When I tell people that I attend Stern College, they automatically assume that like the majority of the Yeshiva University student body, I am Modern Orthodox. I usually just smile, or shrug, or nod a vague affirmative. I don’t even bother to correct their assumptions anymore. It’s gotten too exhausting to add the qualifier ultra- before the Orthodox. Ultra-Orthodox. Chasidic, in fact. Chabad Chasidic, if you really want to get technical about it.
Part of the reason why I no longer bother to highlight my Chasidic roots is because it takes too long to both correct the erroneous first impression, and then answer all of the inevitable questions. But every time I walk away from an introduction, the affirmations of my Chabad-ness unspoken, I feel the tiniest bit like a liar.
I was raised in a Chabad Lubavitch family. Both of my parents are Baalei Teshuvah, who turned to observant Judaism later in life and were brought back into the fold by fedora-wearing Chabadniks. I don’t live Crown Heights, the epicenter of Chabad life. I’m not a shlucha, or emissary of Chabad, and I don’t plan on ever being one, because although I do think that the kiruv, outreach, work that they do is amazing, I just don’t have it in me to move to Sheng Du, China – much less New Jersey, for that matter.
Despite the curious questions that I receive concerning my upbringing (no, my room was never painted Moshiach-flag yellow) I really don’t think that I am all that different from the average Stern student. I see women walking through the hallways wearing their seminary sweatshirts from MMY or Midreshet Moriah and I don’t feel any different. I went to seminary too. Except, of course, that I never got to experience davening at the Kotel, or visiting Hevron, because my seminary was in Milan, Italy.
That’s one of the universally agreed upon perks of being Chabad: its globalization. As the saying goes, there are only two things that can be found anywhere in the world: Coca-Cola and Chabad. And Coca-Cola isn’t even always a given. However, Coca-Cola and Chabad are both pretty popular in Italy, which was why my decision to attend Beis Chana Seminary in Milan wasn’t that unusual. In fact, compared to some of the places that my friends went to seminary, such as Australia, South Africa, and Prague, Italy was downright boring.
I loved almost every second of my year there. My year was one that had to be experienced to be believed. People laugh incredulously when I tell them some of the stories. Stories of how my friends and I walked through the streets of Venice for hours on Sukkot, strolling past the Grand Canal with a lulav and esrog in hand, seeking out Jewish tourists to invite into the Chabad of Venice’s sukkah. Stories of how my friends and I skipped class to crash the Fendi fashion show that was happening just down the street, and wound up handing out Shabbos candles to the models. Stories of how we stayed up all night before Lag B’Omer, helping my teacher’s wife prepare a barbecue for hundreds while my teacher packed for the four hour train ride that would take him to Pisa, where he was due to perform a bris. Telling these stories make my heart swell with a familiar sort of pride because as fantastic as these stories are, they are only commonplace when you are Chabad.
It’s the same sort of feeling that surfaces whenever a teacher cites the Lubavitcher Rebbe as a source, or when I see a Chabad Club flyer posted in the halls of Stern College. And, it’s the same feeling that carries me through embarrassing moments like my first Kabbalat Shabbat service on campus.
That first Kabbalat Shabbat was a bit of a culture shock. Although I recognized somewhere at the back of my mind that I daven nusach Ari, a different variation on davening from most people on campus, I wasn’t prepared for how different Shabbos davening would sound. The singing was hauntingly beautiful, a stark contrast to the lively and energetic Lecha Dodi melody that I was accustomed to. The words were also different. I quietly rushed through a Mizmor L’David that did not appear in the siddur I was holding. And, everyone else added a sentence to Aleinu that I had never heard. Yet, though this first Kabbalat Shabbat at Stern College was a confusing and eye-opening experience, I would never say that I didn’t enjoy it.
That feeling, of being proud of who I am, is a feeling that seldom leaves me, despite the suspicious looks that are cast my way when my inner Chabdnik is showing. The feeling is also why you shouldn’t be alarmed when I chase you down in the halls of Stern College, advertising for upcoming Chabad Club events. They’ll be fun, and entertaining, and more than a little enlightening; an opportunity to experience something new and eye opening. Besides, we’ll have Coca-Cola.