Rosh Hashana in Crown Heights

This past Rosh Hashana, I had the pleasure of visiting old friends in Crown Heights; the quintissential American shtetle where I was conceived and borne; the physical space that represents the anxiety causing, albeit loving and vibrant world of my childhood.

I have no recollections of holidays in Brooklyn. Even though my father is a chabad rabbi, and there was significance tied to spending the holidays in what was often described as a holy place, holidays were spent at home with my parents, sisters, and often my grandparents (I went to Crown Heights annually, between the ages of six and 18, for Chof Bais Shvat, the annual chabad women's convention, which was held on the anniversary of the Rebbe's wife's death. One day I will describe these conventions at length).

Crown Heights is beautiful. It is Brooklyn, streets are lined with mature trees, people are bustling about, doing last minute shopping or dashing to Mikvah; the facades of townhouses flaunt many old details, gargoyles, window seats, elaborate ironwork. And I was visiting old friends, newly married, whom I haven't seen in months.

My friend insisted we go to 770 for the first night of the holiday and I was intrigued. Her husband went off to a different congregation (men and women do not sit together for services, so it's not unusual for young wives to head elsewhere...that is, if they go to shul at all). It was beautiful to walk to 770 after candle lighting. There were so many people in the streets! and the weather was perfect; purple dusk, ripening summer evening.

I have this memory, I must have been about seven or eight years old, of going to NY with my classmates accompanied by our nineteen year old cheder teacher. Our school chartered a big noxious bus, the kind with those awful and oddly smelling toilet stalls in the back, so that we could spend a weekend with the Rebbe. This was at the very end of the Rebbe's life when he was extremely ill and our school's Hanhalah (administration) felt it extremely important that we go "be by the Rebbe." I remember the seriousness of the trip (and that we could not watch Miami Boys Choir videos on the overhead TV/VHS because it was deemed "not tzniusdik" for a bus full of pre-adolescent girls to be watching unmistakably cute frum boys belt their little lungs out, even though they were singing words of Torah and T'fillah).

During the last years of his life, the Rebbe did not make his way to his usual chair which was situated on a Bimah/platform in the Southeast corner of the sanctuary; instead, a balcony was constructed, borrowed from a shtickel of the women's section. The Balcony had red velvet curtains and the men would sing and Davven downstairs until the Rebbe's secretary opened the curtains, and the Rebbe would look down at his congregants, at his singing chassidim, and occasionally smile or wave his arm.

Our teachers wanted us to be as close as possible to the Rebbe, so we all made our way, single file to the Third Shul, the women's section closest to the Rebbe's balcony. Here, it was extremely crowded and hot. Because we were little, I remember being hoisted into the upper shelves of the bookcases, and lying sideways in the fetal position with my head on a stack of Chumashim; I could see the Rebbe perfectly, and I could see the tops of the women's shaitels and beyond them and below, the teeming throngs of the jubilant men.

The place has not changed much since then. For a shul, it is remarkably ugly, scuffed manila tiled linoleum flooring, warped walnut pews, tinted glass on the balcony so the woman can follow services without being seen by the men below. Yet for me it is familiar, and comforting, and I always run into someone I know.

This year is no exception. I see one of my little sister's friends. I am looking for my Israeli cousins, who come with thousands of their peers, to spend their high holidays here. They too have come because of this place's stated holiness. I cannot located them in the hundreds of faces I can see from my vantage point.

This year I am sitting in my friend's family's seats in the Second Shul. In 770, those who pay for seats have the privilege of doing so because these seats have been passed down from generations. There will never be enough seats as demand far exceeds supply. Israelis who come back every year know return to the same 12 inch square they stood in last year. People are wedged shoulder to shoulder and the back of every pew has an extra girl precariously perched, apologetically smiling at the woman whose space she has invaded. The woman who sits at the end of our isle has commissioned a carpenter to build up a partition so that she wont get jostled by the crowd. I listen to her tell her neighbor how it was worth the expense.

There is lots of bickering. Some of the Israeli girls are extremely rude; some of the women are extremely territorial. Mostly people try not to move around too much, and keep their elbows tucked in. It's a bit like being stuck in the largest elevator in the world. The signage the fire department posts on every public building is partially obscured; I cannot see the recommended maximum capacity and try not to think about fire. There is a new LED flatscreen on one of the walls downstairs, listing times for morning services and Torah readings. I imagine someone leaning on the controls and a baseball game being turned on accidentally in the middle of the Haftorah...

Since the Rebbe's passing the shul has been in the domain of the Meshichists, the group of Lubavitchers who believe that even though we cannot see the Rebbe anymore, he is the Messiah. There was some sort of court case, in which the official organization of Chabad, Agudas Chassidey Chabad had sued their tenants, the Mishichist congregation for eviction. They didn't want the flagship synagogue of the movement controlled by quacks who still believe the Rebbe is alive (but we can't see him because he moved to a different spiritual plane). As far as I am aware, Agudas Chabad lost the case; but in any event, the Mishichists are definitely a presence. At one point (considerably past candle lighting time when it is halachicallly forbidden to affix posters to a wall), a well dressed woman entered our section and posted up a large poster with the Rebbe and Rebbetzin's photos, advertising a website called geulanovelties.com. She was yelled at by a few grandmother types, but she insisted that she couldn't remove the poster as she would be breaking shabbos, which would be, in fact, true). It was a blatant act and I was secretly cheering her on because it was so highly entertaining.

Services were irrelevant. Eventually the Shliach Tzibur started and we could sort of hear him and sort of follow. The noise was deafening, a dull roar. Most of the time, I people watched: Young mothers hoisting up their children so that they could see the Rebbe's chair, "Look! The Rebbe!" The congregants speak as if he is present.

It is now time for the Amidah. There is no room for the men to take three steps back. I see a phenomenon I've heard about called the "washing machine." It is a mosh pit, and when it's time for the three steps back, three steps forward, it's as if someone has put the crowd on spin cycle. At one point, I see a guy punch another guy in the face.

Services end. It takes about 10 minutes for the crowd to clear enough for us to exit (we were standing about 20 feet from the door).

***

Here, I feel it is appropriate to say something about what young women and men in Crown Heights look like. The contrast could not be more severe. Young men are culturally trained to appear as if they do not care about asthetics. This is a reflection of their learning of Chassidus, which places the spiritual over the materialistic. When I was in high school, my classmates and I took this to heart with our uniforms, which we purposely wore as slouchily as possible (and remember, in the 90s, grunge was still in): oversized oxford blouses (I borrowed my father's shirts), ankle length pleated skirts, pull-over sweatshirts and messy buns. The guys, whose beards are untouched, walk around with their jackets off, their shirts untucked and their shoes scuffed. On holidays, such as this past one, they clean up a bit, I think their mothers would have heart attacks if they didn't.

Anyway, forgetting the guys, its the girls and women that really deserve some focus. This is what was in this year:

Patent leather pumps in bright colors, pencil skirts, sexy ruffled blouses, big rock star hair, designer strollers, pendant necklaces, diamond tennis bracelets, platform sandals in muted leathers or animal print, printed silk dresses ala Pucci, jewel tones, 80s bubble skirts, purple leather Machzors, oversized graduated sunglasses, 40s inspired necklines and shoulders, metalic sandals with archetectural heels, pointy flats, tie shirts that V in the front with bell sleeves, red lipstick, bright and short manicure/pedicures.

I am not sure how I really feel about this. For someone who is interested but not obsessed with fashion, I was proud of their foxiness; on the other hand, the only time I had ever seen so many beautiful, beautifully dressed woman was a chance walk through Bryant Park during Fall fashion week, and it was a bit much.

Part of what bothers me is not their flamboyant sexiness, but how it fits into the Crown Heights mentality. For an outsider looking in, the combination of baby strollers and domesticity with all of this fashion smacks of desperate housewives. Add some gossip and demanding husband and a a baby or two, and all I can do is worry for these girls. The obsession with fashion wouldn't bother me as much if I didn't feel it was at the expense of their potential for self acctualization. The lipstick replaces the degrees, the pointy boots, the career, the designer name, is traded for the worldview.

Don't misunderstand--there are many accomplished, motivated young women who are investing in themselves in meaningful ways, but what I hope isn't happening is that the culture promotes outward appearances more than meaningful internal action--that even as it provides some opportunity for women to be empowered, it places a higher value on let's just say it, a woman's ability to appear sexy.

For all I could see, my friends are happily shopping, getting jewelary from their husbands, and decorating cake. They are truly happy. I just don't really relate...it just comes accross as a bit lowbrow: Consumerist, materialistic American. It's as if they have never read a newspaper and seen their lifestyle in a global context (and if they have, they dont see how their lives translate into the picture). It's a very bright and glitzy bubble.

I could go on with this thought, but I think I've made my point. In any event, I spotted these turquoise pumps on this Australian gal that are must haves, and I am definitely getting a pencil skirt for the fall.