Away and Back

I originally wrote this for an assignment, so I figured heck, why not publish it.

When I was much younger, around ten or eleven years old, there was a period of time during which my parents were under a lot of financial stress and pressure. My family had begun the journey of converting to Judaism and my parents were frequently in touch with the rabbis of the Beit Din in Los Angeles about what was required and what steps needed to be taken. There were many demands being made and the requests were often very difficult. That was the job of the rabbis: to make the process as difficult as possible, but not impossible. Nevertheless, it can drive a person crazy. They turn you down, they make you wait and they demand different things. Initially they treat you as if they absolutely do not want you to be Jewish. They make you feel that all is hopeless. In truth, this process is necessary; they do not actually want you to convert but if in fact you are supposed to be Jewish, then in the long run, this testing process proves this. It is their way of testing your faith and sincerity. My parents never considered giving up, but the frustrations of constant denials and the delays in moving forward caused intense levels of stress in the household. It seemed to me that I was catching the brunt of the stress and it was making my life miserable.

I can see in retrospect that things were not nearly as bad as I thought them at the time, but I was too immature to understand that it was a phase that would pass; that even parents go through phases that are not always pleasant. It just seemed from my perspective that they were angry a lot, and they seemed always to be mad at me. I wasn’t perfect but it seemed that every little thing I did wrong would set off my mother’s temper, and kick start a long-winded lecture from my step-father. His favorite thing to say was, “This is the way we do things in this house, and if you don’t want to do it like that then I’ll send you to your dad!” One day it occurred to me, why not run away? Perhaps it would be for just a little while. Perhaps it would be forever. I had read a lot of books, often about kids who ran away from home, or who for some reason were left to fend for themselves in various situations. Well why couldn’t I do the same? I didn’t know when I’d leave or where I’d go. After pondering the idea for a few days I decided I would pack up and leave the next morning. I decided I would go live under an enormous tree growing at the edge of our neighborhood. It was going to be exciting.

The next morning I woke up very early. It was still dark outside and everyone in the house was sound asleep. I crept out of my room and went to the kitchen. I took a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a jar of jelly. I put these into a paper bag and went to the garage to get my blue mountain bike. I had to keep as quiet as possible so as to not wake my parents. This was quite a task because I had to carry the bike through the house. I feared opening the garage door because the noise would surely wake someone. If I rolled the bike through the house then the “tic, tic, tic” would have given me away. It weighed heavily in my arms but I finally reached the front door. I took up my paper bag which made a deafening crinkling sound in the silent house. I froze and waited to hear the bedroom doors open and the heavy footsteps in the hallway. After an interminable length of time I realized that what I thought was an enormous racket caused by the paper bag had apparently disturbed no one other than me. I had my things; food, bicycle, and sleeping bag. I shut the front door as softly as I could and was free.

It all seemed so unreal. I could not believe what was happening. I had actually left! Goodness, where would I go? I had no real plans. I only knew that I was leaving, just like Tom Sawyer and others who had ventured into the wide world.

It was mostly dark with the first rays of the sun just beginning to creep over the horizon. I was more alert than ever. Every one of my senses was amplified. The sound of dogs in the distance and the cool breeze against my face was distinct and sharp. I began to pedal down the street. As I turned the corner a pickup truck approached from the distance. I stopped, frozen. In my mind I was certain I looked suspicious. Why would a kid be out at that hour? Shouldn’t I have been in school, or in bed? The truck came closer. Whoever was driving had surely seen me. I was a goner. If they stopped to ask me what I was doing I thought perhaps I could make up a believable excuse. I could say… well, anything. As the truck came closer, I tried to act as casual as possible. My breath quickened and my heart was racing. I should have stayed home. The truck was driving much too slowly. I awaited my fate, expecting the driver to stop and accuse me of exactly what I was up to. The truck came. It was my moment of judgment. Nothing happened. To my utter relief it just rolled on by. After it dawned on me that they had kept going, I felt silly.

“Of course,” I thought. “Why would anyone care? What’s to fear?” I nevertheless made a mental note to be more cautions. I continued to bike down the street. In the short ride from my house to the corner I managed to plot out my whole life as it would be from that moment. For the time being I would stay by the huge tree at the edge of the neighborhood. I would be hidden inside the leaves and branches that drooped down to the ground. I thought perhaps I would get a job once I had settled in. Everyone has to have a job. With the money I earned I would buy food. I thought briefly about my parents. I quickly dispelled a pang of guilt. My parents? What about them? They’d been so mean to me lately that this would be a way to teach them a lesson. I consoled myself that running away wasn’t that big of a deal. I would go back to visit them once I’d made something of myself. They would see what I had become and I would tell them of my success and adventures. Presently, however, a more serious situation drew me out of my thoughts.

As my fantasies faded, I became aware of something truly terrifying. This was far worse than a truck driving by. At least a person would only catch me, but this…this thing could kill me! My worst case scenario played out in my mind. A dog. A BIG dog! He was just down the road. A white German Shepherd with splashes of grey in his coat was just standing and staring at me. This was not just a little mutt. This dog was huge. I knew you weren’t supposed to run. That would make the dog chase you, and since they were much faster than humans, it only incited them to kill you when they caught you. I wasn’t afraid of nice, tame dogs, but I was afraid of stray dogs; the ones that stalked in the early morning hours looking for little boys to attack and eat. I read the news. I heard about dog attacks. For a moment I was overcome with terror. I felt like screaming. I felt like crying. I started to panic. As the dog started to walk toward me, I froze like a pillar of salt. I knew dogs could smell fear, and this one would no doubt smell it on me. I reeked of it! Oh, no! I was petrified and he continued to walk in my direction. I was puzzled, though. Why was he walking? Why wasn’t he running? Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t going to kill me after all. I relaxed slightly, but not too much. I suspected at any moment the dog would abandon his trick and kill me. I had to face him. I would be brave. About then, the dog came up to me and just sat down. Huh! It was completely unexpected. It seemed so cool. I decided instantly that the dog would be a companion with whom I would share adventures as well as my peanut butter and jelly. The dog who a moment before was my worst enemy instantly became my best friend.

“Come on Buddy,” I said. I decided that was his name. I continued pedaling, more slowly this time since buddy was in tow, toward my new home under the tree. I wanted to make sure he followed me. We had gone some distance when I realized that it was dawn. Streaks of sun were hitting the tops of the trees. I imagined my mother would probably be getting up now. This put me at extreme unease. Until that moment I was comforted with the knowledge that I could undo everything without remorse. No one was aware of what I had done. Once I reached that point though, it could not be undone. My only solace was that Buddy was there. He was in it with me. I knelt down and whispered to him, “There’s no turning back now, Buddy.” I climbed off my bike so I could walk beside him.

G-d had it out for me. I knew it. Just as I was walking along with Buddy, the dog who would share my adventures and protect me (just like in the books,) a jeep drove up and stopped. Not again. This time it came to a complete stop. A lady got out. Oh, no! No games. Oh, great. I was caught for sure. My dear four-legged companion, Buddy bolted toward her.

“Oh, wow!” she exclaimed. “This is my dog! Thank you! I had lost him and I was looking all over for him!”

HER dog? You mean my lifelong companion and protector was her dog? It couldn’t have been! I couldn’t do anything about it and I knew it. I didn’t want to stay to chat with her. She might have started asking tricky questions. I just told her it was no problem and went dejectedly on my way. I was very upset about losing Buddy, but I was more relieved that I had not been caught.

I finally reached my destination. I had never actually been to the tree before. I had only looked at it from the window of the car whenever we drove by. It was more enormous up close than I had imagined. It was perfect. I was shielded from view and it seemed quite comfy. I was ready to set up shop. I explored around it for a while, observing my new colossal abode surrounded by a wall of leaves and branches that fortified me from the outside world. I soon lost interest. I decided I wanted to go somewhere. After all, there was no one to whom I was required to answer. I could go anywhere I wanted. I decided to go to the Wal-Mart about a mile down the road, not that I had a reason to go there. It was just because I could. By then it was full morning so the store would surely be open. It was something to do, a place to go, and an opportunity to exercise my new independence. I set out toward the store. Before long I started feeling uneasy. Something wasn’t right. Maybe it would have been best to stay in the tree, but the need for adventure and travel pushed me on, so I continued.

I biked along, not caring much about anything. I was just happy to be going somewhere. A police car traveling in the opposite direction made my heart leap into my throat. I gasped audibly. I didn’t understand why, of all things, I would get such an ill feeling about a police car. Yet, something wasn’t right about it. Something inside told me to worry. But then it drove right past me. Whew! Those sorts of things had been happening way too often that morning. I had to quit being so paranoid. The rest of the world wasn’t concerned. But wait. Suddenly the police car slowed and made a U-turn. Then its siren came on. Then it sped up. Then it started banking to the side of the street. It was after me. I wished with all my being at that moment that the dog had just killed me. I felt all my insides turn to jelly and evaporate. I was ready to melt into the earth and cease to exist. The car slowed down. Then it stopped. Never before had I been so terrified of anything. All I could think about were those red and blue lights and the blare of the siren. The very sound seemed to pierce through my soul. The officer rolled down his window.

“Are you Austin Gould?” he asked. More chaos occurred inside me in those three seconds than all of World War II. My mind split. It raced through all the available options. Was I to tell the truth? Should I lie? “No!” You never tell a lie. Lying is the worst crime you can commit in my house. Lying gets you the capital punishment; an automatic spanking. Especially never lie to an authority figure. My tongue and brain seemed detached for a moment. I didn’t think. I couldn’t think. What would I say? Suddenly my tongue did me in. I heard the word, “yes” blurted out of nowhere. The officer then shifted his demeanor to one of concern. He got out of the car.

“Ok Austin, I’m here to take you home,” the officer said. How on earth did he know who I was? It seemed impossible. How could he know I ran away? He opened the back seat door.

The back seat door. That’s where criminals sit. He was putting me in the back seat. I was going to jail. They couldn’t send me to jail, could they? I was a kid. But I had heard of kids going to jail. I knew that was where I was headed.

“What about my bike?” I blurted out. My bike should not have mattered. I was going to jail, but still, I couldn’t have just left it in the street, and it was an opportunity to stall the inevitable. The officer, despite exhibiting a firm manner, also seemed caring and replied, “No problem. Here, I’ll put it in the back seat first and you can climb in after.” I was surprised my bike could fit, let alone at the same time as myself. Finally, it was my turn to enter. As I got inside the lump in my throat swelled to almost choking me. I felt so bad; so like a criminal. I wasn’t going to cry, though, not in front of the officer. I asked if I was going to jail. He said no. He asked me where I had been heading. I told him to the Walmart.

“Why?” he asked me.

“To rest,” I replied weakly. I really didn’t have a reason. He continued to ask questions.

“Why were you outside of your house?” I answered unconvincingly, “I dunno. I think I was sleepwalking.” I thought I had him fooled because he didn’t ask much else after that. Later, I realized he wasn’t fooled at all but was just being nice to me by not refuting my claim.

He must have decided he would leave it to my parents. He said, “Well your parents are really worried about you. They didn’t know what happened. They thought something terrible might’ve happened and they’re real scared right now.” I had not thought about that. It didn’t seem like such a dramatic affair. What he said made me feel bad in a way I never expected. I still wasn’t going to cry in front of him. Besides, even though I knew now that they were worried, I was sure it couldn’t have been as big a deal as he was making it sound like.

“I’m taking you to see them now. I’m going to drop you off at your house.” I would have preferred jail. I knew I would be in big trouble. I knew my parents would be so angry they would probably pull me out of the car and beat me silly. The officer had no idea he was escorting me to the electric chair. It was all I could do not to cry but I quelled my emotions in front of the officer. This was a big tough police officer and he wasn’t ever going to see me cry.

We arrived at my street and the scene I beheld when we came up to the house surprised me. It was bad enough that the officer driving me home knew I had run away, but what was worse was there was a second car in front of the house. There was a lady officer in the driveway talking to my mother who I could see was in tears in a way I had never seen before. Our car stopped in front of the driveway and the officer came around and opened the door. I felt like the lowliest creep on earth. How could I have been so stupid, so selfish? If I had known my mother would be so sad I would never have done it. I had caused her that grief for some short lived adventure. I wished I was asleep and merely having a bad dream. I hoped I would wake up. Alas, it was real. I felt bad in every possible sense of the word. Guilt over my mother’s anguish consumed me. I still held myself together. The officer was still there and I could not cry in front of him. As I got out of the car my mother rushed toward me. She wasn’t angry. She didn’t spank me. She didn’t yell at me. She just held me tightly in her arms and cried in relief. I had done her so wrong and had so misjudged her. She loved me and I still did that to her. I loved my mom and I did that. The officer was still there. I wouldn’t cry in front of him; never. But as my mother hugged me for what seemed to be ages, all these thoughts overwhelmed me. I hugged my mother back. I cried.

Shlichus can be folded and easily put into your pocket to take anywhere!

B”H

I don’t plan on officially going on shlichus, but I and every Jew have the responsibility and the ability to be a shliach wherever. That’s the great thing that Chabad teaches; that you use your everyday life to perform it.

You never know what or who you might bump into in a seemingly unfortunate circumstance. On the first day of Pesach a while back my friend Yitzy and I decided we’d swing by the old age home and drop off some matzah and hagaddas. The truth is we didn’t decide to do it because it was right or anything. We were simply incredibly bored and needed an excuse to get out. So we got our excuse.

Arizona gets hot. And the home turned out to be two miles away. But we had already taken it upon ourselves to do it and the fact was we like the whole idea anyway. We trudged through the unforgiving Arizona sun with our bag of matzah and about a dozen hagaddas. When we finally arrived at the place, they promptly refused us entry. They claimed that it would make the non-Jewish residents uncomfortable. Well what about the time they have Christmas program and the like? Doesn’t that make the Jewish occupants uncomfortable? Naturally no one is willing to consider that. None-the-less the stubborn woman at the desk (who looked like she ought to be in the home herself) would not let us give out matzah or even hagaddas though we had walked all that way. To say the least, we were far from happy about having to simply turn around and go home in the heat. It meant the whole trip was pointless.

Because of the sun we took a slight detour through as shady park. It was quite nice but it meant we had to correct our path to get back on the road. At the end of the park we decided to take a shortcut through the field to get on the road faster. In the middle of the field was a man flying some interesting remote-control airplanes. We cut through the field, politely keeping our distance from the mini-pilot, when were heard “Gut Yomtif!” being shouted at us. That was something we did not expect at all. We went over to him to see what was up. He turned out to be Jewish, with a wife and kids to boot, and was just about to pack up and leave when he saw us. He said he was interested in his Jewish roots and had been to a temple or two. Of course we dutifully pointed him in the direction of our local Chabad and invited him to come for services. We gave him matzah and hagaddas just in time for the Seder that night. Well, at least the day wasn’t a total waste. But it doesn’t stop there.

Two weeks went by and he never showed. All well, so much for our invitation. But then one Friday night, there he was. We had told the community about “the man in the field” and he quickly received a warm welcome and got acquainted. It turned out he was an artist that did shows and was also the prop manager for films. He had worked on “The Kingdom” right here in AZ. Then I Yitzy and I went back to NY for yeshiva and that was the last I heard.

A few weeks later I came back to AZ for the summer. On the second Shobbos that I was home, there he was! He had been coming more and more and didn’t like having to drive on Shobbos. So he decided to move right into our community! Now our little community had a new family with a bunch of new kids. After moving in and no longer having to drive on Shobbos, he and his family decided to keep all of Shobbos, keep kosher, wear a kippah and tzitzis, dress stznius, send the kids to a Jewish school, and all manner of religious lifestyle. It further developed into the discovery that they or their parents or something had not received a proper conversion and are currently in the process of becoming proper Jews. They’ve since been an active family in our community.

If the old age home had just let us in so we wouldn’t have “wasted” out time, none of that would have happened. That and had we not been so bored to go out in the first place, had it not been so darn hot (causing us to take the route through the park), had he not decided to fly planes on that day in that field, and not for a dozen other small variables, well, the coming Pesach he and his family might just be flying airplanes with no idea who they really are as Jews. You don’t have to be a shliach to be a shliach.

Google Jews--Becoming a Jew

B”H

I’m very lucky. Whenever I’m at a new Shobbos table and there’s a lack of topic for conversation, I can always count on “…Oh well I’m a geir and my dad’s black.” “Oh is that so? Wow how did that happen? Usually more intrigued by the black father element than the being a geir, it nonetheless serves as a great icebreaker.

The story behind me and my family is a long one.

In a nutshell;

We had always strived to be better Christians

And we wound up becoming Jews.

It all actually started with an after-church bible study my parents enjoyed. The teacher was a very enthusiastic and insightful man and he really made the bible interesting. One day however, he simply stopped teaching at the church. My mother, particularly fond of the class, tracked down his phone number and asked if perhaps she and my father could learn with him. He happily agreed. That Sunday evening my parents went to his home where he welcomed them in with some good refreshments. He sat them down at his table for his private class. “First off,” he began, “there is no Trinity.” My parents’ eyes widened in surprise. He continued to explain…

Newly disillusioned my parents returned home. It had been proven to them that the ideologies of our church, such as the Trinity, the Apostle, and the Pentecost, were actually false. How then could we continue to worship in a place that did not share our values? So began the Church-hopping period of our lives.

We visited so many churches. But every single one carried one of those warped Christian ideas that we no longer followed. We kept going though, eventually we had to find a good Southern-Baptist church that encompassed all our love for Jesus and did away with the elements of Christianity that were pagan in origin. One night, on one of those late night commercials, my father saw an add for the Universal Church of G-d. Now my father would never remember a number from a commercial, but for some reason this one stuck in his head. And the message seemed a little like what we were looking for. We decided to check it out.

It was perfect. It was precisely what we had been searching for. There was no Trinity or similar fallacies and there was a strong sense of Jesus that appealed to us. We felt we had finally found our church. We told the minister we wanted to join. The minister of course was obliged to accept us (after all, it’s more money in membership fees) but he wanted to explain something to my parents first. “It won’t be a problem ion your case since you’re already married and because of that also no ones going to think anything. But you should be aware that once a year we have a sermon about the prohibition of interracial marriage. We are not racist. It just has to do with how the bible says not to have an ox and a donkey plow together, and I assure you, it will not affect your experience here.” My parents had heard enough. But it wasn’t a pointless trip though. When we were there we had heard quite a bit about this ‘Messianic Judaism.’ We were quite curious to find out more about it.

By now my grandparents and aunt had hopped on the bandwagon, my grandmother in particular. She Googled ‘Messianic Judaism’ and we began our research. Messianic belief dictates that indeed, the Jews are the chosen people, but they kind of messed up with that Jesus ordeal. Now us good Christians must take the wheel. You see it isn’t just Jews that have to keep the holidays, but they’re meant for everyone to celebrate. We learned about Succos, Pesach, Chanukah, and Shobbos. And so we decided that we wanted to be Messianic.

Mind you, everything still revolved around our hero Jesus, but now it had a Jewish twist to it. Anything the Jews do, Christians are supposed to do. Of course we messed it up so badly. We had become Jesus loving Google Jews. We found out about this and that through the internet and we did it. We found out you have to shake the Lulav. So that Succos night my father did it (with the Tallis on of course). Passover we had Matzo (it was still all about Jesus then too) and read about the last supper. We found out the real Sabbath is on Saturday. So Friday night my mother lit candles and then we went to wash the car. The more we found out on Google the more add-ons we put on our Messianic life style. We found out about tzittzis, so my mother made them and me, my father, and my brother—and my mother all started putting I them on (with the proper blue string of course). My mother and grandmother found out some general laws of stznius. This was sort of a big issue. This meant changing your very appearance! No pants. My parents were a little hesitant with that one. Wearing a skirt all the time? But when my father was on duty (He’s a cop, also adds to the Shobbos table conversation) he noticed a group of girls in jeans and just how revealing that particular type of apparel is. And so my mother decided it was only skirts for her.

We had also learned about covering the hair, at least when we were doing something ‘spiritual.’ So, every time my mother would light candles Friday night, she would put a cloth on her hair. One week however, my mother was very sick and confined to her bed. So my father took it upon himself to light for the family. He dutifully set up the candles, got the matches, and right when he was about to begin he stopped real quick because he forgot a key factor. He went over to a drawer, pulled out a cloth and put it on his head…

We had lived this happy life for a while (ignorance is bliss) but the urge to have a central place of worship overcame my parents yet again. My grandmother Googled around a bit and found a suitable place (we were a little less particular about our churches now that no church could match our practices). We decided that we would go there occasionally. We went and it was nice but they had been going on and on about this Tuvia Singer character. Apparently he was second only to the Devil himself. Tuvia Singer is a heretic. Tuvia Singer is blasphemous. And G-d forbid you should be listening or reading the Devils handy work. I say, I say it again, G-d Forbiiiiiid, I say he should saaaaave YOU from this disgrace OH can I get an AAAAMEN!? (sorry, you know how these southern ministers are) of course, being objective and curious woman she is, my mother figured she should at least hear what this heretic has said that’s so bad for the good Christian soul.

Wow. It’s pretty clear why this Tuvia is the church’s enemy. He spends his life as an active ant-missionary, constantly speaking out against them, and boy he can talk. He take the supposed Christian ‘proofs’ and ‘sources’ in the Navi and turns them on their head. The problem with Christians is they hardly open the bible to see the actual context of all those fancy quotes. They just take what they’re fed. But the most transforming, radical, and life-changing revelation we learned from his tape was;

SANTA, er excuse me but they are equally ridiculous

JESUS ISN’T REAL

(or at least he wasn’t all that great)

Gaaaasp. This was the part where my grandparents and Aunt got off our Jew-bound train. We on the other hand knew we had some (more) major changes to make. We needed a new place to pray. We found a reform temple and decided to pay a Friday night visit. It was beautiful. Everything was so nice, so perfect, so Jewish we fell in love. They had service and the rabbi went up to the head table which was adorned with a table cloth that said ‘Shabbat Shalom’ all over it. It was perfect. My parents went up to the ‘rabbi’ and stated they wanted to join this church or temple or whatever you call it. “Oh well that’s nice,” the rabbi replied, “but uh- You’re not Jewish.)

That last one hit us like a brick. We no longer believed in Jesus, but we never considered the possibility of being Jewish. It seemed that we fulfilled our obligations and that was just fine. This time however we actually started Googling Jews. We found out about yarmulke. Up to this time I had not been wearing any of these funny garments. I was too conscious of looking different and I already had a bully harassing me about my family’s radical changes. One day however, after being bullied around again, I came in teary-eyed and walked right up to my mother and told her I wanted to wear a kippah and tzitzis. (Later I knocked that bully real good) At first it was embarrassing, I felt that everyone was looking at me, but after a short time it became completely natural. This should serve as a lesson to all those apprehensive about putting on a kippah and tzitzis or dressing stznius. It becomes completely natural.

That remark the rabbi figure had made was hanging over our heads. We weren’t Jewish. My mother strongly felt we had to do something about this. My father was content with the way we were. Major arguing inevitably ensued. For days they went back and forth and it became more and more heated. It all climaxed when one day my father simply stormed out of the room and took his tallis and prayer book. “Where are you going?” my mother asked. “I need to pray now” my father angrily replied (we learned about the daily prayers by this time). “But,” my mother countered, “those things, the tallis, the prayers, they’re not yours. They’re not ours.” That got to my father.

I on the other hand had never even heard the word ‘Jew’. My mother showed me what they were, what they stood for, and I decided that it was the life for me to. We looked up local Jewish authorities and found Rabbi Deitsch’s Chabad of the East Valley (you can always count on Chabad). We called him and told him our interest in Judaism. We wanted the real thing, not reform or anything else. He referred us to Rabbi Block of the Beis Din in LA. We got in touch and the hard part began.

First they tried very hard to dissuade us. We wouldn’t change our minds. However, even then the Beis Din wouldn’t even consider us until; we had learned the laws of Shobbos and kashrus, my brother and I were enrolled in a Jewish school, we moved close to a shul, and we fully lived our lives as Jews. So we got the proper reading material and began studying. The first thing about Shobbos we learned, I kid you not, was that we could not tear toilet paper on Shobbos. Being Jewish would be interesting.

We learned all the things we were doing wrong as well as fascinating new things. Luckily, Rabbi Deitsch’s community, though tiny at the time, was extremely warm. We were working on moving into the area so in the meantime for Shobbos we stayed by the wonderfully hospitable Chanah Hendrickson, who became our best family friend, and her son Yitzy who became my best friend. We would walk so far to R. Deitsch’s house to daven but we did it. We moved into a cozy little home (only to move a mile down the road with the rest of the community when we got a storefront) and my brother and I enrolled in the Phoenix Hebrew Academy. We were living our lives as Jews and we were pushing for the next step.

The Beis Din gives you hell all the way to the end, I mean it, all the way to the very end. They have to. It’s a huge deal to become Jewish because you can never go back. Once you’re Jewish you carry the obligations to the end of your life. But we pushed and pushed hard. We showed them we were really in it and in a record nine months we were making our third final road trip to LA. When we arrived we chose our names, mine was to be Moshe Dovid (switched from Dovid Moshe because the acronym spells ‘dam’ –blood), Ben Yehoshua Calev. I mean it when I say they try to dissuade you to the end. Even at the mikva itself they still insisted that we had no obligation to become Jews. Of course it didn’t sway us at all. It was a quick, as I like to call it, prick-‘n’-dip and we were Jews.

When we came back the community had thrown a party for us in honor of our conversion. (later we hosted the entire community for the first Seder. and I also got to attend my parents' wedding!) it was beautiful. They had prepared a cake and we all got a piece that had our Hebrew name on it.

I got ‘Dovid’.

Dang. Should’ve chosen Chizkiyahu.

Why Blog Anyway?

Why blog? It seems pointless. All it is you’re doing is writing down your thoughts about certain subjects. Well, then you might ask, why keep a journal? Why comment on an online news article? Why write an opinion to the newspaper? Because, like blogging, I they’re a way to organize your thoughts and, more importantly, network with other people.

Networking is the main accomplishment of blogging. If it were more effective for organizing your thoughts then you might as well keep a journal. In fact many employers and colleges are beginning to Google their applicants to find out more about them! But by putting forth your perspective, insights, opinions, and just miscellaneous rants, you give people the opportunity to peer into your real thought process. Through a blog people can discover the true intrigue behind perfect strangers. A blog publicizes your personality. If they don’t like it, they can just move on, but if they feel impressed, agreeable, or even if they want to argue about it, they are able to give their feedback. In turn a circle begins to grow; people following other peoples lives, thoughts and opinions; commenting, conversing, and arguing about it; and creating a market of exchanging ideas. Or perhaps someone might just find entertainment, inspiration, or information just by passively keeping track of a particular blog.

For me, bloging is about networking, discovering people whose thoughts interest me and having others stumble upon mine. But it’s nonetheless different for everyone. For others it may still be just about keeping track of their thoughts and for others it may spawn from pure boredom. Whatever the personal reason, it comes down to sharing.

Sharing your thoughts. Your opinions. Your life.

The Unconventional Bochur

B”H

An unconventional bochur. It’s what I coin myself to be. I’ve heard others call it a rebellious bochur, non-conformist, or bluntly, “Why can’t you just do things like a normal bochur?” Why not you ask? Because an unconventional bochur still a proper bochur. It’s just doesn’t fit the exact expectations of the system.

There’s nothing wrong with the “normal” bochur just as there is nothing wrong with the unconventional one. An unconventional bochur learns, davens, maybe even goes on mivtzoim, just like a “normal” bochur. But the difference is why, how, and their attitude about it.

A “normal” bochur does what he does because, well, it’s what you’re supposed to do, and therefore he doesn’t dare add any innovation to the system. An unconventional bochur looks at how it works, says it’s nice, participates, but doesn’t allow the system to put its limitations on him. That’s the difference; Accepting the limitations.

An unconventional bochur during yeshiva, might run an Ebay business, get himself odd jobs here and there for extra cash, educates himself with things that interest him, and, here’s the big sin, decide to go to university. And he still does everything a “normal” bochur does. Yet such an attitude is shunned because, “bochurim don’t do that.” They don’t? Why not? The answer is simple. They’re supposed to be like an assembly line. Everyone does that same thing everyone else does and has been doing since forever because if they don’t they’ll lose their status in that big system. You go to mesivta and don’t worry with anything else. You go to Zal and the same thing. You become a Rabbi because that’s what’s done. You get married and apply to go on shlichus. And high school diplomas are discouraged.

The unconventional bochur looks at this and says, “That’s good for you. I may do something similar, maybe almost the same. But along the way I have my own life.” The common system is synonymous with limitation, and the unconventional bochur loathes limitation. Strict adherence to the way things are don’t appeal if there’s opportunity. The unconventional bochur sees opportunities within the yeshiva system and beyond. And he takes them because he can and he wants to. Opportunity.

Hopefully the first of many blogs, this is about beating the system. Being the good Lubavitcher bochur but not letting that stop you from doing what you want to do. Whether it be college or the military or whatever. What everyone else does is fine, but the system doesn’t dictate life. It’s all about whether you accept the limitations placed by those in its hierarchy or you take, and make, your opportunities and dreams. These are the rants and raves, musings and thoughts, of that creed.