Labels Are For Boxes

Growing up as the daughter of two baalei tshuvot left me in an awkward spot religiously. When my parents first chose to embrace their Judaism, they thought little of what sect they wanted to join. Their idealistic minds fixated on their overwhelming spiritual high and they chose to leave the labels to the boxes. My parents sent my brother and I to a Modern Orthdox school, Chabad sleepaway camps, and a Chabad shul to further their goal of fighting off the cookie-cutter mentality. Although my parents aim was sincere, it left me without an identity for as long as I can remember.

I always felt like I was either too chassidish for my school friends or far too Modern for my friends at shul and camp. When people would ask me what kind of family I wanted to raise religiously, my answers would range from Rebbetzin on shluchus to the “All American family” type. Though my centrality confused me, it didn’t present much of an external issue until it came time to apply for seminary. Here I encountered many of my old feelings of exclusion. I knew that if I chose to study at a Chabad seminary, I would be starting at a First grade level while my classmates memorized perekim of Tanya and translated Sichas. However, I knew that if I went to a Modern Orthodox seminary I would be giving up my chance to learn the chassidis that brought my family to religion in the first place. I ultimately found myself at Tiferet, where I can now say, that I’ve found a healthy balance in a Modern Orthodox seminary.

Though I couldn’t be happier in my decision, I constantly find myself having to explain my unique situation. There are few Jews as unidentifiable as the Parkers and, back in September, I remember being wary to take out my Chitas or sing Niggunim for fear of being deemed an outsider. It’s rare to find people as accepting as my parents and in a panic to be embraced by my peers, I left my Chabad sefarim under my bed.

It wasn’t until about November that I realized that the person I was trying to be was not my whole self. So I dusted off my books and situated myself on the defensive. I decided that if I couldn’t fit in a box, I would fight for my idiosyncrasy tooth and nail. It was exhausting having to work myself up over every statement about Chabad and proudly stomping around with my Tanya in hand. I would keep my mussar books right next to my chassidis books and read them one after another. I thought I was following in the trail my parents had blazed before me, but I was simply denying my deeply rooted insecurities.

This Shabbos Tiferet had a Shabbaton with a special needs school called Darkeinu. Around twenty girls from Tiferet chose to stay and spend the Shabbos in school getting to know the other girls. Coming in with no special needs experience, I was a little nervous, but the girls quickly eased my mind with their positivity. I soon met Leba Schneerson, the first cousin of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, who is a student at Darkeinu. Her best friend, Atara, is a Beis Yaakov girl. The other students range from Modern to Traditional to Beis Yaakov to Chabad and every gap in between. Yet never once did this variation cause an issue. The girls sang all kinds of songs and when Leba didn’t know the words, she’d squeeze my hand and say, “I wish they’d just start the Rebbe’s niggun already.” And then simply hum along to whatever tune she could pick up.

I entered my Shabbos worried that I wouldn’t have enough to say to the girls, but I soon realized that I wouldn’t be doing most of the talking. Thirteen girls who I’d never met before and may never meet again helped me repair a hole in myself that I’ve been trying to patch up for nineteen years. In twenty-four hours I went from the defensive to the inquisitive because these special girls showed me what my parents meant when they labeled themselves “idealists”. I wished I could’ve fully subscribed to my parents’ ideology sooner, but thankfully I was lucky enough to have true tzaddikim in my midst to show me how.