling from his neck offered to buy me a drink. When I told him I didn’t drink, he looked at me appraisingly and said he didn’t either. I don’t know if I believed him. It’s not because I’m an alcoholic, I said, it’s just because I want to remember everything. He showed me his house, which he had restored all on his own after Katrina. He showed me his shotgun collection. When he dropped me off at my hotel at four in the morning, I let him kiss me.
Now, over my pale, silky cup of café au lait, I’m faced with the realization that this is my last day here. Surely I will do this many times in my life, get on a plane and go somewhere, just like I dreamed of as a child, with no one to hold me back or tell me what I can’t do or where I can’t go. I comfort myself with that knowledge. I no longer have to yearn for the impossible; my life stretches before me now like a series of adventures yet to be lived. My wildest fantasies are slowly coming to life before my eyes.
So here is the epiphany, a full year after I made the break. What a hard year it was, adjusting to a world I was never really prepared for. I was a fish out of water, I remember, waiting for someone to rescue me and return me to the ocean. I would walk on the street dressed like a gentile and it would seem as if everyone was staring at me, that they could tell I was different. I didn’t know how to get rid of the sense of difference. I was wearing the right clothes and I had grown out my hair long and full, but what if it was in my face, on my forehead, written for all to see? I would peer into the mirror, struggling to identify the parts of me that could call attention to themselves. Was it my nose? I wished to be blond-haired and blue-eyed, to be generic and blend into a crowd. I couldn’t wait for the day when I would be invisible.
My paranoia has since faded, but it has never completely disappeared. I yearn for anon
ymity, but I want to be special. I struggle to be normal and dream of being extraordinary. This is one of the many dichotomies of my life now. I am not in my old world and I am not in my new one, so I have created a little island for myself, in which I am both my past and my future, where they come together to form my present, pregnant with possibility.
Still, there hasn’t been that day, that day that I thought would come sooner, when I would wake up and think, This is the day when I realize it was all worth it. Everything I sacrificed, everything I endured, justified.
I have broken free of all my bonds, both the physical and the intangible. Free from my own traumas, I no longer manifest the physical symptoms of anxiety; instead I can understand my feelings and accept them, let myself be. I think sex is something to be liked, but I think the person one is having sex with is to be liked more. I don’t ever want to feel obligated again. I celebrate my independence, my ability to make my own romantic choices, and men laugh and call me bossy, but it’s true; I like to call the shots.
For a while I thought I could un-Jew myself. Then I realized that being Jewish is not in the ritual or the action. It is in one’s history. I am proud of being Jewish, because I think that’s where my indomitable spirit comes from, passed down from ancestors who burned in fires of persecution because of their blood, their faith. I am Jewish; I am invincible. I feel this more than I ever did, like I have come home into myself, and God is no longer a prescription for paradise but an ally in my heart.
Here in this city so far from my home, I realize that the day has come. It is this morning, drinking sweet chicory coffee on a balcony overlooking the lonely efforts of street cleaners hosing down the debris of the previous night’s revelries. Was it not for this that I left? This freedom, to be so completely released from ties that I could go anywhere, be anyone, do anything? Finally, it comes, the certainty I have been waiting for. It knocks at my door bearing café au lait in a silver pot, saying, “You’ve made it.” This is why I did it.
For those of you who shove words like sinner and heretic in my face, the ones who ask, “How dare you?” let me just say, I dare because I am free. I own myself, and so I have full power to make decisions that concern me. And if you want that too, that’s okay, because that’s something we all deserve. Even if they tell you different.
Acknowledgments
This book is a result of many people’s efforts, least of which is my own. I would not be the writer I am today were it not for my agent and mentor, Patricia van der Leun, whose advice has always steered me in the right direction. I am grateful to my editor, Sarah Knight, who turned my manuscript into a book worth reading. I am in awe of the whole team at Simon & Schuster who took the time to help me make this book the best it could be. I thank Molly Lindley, to whom I am forever indebted for her dedication and efficiency; you untangled all the knots for me, a first-time author still feeling her way in the dark. Thank you to Brian, Kate, and Jessica, for your enthusiasm and patience. Thank you to Nancy Singer, Monica Gurevich/Julie Metz Ltd., Sybil Pincus, and Peg Haller, who are responsible for making this book actually look like one. I have felt spoiled by all of you.
Thank you to Carolyn Ferrell, for allowing me to use your writing workshop as a personal sounding board for the early beginnings of this memoir. Your guidance, as well as the thoughtful feedback of my classmates at Sarah Lawrence, was invaluable. Special thanks are owed to Katherine Quinby Stone, Adam Singer, and Julia Sternberg, whose sincere relationship with my work meant the world to me. You were my first readers.
My gratitude to Sarah Lawrence, the institution that gave me my first opportunity to make something of myself, is indescribable. Thank you, Joann Smith, for giving me the chance at a quality education. Thank you to the wonderful professors who pushed me to discover myself, to Carol Zoref, Ernest Abuba, Neil Arditi, and Brian Morton. Thank you, Paulette, for being at the same place at the same time, so that I could be inspired by your courage and faith. Without you, I would not be where I am today. The same applies to all the wonderful men and women who were my first friends and allies in a strange world; I will forever be grateful for your support and understanding.
Thank you, Diane Reverand, for convincing my agent to give me a shot. Thank you, Amanda Murray, for being the first person in publishing to believe in my book wholeheartedly. The same goes for David Rosenthal, who took the time to meet with me, a gesture that touched my heart.
Thank you to Sandra and Rudy Woerndle and Kathryn and Jon Stuard, who extended a helping hand to me when I was still struggling to find my footing. I am grateful for the support of the wonderful group of women I met in Midland, Texas.
I would like to thank Patricia Grant for taking me on pro bono even when the odds were stacked against me. You inspire me to be a stronger, better woman.
Thank you, Juliet Grames, BJ Kramer, Joel Engelman, Malka Margolies, Claudia Cortese, Amy Donders, and Melissa D’Elia for being great friends and mentors at the same time. Also, many thanks to my fellow rebels, whose stories of both hardship and triumph helped lessen the pain of isolation from my family and community. It’s been an incredible journey, one that would not have been possible without even the smallest contributions from my fellow travelers.
I am so fortunate to have my son; from the day he was born he became the inspiration for this journey, and if it hadn’t been for his coming into my life, I would not have found the strength and determination to accomplish what I did. I can’t wait to watch you grow up into an incredible young man, and I hope I can be the mother that you deserve to have.
Lastly, I thank my mother, who has supported me throughout all my writing efforts, even though I know it can’t have been easy for her. I consider myself lucky to have the freedom to write this book, and I hope it makes a difference in the lives of others. Thank you for reading.
About the Author
Deborah Feldman was raised in the Hasidic community of Satmar in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn, New York. She attends Sarah Lawrence College and lives in New York City with her son.
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