The four of us were standing around chatting after class one day—Diana, a 29-year-old Catholic African-American, Sadaf, a hijabi (scarf-wearing) Muslim girl of 22, Emma, who is 23 and from Barbados, and myself. Sadaf was entertaining us with talk about her last Islamic studies class over the weekend, when the topic changes to guys.

Suddenly Emma, in a reserved, Emma-like voice, pipes up. “Hey F5, you know…maybe you’ll think I’m crazy or something…but…ever since the first day of school, I was totally thinking that you and Joey would be perfect for one another!”

Having just taken a swig of orange juice from the carton I was holding, I struggle not to give my classmates a shower. A shadchan? Here?! And in the form of a Seventh Day Adventist from the West Indies, no less. Hashem bless my lucky stars…

Joey is a nice, rather funny guy of Syrian descent who is the only yarmulke-wearing dude in the whole program. He’s definitely a sweet fellow, but not exactly what I’m looking for in the slightest. Needless to say very much surprised at the randomness of the suggestion (in a way, I suppose, similar to the “she wears a skirt, he wears pants” shidduch arrangement), I try valiantly to swallow my mouthful.

Sadaf, however, beats me to it. “Nah, that won’t work,” she says casually.

My eyebrows go up. Oh?

Diana joins in now. “Why not?”

Sadaf keeps going. “Well, because Joey is Sephardic, and F5 is not.”

The other two say “ohhh” and nod sagely. I am fighting the urge to laugh. Diana then turns to me and asks, “So, F5, what kind of guy are you looking for, then?”

About to answer, Sadaf beats me to it again. “She’s looking for a Yeshiva student. You know, those guys with the black pants and white shirts.”

I’m looking at Sadaf incredulously now. Where in the world does she get her information from?

On a roll now, she continues. “Oh my gosh! Hello, F5, I totally have the perfect guy for you!! He was in one of my undergrad classes, white shirt, black pants, the whole deal! Hmm…and good looking too…”

Two lessons:

1. The multiculturalism in graduate school is mind-boggling.

2. The shadchan will always find you.

Fair Warning: moderate use of language herein

I’ve developed a huge appreciation for the laws of Loshon Hara.

In my youth, etc, I never felt like people discussed me behind my back, nor wondered if someone was being nice to me when really they couldn’t stand me. Between having it pounded into our heads that gossip is wrong and two-facedness just as bad, I always knew that the worst case would be that someone was being nice to me as a chesed, because she thought I was friendless nerd. And you can usually spot those, because they’re a bit saccharine. And as for loshon hara… well, most of us have it down to the nitty gritties like “Oops, I made a face when her name was mentioned.”

So it was a cold slap in the face when I first partnered with Joe for a project and was introduced to many of his friends and associates. He’d smile, slap them on the back, ask how they were doing, talk about a movie, promise to see them later, and then say, “That was Rolf. He’s a bastard, but good for a game of football,” or “God I hate her. Such a selfish bitch.” Or, “He’s so goddamn annoying. He kept hanging around me yesterday talking about how he didn’t have any lunch, until I gave him 20 bucks and told him to treat himself. I paid him to leave me alone.”

“What do you say about me behind my back?” I asked one day. He looked at me blankly. “Why would I do that?” I don’t think it even occured to him that he was talking about people behind their backs.

Which could explain my minor paranoia. If I say something, and there’s a slightly longer than necessary pause after, I wonder “Oops, did I just say something stupid?” If there’s an exchange of looks that I don’t understand I think, “Time to fade out…” I never feel like I really know my position in things. I don’t need to have friends in college – I have plenty elsewhere, and my self-esteem is healthy enough. It just makes me uncomfortable to not know where I stand. This keeps me on my best behavior, and it keeps me aloof. The nice thing of which is that when you’re aloof people have to seek you out, which is a sure proof that they’re not just being nice. But it also reminds me that these are not my people, and these are not my real friends. And it helps me appreciate those who are my people and my real friends – the ones who might make faces behind my back, but nothing worse.

I sometimes joke, “The farther I get from Jews, the more I like them.” When you’re immersed in a community, it’s easier to see its faults. But from a distance, it’s easier to see the positive traits. One thing I have definitely gained from my college experience is an increased appreciation for Jews and Judaism.

Warning: this entry is not as clean as would be desired due to necessity of content. It is hardly explicit, either.

In the infinite wisdom of my most infinitely illogical professor, two from a collection of symposiums, panels, and lectures that fell under the heading of “Sex in Medicine Week,” were mandatory to all students in my program.

No, discomfort was not a valid reason for failing to show up. Attendance was taken, after all. To give you an idea how unnecessary these lectures were to begin with, the “in Medicine” portion of the title “Sex in Medicine Week” was really, really small in comparison to the other two title words on all the signs promoting the event. The more apt nomenclature of “Sex Week,” was used by everyone, and as that accurately predicted, the symposium was little more than a social lets-all-get-together-and-talk-about-sex-in-public event and not a sort of informative session on medical issues. The consequence for not sitting through the entirety of both sordid lectures was severe enough to make anyone think several times before braving hooky, to boot.

So off went this poor Frumgirl, scrunching down in a back seat and pretending she was anywhere but there, listening to 300 students and faculty members loudly yell “orgasm,” at the top of their lungs on the behest of a rather famous 80 year old accented “sex therapist” radio personality.

Said former Hagana-sniping, WW2-surviving sex therapist was signing books after her well disguised sell-job of a lecture, and I could think of nothing I wanted to do more than magically procure a rivaling public-personality sex therapist’s book for her to sign. Sort of a silent protest for being forced through one of the more uncomfortable hours of my life. Sadly, I did not come prepared for this.

The other discomforting lecture was billed as a talk about the issues of men and women with developmental disabilities; men and women who may ask certain questions of their favorite health professionals. Sounds not all that objectionable, right? In reality, it was merely another opportunity for people to talk about private matters before all and sundry. Except this time it was people with developmental disabilities airing their dirty laundry. With one redeeming factor: it discussed the prevalence of abuse in residential homes, which is staggering and quite frankly appalling.

Around halfway through this lecture, the speaker asks the audience to form small groups, answer a page of questions, and choose a leader to represent their answers when asked.

Now guess who was immediately nominated?

Bingbingbing! Yup, you guessed it.

“C’mon, Frumgirl, step out of your comfort zone for once!” (Um, why?)

“Yeah, Frumgirl, we’re just trying to get you to say the word sex out loud for once!” (I totally do in reference to matters of clinical relevance!)

“Besides, Frumgirl, I bet you know the answers to all the questions!” (That would be such a great compliment in any other situation.)

I managed to worm my way out of that particular responsibility, but never let it be said that grad school is all about the future profession or that one can possibly walk away with an advanced degree in one subject area without receiving a certain amount of education in many other areas, as well.

Here’s a question of the day: why would anyone ask a frumguy fashion advice?

You’d think that one look at the lack of deviation and stylistic flair the typical frumguy sports on an informal daily basis would be enough to warn people off. Maybe, if it were a frumgirl doing the asking, one may optimistically believe the average frumguy knows something of clothes actually worth hearing through exposure. Otherwise, in my experience, you may as well ask an Innuit about swimsuit design for all the decent fashion expertise you’re likely to receive.

Perhaps it was the belief that frummies know every single minutaie about Judaism that prompted the Long Island classmate to ask the class Hassidic Dude whether a particular dress of hers was appropriate for a Bat Mitzvah in a Reconstructionist temple. He looked a little lost, so I helped him out.

What I should have said was to wear whatever she’d feel comfortable wearing to a church.

Instead, I provided my standard non-frummie propriety standards; of hemline, sleeves, and neckline, only one may be skimped upon.

It was the wrong thing to say. The dress she intended to wear was extremely low cut, had no sleeves, and fell on the shorter side of mid-thigh. Frumgirl 1: 0  Social awkwardness: 50

On the other hand, the Hassidic Dude has been inside a Reconstructionist temple the same number of times as I have: zero. Given that the Long Island girl didn’t know this, I’m going to assume she fell prey to the Hassidim-know-everything stereotype rather than wonder on her perception of my fashion acuity, having gone to him instead of me.

“You’re Sephardic?” asked the southern baptist black woman of the patient in the next chair over thumbing a Parenting magazine. She’s had prolonged exposure to all sorts of frummies, and can even tell the differences, apparently.

“Yes, I am,” replied the woman politely, social smile gracing her face, “I’m Persian.”

“So that means that you beat the groom with a scallion at the wedding?”

W-wait a second there. Where’d she get that one from? Sure, I’m all for beating grooms with things at weddings, but scallions strike me as not particularly effective weapons. And who wants a scallion-smelling groom, anyway?

Break from class found us again in heated discussion. And again, as usual, us frumgirls were featured in the center of a highly curious questioning session. This time it was about Jewish Holidays.

One frumgirl, who awes me with her ability to explain even the most confusing of Jewish concepts in ways that make me want to convert to Judaism all over again, was leading the conversation. “Imagine,” (and I butcher it trying to replicate what she said,) “having Thanksgiving dinner every single week…Fresh, fragrant food, your family sitting around the table together sharing in one another’s company, the warm, comfortable atmosphere… That’s what the Sabbath is like. Every week.”

The rest of the girls and women in the group (no guys there that day) sit in varying degrees of interest, with the most enraptured of them all being the Catholic Latina girl we’ll call Gabriella. Gabi is fascinated with us, but until coming into graduate school, never really knew much about Orthodoxy, or any Judaism for that matter (“So you don’t believe in Jesus?!” That was before Judaism 101.)

Anyhow, that day we were discussing different wonderful aspects of being Jewish. This time, Sue takes center stage. Sue is as non-affiliated as they come. She’s not Jewish or Christian or Muslim or anything. Sue is just…Sue. Jeans and spaghetti-strap tanktops and bicycle helmet and all. So Sue pipes up, “Hey, I once went to my friend for one of the Jewish holiday dinners!”

“Cool!” a few of us chorus. “Which one?”

“No clue,” she shrugs. “Some holiday with a lot of little plates.”

After a few minutes of confused pondering on our end, one of us thinks to ask her if it was Passover.

“Yeah! That was it! It was cool.”

Then Gabi, eager to have her position back, asks what kind of special food we have on the Sabbath and holidays. Try explaining potato kugel and gefilte fish to a bunch of kids who just heard you exclaiming how amazing your Jewish food is. Our spokesgirl begins talking about the delicious challah when Sue interrupts.

“Yeah, you have gefilte fish.”

The rest of us are aghast.

I turn to her looking perplexed, but pleasantly surprised. “Sue, how in the world do you know what gefitle fish is?”

Looking slightly insulted-as if it should have been so obvious to us-Sue states matter-of-factly. “Frumgirl5, of course I know what gefilte fish is. I’m from Brooklyn”

Go figure…

“Did you see who’s coming to speak?” I asked Joe Joeson. A religious woman was giving a lecture, and I knew that Joe, with his obsession with religious Jews, would be interested. “Sarah Joeson. Are you going to listen?”

“Sarah Joeson? Is that really her name? I wonder if she’s related to me.”

“Oooh, you know how to play Jewish Geography?” I asked.

“What’s that?”

“Well it’s a game religious Jews play when they first meet. The point is to find out how many mutual acquaintances you have. Extra points if you can prove that they’re related to you.”

“Really?”

“Yup. Last time I played, I discovered that my friend’s roommate was in my cousin’s bunk in summer camp.”

[Astonishment]

Joe wanders off and meets up with another religious student.

“Hey Janet, did you hear there’s this religious woman coming to speak? Sarah Joeson.”

“Really? Joeson? Is she related to you?”

“Ha! I know what you’re doing! You’re playing Jewish Geography!”

“You know about Jewish Geography?”

“Yeah, sure!” [Proudly] “Whenever you religious people get together you try to find out how many people you know in common.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“And you get bonus points if you can prove the other person is related to you.”

“Um… no…?”

“No?”

Joe related this conversation back to me with a bit of a scowl. “I was doing so well and then… Boy you made me look stupid there.”

Oops.

Our apologies for the recent dearth of posts. Events such as finals, school breaks, and real life felt the need to intrude upon our posting habits quite rudely.

I, for one, have not been posting about my forays into the real world because I am temporarily back in the bubble. Back where witnessing someone use a swear word is tantamount to seeing them without a shirt on, where noone compliments you on your haircut when you switch wigs, and where I don’t have to think to substitute “wig” for “shaitel” because everyone understands liberally frum-peppered English.

Which was odd for the first few days. I’d gotten used to automatically speaking real-world English, so people assume me less “frum” than they used to.  It’s never particularly thrilling to go back the environment you identify with to find that you no longer quite fit so well. An alien in both worlds, how absolutely wonderfull. But old rhythms die harder than new ones, and I found myself donning my old alien skin quite as comfortably as ever.

My regular classes resume soon, and regular posting is beginning again. As ever, if you’d like to write something for this blog,  know that  new voices are always appreciated and  graduation comes soon enough.

There are several species of Jews to be found in secular college. I’ve been astonished and entertained as I stumbled across each variation in its turn, and I document them here for inspection.

Before my first major-studies class, I checked the roster and noticed a distinctly Jewish (and religious) male name. I was excited, because here would be someone else at my side in case we needed to negotiate holidays or similar matters. But after scouring the class for several periods, I sadly concluded that he must have dropped out.

He didn’t, but I wouldn’t have recognized him in a million years without a formal introduction. Forget the button-down shirt his name seemed to require, he didn’t bother with a yarmulke. I know that is quite common on the MO spectrum, but I had thought that all but the most borderline refrained from sinking their teeth into meat they know isn’t kosher. This fellow seems determined to have the best of both worlds. As such, he showed his first interest in kosher food when it was ordered specially for the religious students, but immediately abandoned it when he saw that it was not, in fact, better than the standard fare. He associates almost exclusively with non-Jews, preferring the sort of discourse men once held in reserve until after the women withdrew to the drawing room. He happily piggy-backs on any arrangements made for religious students, and, to my amusement, briefly sprouted a yarmulke when a young and unattached religious woman spoke on campus.

This Fence Straddler is not to be confused with the average modern orthodox student. These are, at first glance difficult to discern as Jewish, but they identify strongly as such. “Didn’t you realize I was Jewish?” asked one colleague, dressed in leggings and a cap-sleeve t-shirt, in complete surprise. Um, no. What was supposed to tip me off? The baseball cap that never left her boyfriend’s head was more of a hint. They do not go near the meat on any buffet, and seek out the company of other Jews. They frequently become involved in communal and humanitarian activities.

On the other end of the spectrum we have the Jewish Press Jew. The title says it all. Any conversation with this student is bound to end in one of two subjects: how Jews are God’s gift to humanity, or Israel. To the Jewish Press Jew, there is nothing else in the world aside from the Chosen Nation in general, and their Mediterranean state in particular. Did you read an article in the New York Times this morning? The JP Jew didn’t, because the NYT is anti-Israel. Are you going to a conference at the UN? The JP Jew wouldn’t; they’re just a glorified gang out to persecute Jews. Is a Nobel Prize winner coming to speak? He’s Jewish, you know, as are 33% of Nobel Prize winners. You studied three chapters for the test on November 27? The JP Jew was glued to the internet, waiting for updates on the status of the Holtzbergs. Is the test scheduled for the week before Pesach? This Jew will wrangle to have it moved because of pre-Pesach preparations.

The Jewish Press Jew needs to be differentiated from the standard-issue centrist/ultra orthodox student. These tend to be less concerned with Israeli politics and more concerned with simply getting their degree as quickly as possible, preferably with honors. They are often startled by how clueless the greater world is of Jewish religious requirements and customs and will make a stir if necessary, but otherwise keep it under their yarmulkes. They easily approach any other religious students for favors as if they’ve known them forever when they’ve never even spoken before. They befriend non-Jewish students on a superficial level, reserving their non-college life predominantly for their Jewish/religious friends.

I personally can not stand the holiday season when in a secular environment. Chanukah is nice and all that, but we don’t celebrate it with paper decorations, so when people try to be PC and hang dreidels on the lobby xmas evergreen, the gesture just falls flat. Additionally, it’s annoying that a one day holiday somehow manages to dominate an entire season. I understand the the US is dominated by christian leanings, but I am nothing short of resentful that I have to endure their holidays taking over my non-religiously-affiliated school every December.

Finally, I found someone who understands this.

She’s LDS, (Mormon for the less informed,) and from a state out to the west that doesn’t go quite far enough to actually hit the other coast. She comes into school one day and says, “What’s a dreideldreideldreidel?”

“A what?”

“A dreideldreideldreidel,” she responds, “my son came home from daycare, where they sing all the carols, and he was singing this song, too. It went “oh, dreideldreideldreidel,’ and I was wondering if maybe it was a Jewish thing.”

So I laughed. And explained it to her.

But she was so miffed that her kid was taught this song amongst all the traditional carols like it belonged in her home.

I felt like saying “welcome to my world.”