Life of Yeshiva Guy

“You can’t sit on both sides of the fence”. Or, “men ken nisht tantzen by baide chasunas“.

Complete myths, as any member of any Orthodox Jewry enclave will affirm. Many dance at two, three or even four chasunas per night.

But seriously, the fact is that we all do it. Straddle the fence. And us pre-chasuna yeshiva guys more than most, methinks… And I’ll explain:

I believe the first fence straddlers were the original schizoid chevra. I also believe that fence straddling may be the basis for the nature of my current life dilemma.
Fence straddling is what almost every yeshiva guy with some creativity does, or has to do. Some of the lucky ones manage to channel their creativity into chiddushei Torah, or
focusing on their learning. But for the large majority of the rest of us who’ve been exposed to the outside world, what do we do?

We straddle the fence; for some, this might be by going to a Shwekey concert, chilling to Carlebach,or even on the far extreme, goyishe music. For others, a walk in the shuk does it, or sports/excersise will do it for the more active types.
The point is, almost everyone needs an outlet. The real trick, the key, however, is to make sure that the outlet you choose to use won’t bring you too far away from the person you want to be.

And for me, walking down the street near the city and observing PIA (People in Action) usually does the trick.

But sometimes it doesn’t.

And those are the dangerous times. When I can feel, can touch, can hear that thing, that bochur- no, guy- inside me that wants to break free. To break free and see a little of what life has to offer.
To experience firsthand the things I know about from other, goyishe sources. I’m not referring to the BAD things. I mean the other, okay things that guys I know have done, that guys I know and hang out with do.

For example. Yeah, I’ll give you an example.

Its around five years ago, summer Bein Hazmanim. We’re chilling in a hotel room. Motel room, actually. Think it was a Red Roof, but definitely that type. 60 bucks a nite, or less. Strange town (on our way to a specific location, traveling), no one knew us. We were doing the regular bochur Bein Hazmanim shpiel- a little smoking, a little TV, and a lot of sleeping. So the evening creeps up on us, and we start thinking about what to do, if anything.
Now this guy, my friend, is a real chiller. The type who be’etzem i pretty frum, and was raised like that, but will constantly surprise you with the stuff he’s done or will do. Like I said, pretty chilled.
We cycle through the usuals. Bowling. He’s not so into. Wal-Mart. Did already. BBQ. Ate already. We run out of options, and we’re both quiet for a minute or so.

And then, out of the hazy, smoked up hotel room air, he hits me with… “How about a club”?

I’m stunned. I’m quiet. And most of all, I’m scared. Scared that I’m gonna say yes.

Thoughts begin their race through my mind. Feelings start their run through my heart. And nervous energy commences its marathon, starting at my feet and working its way up to my shaking shoulders.

“I’m kinda tired”, I answer, after a thirty second pause, trying desperately for casual.

I don’t want him to hear the nervous tension in my voice. I feel like I’m a vibrating string being picked hard by some psycho, violent guitarist.
And I’m torn that I really wanted to tell him yes, but didn’t, thank G-d, because I was too embarrassed to. Of who? Of what?

Of myself, I think. And then there’s that…

We, us, Yidden, have that “baishanim” middah. It is always there. And when you need it, you can call on it.
As much as you think you eradicate it by being “geshmack” and interacting with others outside your natural, yeshivish comfort barrier, its always there. Boruch Hashem.

But after the moment passes, and I’m post-processing my feelings about the question and my response to it, I chap that I’m upset with myself, my “good boy” answer notwithstanding.
I’m upset because I would’ve said yes had I not been embarrassed. And that scares me. A lot.

What will be the next time, when I’m not with someone I’m embarrassed of, when I’m not with someone I “shter zich” from?

And so we straddle the fence, us yeshiva guys, not knowing what tests tomorrow will bring. And becoming, day by day, more and more schizoid.

(credit to iamJoliePhotography for the pic)

(Post partially inspired by this from Frum Flipped)

Side note- I wasn’t all too impressed with the menu’s English; take a look at this photo and see if you agree with me. Note- if you catch less than three, you need some help yourself.

Place is located in the Prima Hotel, on the Yarkon (near the Sheraton).
It was formerly the Prime Grill. You can find more details on this website, although in classic Israeli style they’ve neglected to update it with info on the Prime Grill change to Citron.

Kashrus is TA Mehadrin. I do NOT take responsibility or achrayus on its kashrus. Do your own due diligence.

And as they say here, B’Taovon.

105 Hayarkon Street
Tel Aviv 63432
Tel: +972-3-527-5660

Yad Vashem.

I went the other day. I admit it. Yes, I know that Briskers love nothing more than hating on it.
Yes, I know that it is an edifice of and to pure apikorsus. But I also know that
every time I go, and I’ve been a few times, I find myself inspired anew.

Inspired, you ask, trying to figure that last as your re-read that sentence, your mind having expected a depressed there. But yes, Inspired. In the same way that Sem girls chap tremendous hisragshus from their semi-mandatory hospital visits to “do” bikur cholim. And walking out of Yad Vashem is like departing a hospital filled with dead people…only its so much more sad.

So whence the inspiration, you ask?

From one simple poem, easy to miss, towards the exit, right at the end of the Auschwitz set. It is painted on the wall, and it’s a short poem/piece. I don’t recall the exact order it is presented in, but its effect is similar to this:

Amen. Auschwitz. Yehei. Belzec. Shemei. Bergen-Belsen. Rabbah. Chelmno. M’Varach. Thereseinstadt. L’Olam. Treblinka. U’Lolmai. Sobibor. Olmaya. Babi Yar.

I’ve attempted to track the author of this down, but couldn’t find a precise origin for it. It seems to be in several more modern or non-frum siddurim as “The Holocaust Kaddish”, but again, without a mekor.
So what’s so amazing about that? A Kaddish tefillah, with the names of the camps intersposed between the words? What’s so inspirational in a zecher, if you will, of all of the Yidden of the camps in one kaddish?

The answer is a fusion of a little of R’ Avigdor Miller, the Satmar Rav, and what has since been established, more or less, as the Yiddishe “kuk” on WWII. And when viewed through this lens, the above liturgical lament becomes far more than a simple mass mourning.

It becomes the cry of faith expressed by Yidden the ages through. It metamorphoses into a validation of faith that we will continue articulate not despite our trials, but because of them.

Amen. Auschwitz. We believe, with our hearts and souls, that You were there. Yehei. Treblinka. And that You made Your Name great there. Etc.

I can’t think of a single paragraph that moving. Anywhere. And that’s why I become inspired every time I go. So the next time you go, make sure you view it with the correct outlook; you’ll end up being inspired, if not sad as well.

May His Name Be Blessed.

This aspiring artiste was going strong for hours today in Kikar Safra.

He had a portable amp/speaker playing the background music, and was singing to it.
Apparently for money. Seemed to be doing pretty well too.

And here he is again, later, doing one of the all time greatest songs,
Yossi Green’s “Anovim”.

Sometimes, its easy to be thankful. To be makir tov to Hakadosh Baruch Hu. Sometimes; like right now, for instance.

I’m watching an old Jew begging for money on the street. In America, they’d call him a vagrant. Probably lock him up. Here, he’s just another heilige yiddele, working the pedestrian traffic of the Machane-Yehudah shuk. He appears to be of Sefardic origin, and has a classic weather beaten face with a rugged profile. Entranced, I watch him sitting in a folding chair parked in the middle of the shuk, and I’m hypnotized by his efforts to obtain money for…I don’t know exactly. A meal? Clothing? Rent? Luxuries not, I’m certain. Maybe I’ll ask him what he needs the money for. Probably not. I’m also having an internal debate whether or not to add to the meager pile of change in his little plastic cup. Maybe I will.

Each passerby merits, or is subjected to, depending on your perspective, the same routine; the fellow shakes his plastic disposable cup in their direction, and jangles the few loose coins in it in hopes of attracting their attention. His eyes light up and his body tenses electrically as each potential charity-giver passes. And I watch how his face falls as each passerby, in turn, passes him by. His eyes glaze over lightly, and his head shakes almost imperceptibly in the slightest of nods.
What a life to live. To experience disappointment on an existential level every time someone walks by. How does he do it?

I thought I knew a little about disappointment, and what it means not to attain the object of your desire. But I have little doubt this guy could teach me a lot about my little, petty desires. Imagine living life dependant on the generosity of others. But not in a million dollar donation of which you collect 10% commission sort of way. In the hand-to-mouth way that this oini does. Scary.

In a selfish way, I wish I could accurately the scene in front of me. The disillusionment that this yiddele is experiencing on a minute-by-minute level. The roller coaster ride of emotion he embarks on, every minute, every day. But I can’t. I know that superlatively speaking, I don’t have anything to work with, to draw from in my own life’s experience to match this.

And I’m thankful for that.

But as time goes by, another thought occurs to me.

This man sits here every day. He’s likely spent a long time in the streets- too long. And yet, he still waits on the line to get onto the roller coaster he rides, daily. And here’s the key. If he still gets on it, if he can still be hopeful every time someone walks by, doesn’t that mean that he feels he has something to be hopeful for? Ninety-nine of one hundred people will walk on past, completely oblivious. But because of that hundredth person who pauses for a second to shell out a few shekels, it is all worth it. And somehow, our holy beggar can still hope and pray that the other ninety-nine people will possibly part with some cash. Is such feeling not disillusionment, but the greatest of faith?

But you knew that wasn’t gonna be the end of the story…here’s where we translate and scale the story down to us.

If he can do it, can’t we? Hope in our fellow man? In Moshiach?
Believe in Hakodosh Baruch Hu, in his nearness, his closeness?

And as to whether or not I gave him…well, that’s a story for another time.