I’m in the middle of davening Mincha in an empty classroom. I’m a college sophomore, but it’s my first semester in a secular university. I have no idea how I’ll handle the situation if someone comes in and sees me bowing and muttering to what looks like a book. My mission: Don’t. Get. Caught.
When I hear the door open in the middle of Shemonei Esrei, I freeze. Uh oh.
I met these students earlier, so they are more likely to talk to me. Mission failed.
They are asking me a question. Ladies and gentlemen, at this point, we are past “uh oh.” We are now down right in trouble!
“Hey, Rena, right? Is there going to be a class in here now?”
Ah! Hashem, why? What do I do? What do I do? I can’t talk. I can’t even move. Lest we forget, I’m in the middle of Shemonei Esrei! But they won’t understand that.
I nod my head.
“Do you know in about how long? Or if there’s going to be a class in the room across the hall?”
Oh, no. They’re getting specific. Come on, Rena. You’re smart enough to handle this. Think, Rena. Think. I slowly shrug my shoulders.
Genius.
The two students look at each other. They sense something is off. I’m not kidding when I say that they literally start walking away backwards. I wouldn’t be surprised if they ran once the door was closed.
Just wait until you hear about how I handled the situation when one of them confronted me the next day.
“Yeah, so you’re okay… right? Like, back in the classroom…”
“Oh, ha!” I laugh. “Yeah, you were probably so weirded out. I just couldn’t talk because I… had a seriously bad case of laryngitis. If I had tried to talk, I would have sounded like a smoker or something! Ha!”
If I had had an audience at the time, I’m sure they’d be rolling their eyes at this point. Really, Bais Yaakov girl? That’s the best you could come up with?!
If you want to judge me for lying, go right ahead. But, number one: I was 19, and I had no idea what to do. And number two: At least it was a funny lie.
Still, I asked myself later why I lied. It wasn’t because I wanted to be accepted. Like most Orthodox Jewish students in a secular setting, I just wanted to get in and get out. My college education was just that: school. I came for classes, then went straight home. So why didn’t I tell them who I was? What was I afraid of?
As I thought about the answer, I came to several conclusions. First, as Jews, we usually strive not to be the center of attention. I didn’t want the attention that being different than the majority of students in my university would give me. It’s my business, and no one needed to know. I felt that this concept helps Jews remain separate from secular society. Don’t be personal. Don’t try to forge connections.
Next, I was afraid of the responsibility on my shoulders. What if they ask me questions? What if I don’t give good enough answers, ones that they’ll understand? One miscommunicated statement could lead a secular student to negatively judge all Jews. That scared me.
Ultimately though, I was afraid of what reactions I would get once I told someone that I was Jewish. What if they were anti-Semitic? What if they tried to hurt me? I’ve heard so many horror stories, and I didn’t want to be one of them.
Then, something happened that changed my mind. In one class, we were given an assignment to choose a chapter from the class readings to analyze and write about. The author of the book was an unaffiliated Jew. As you can imagine, some of his perspectives on morality conflicted with mine. But one really hit home. In one of the chapters, the author discussed ethical hypocrisy. He stated that while mothers have a biological inclination to love and nurture their children, look at the Jewish women during the Holocaust who smothered their crying babies in closets while hiding from the Nazis. This made me angry. Though we didn’t discuss that specific portion in class, I knew that everyone in my class had read it (we were quizzed on every chapter each class) and I could not let them think this. I could not let this author indoctrinate the world with these misconceptions. Not while I had an opportunity to fight it.
So that’s what I chose to write about. I countered the author’s insensitive and cruel comparison. To do so properly, I called a well-known rav with questions regarding the topic I was writing about. I remember telling him that I feared that the non-Jews wouldn’t get it and that it would elicit a negative reaction against Jews. But the rav wasn’t worried. He believed that they would understand and told me to go ahead. So, I wrote it. I used writing as my weapon, put power into my words, and concluded confidently. After my professor read it, he told me how much he loved it, and he mentioned it to the class. Needless to say, I got an A. But really, I got more. I championed who I was. Who we are.
This became a basis for the rest of my experiences in the secular world when it conflicted with my Jewish one. When men asked to shake my hand, including professors, I answered, “I can’t because I am an Orthodox Jew, and we don’t shake hands with the opposite gender.” When they asked me why, I answered that it was to sanctify marriage. They always respected it.
In my last year of undergraduate school, a professor asked me to put on a presentation about Pesach. (His sister had converted to Judaism, so he could tell that I was Jewish.) I created a PowerPoint and taught my class basic concepts about Pesach. All of the students were respectful and appreciated the presentation. I realized that, generally, non-Jews are just curious. They have no idea who we are. From the unknown, comes fear. And sometimes, from fear, comes violence. So I made sure to always carry myself in a way that would teach them, even when I wasn’t writing or presenting anything.
When I entered law school, my experience changed a little bit. Instead of professors asking me to present my cultural differences, the differences came out in debates. Students and teachers knew I was Jewish because, in class, I had to notify my teachers of when I would be absent due to Jewish holidays. In my first year of law school, I volunteered to debate my fellow students on the concept of assisted suicide. I listed valid reasons and theories for why I believed it was illegal. The majority of my class debated against me and voted otherwise. However, no one verbally penalized my opinion. Though I was appalled by the majority vote, I knew what I stood for. And everyone else did, too.
In another class debate during my first year of law school, about whether there is a constitutional right to abortion, I, of course, raised my hand in dissent. I remember the quiet pause in my classroom after my teacher asked me, “When do you believe that life begins?”
I answered quickly and confidently, “Life begins at conception.” Of course, the student who spoke after me stated that she believed that life began when a baby is out and breathing. We continued to debate the constitutional applications and discussed relevant Supreme Court cases and opinions. When I told my mother about my debates in law school, she was afraid for me. She feared that someone would hurt me for my views, my religion, or both. But as I stated above, the general gentile is just curious. I never felt the need to withdraw because, first, I’m much too confident of a debater to do so, and second, it gives me an opportunity to represent my people as strong and consistent.
Yes, I do fear the backlash of anti-Semitism. I may not be able to eradicate it, but anti-Semitism isn’t going to go away if I stay silent either. Just the opposite, by standing tall with my cultural differences, I can correct the misconceptions, at least among those I come into contact with, create a kiddush Hashem, and prevent anti-Semitism. Now, I’m a second-year law student, and I continue to debate in class and challenge other views that conflict with my Jewish principles. Though I once feared this opportunity, afraid that it was too big a responsibility, I realized that if Hashem opened up all of these doors toward the career path and the contribution to society that I am training for, then Hashem must be telling me that I am strong enough to be an example. Maybe Hashem is telling that to all of us. I told you some of my story. Perhaps you can apply it to your own. Sometimes we are so scared that we might make a chilul Hashem that we neglect to make a kiddush Hashem. My experiences have taught me to not only exemplify my community but also to champion it.
