Mazel Tov.

It was like the opener to a bad bar joke: a fair Irish Catholic moves to Hasidic Brooklyn.

Except it isn’t a joke. It is my life. I, the fair Irish Catholic one, moved to a Hasidic Jewish Brooklyn neighborhood almost nine months ago.

And not just any Hasidic Jewish neighborhood. I moved to the largest Hasidic neighborhood in the United States.

When I decided to move to Brooklyn from the West coast, I was unfamiliar with her neighborhoods. I came to visit Manhattan’s sister borough in May to find an apartment before my summer move. New York was dark and rainy; borderline apolocalyptic. As I visited apartments with my companion Conner, I based my judgment on a very important, highly scientific test: The “Do I feel comfortable walking these streets at night in the dark without fear of getting jumped, groped and/or murdered?” Test. Majority of the neighborhoods I looked at failed—until I came to Borough Park.

Borough Park is in South Brooklyn below Park Slope and above Coney Island. I could tell the neighborhood was quaint based on the fact I walked by two elementary schools within two blocks of one another. Even in the late May downpour, I felt instantaneously comfortable and connected. The apartment I came to see was wonderful. 1,200 sq. ft, 2.5 rooms, top floor and a roof view that was enviable. The building owners are a mother-daughter duo and spoke with such heavy New York accents, I could barely understand what they were saying—but I knew I liked them. I trusted them. And more importantly, I trusted the neighborhood.

I signed a lease.

Walking back to the subway, I noticed a few men in wide brimmed hats and heavy overcoats. They had curls at their temples that tumbled past their ears. These men were accompanied by women pushing double-seated strollers. As I continued down my new street, I noticed all of the women had identical haircuts: a blunt cut brunette bob. Because of the rain, they covered their hair with plastic bonnets. After a few more blocks I figured out they were all wearing wigs. And I also figured out I just signed a lease in a Jewish neighborhood.

When I arrived back to Oregon I googled my new neighborhood and found out my speculation was correct. Borough Park was the largest Hasidic neighborhood in America. Crown Heights Brooklyn, made famous by Jewish reggae rapper, Matisyahu, was number two.

I arrived in Brooklyn full-time in the dead of summer. The July humidity was almost enough to make me trek back across country without looking back. It was unlike anything I have ever experienced. There was no way to remain cool and there was no way to remain clean. Now that the weather was bright and clear, I saw many more of my new neighbors. Dressed in their wool coats and slacks, their dark brimmed hats were lined with white residue from their head sweating in the 95-degree sun.

I was immediately singled out. My wild curly, blonde hair paired with my kelly green shirt and shorts didn’t make the best first impression.

I found myself intimidated by this culture. Never making eye contact, they didn’t acknowledge me. They looked right through me. I constantly had to step off the curb so they could pass. It was like I wasn’t present on the street at all.

My father and I went to the local hardware store to purchase an air conditioner. The Hasidic man behind the counter didn’t help us. After waiting at the counter to pay for what we came for, the shopkeeper looked at me and simply walked away.

My dad had an idea.

When he returned without me, but with Conner’s brother Sam 15 minutes later, he was sold the unit without a problem.

Summer continued with like experiences. I felt guilty walking the streets in dresses and shorts. Women would stare at me while waiting in line at the local, non-Hasidic owned drug store. I found myself getting more and more frustrated as time wore on.

The first five months of living in Borough Park, I didn't talk to a single resident. It was an unspoken agreement. I became a silent observer. I was fascinated by the Hasidic way of living and I started noticing their subtleties.

Like how Hasidic men would cut in front of women in various lines. How the usually packed streets were vacant on the Sabbath (Saturdays). How their children go to school Sunday through Thursday. How not once have I seen a Hasidic man or woman walk at a leisurely pace. They walked very quick and with purpose. Their coats are very long, sometimes covering their feet and they looked like they were floating because of it.

A few months ago while waiting to pay for some cards at Duane Reade, the local drug store, a Hasidic man cut in front of me. Usually I am very non-confrontational, but today I was a bit feisty. I walked in front of him and placed my items on the counter. A moment later I could feel his chest on my back, letting his presence known.

I was an outcast in this neighborhood and this man made sure I understood. So when a Hasidic woman reached out to me one Fall night, in one of the most bizarre encounters of my life, to say I was shocked is a severe understatement.

While walking home from the subway with Conner around midnight, we noticed makeshift tents all over my neighborhood. 12x12 foot wooden boxes were assembled and covered in tarps on the sidewalks. As we walked by each one, we could hear conversation inside.

Upon reaching my apartment entryway, a Hasidic woman who I recognized as living in the building next to mine approached us.

“I need you to reset my oven,” she states in broken English.

Completely caught off guard, I ask her to repeat herself.

“Here, you go with her,” she says while pointing at her pre-pubescent daughter in the doorway of their building.

Without giving it a second thought I go with her. To reset the oven. At midnight.

While walking up the never-ending staircase, I start to overheat. Not because of the incline, but because I have no idea what I’m doing or where I’m going. I turn to look behind me and Conner has matching bewilderment on his face.

When we reach the apartment I notice instantly it is three times the size of mine and I’m immediately envious. Furnished in dark oak and gold, the home is rich and warm. When we walk into the living room, we are met by an audience. Roughly seven or eight children look at us in confusion. My red pants and knee-high boots were not helping.

“Here,” says the daughter while pointing at the oven.

The oven is running perfectly fine. It’s on, baking something at 400 degrees.

“Push this down arrow button,” I’m told.

So I do.

“Keep pushing it until 350.”

So I did.

“Ok. Thank you.”

I don’t think I even returned the sentiment because I was so confused. Why couldn’t she press the button three times? My mind is racing. If they were to kill Conner and I right now, no one would know. Seriously.

As we turn to run back down the stairs to safety, we are blocked by the mother who was coming up them.

“Ok, now I need you to program my lights,” she says. “In the back room.”

Now I’m officially feverish and suffering from slight tunnel vision.

We follow her to the dark back room where we are met by her older son. She points at the light timer on the ground of their laundry room, and Conner picks it up on command. As she and her son are speaking Yiddish to one another, Conner and I are wild eyed.

“Ok, he says you have to turn it three clicks to the right,” she instructs.

Conner clicks it times three.

“Ok, now you have to put this pin in it to set it.”

Conner sets the pin.

“Ok. Thank you.”

I yell “You’re Welcome” over my shoulder as I’m already out the door.

“Here, I must give you cake,” she says.

We enter her kitchen and she cuts us a generous piece of marble cake. Feeling a little more at ease while giving her countless children awkward smiles, I ask, “do you mind telling us why we needed to do these things and what the huts are outside?”

“Why yes, it is our holiday, Sukkot [pronounced sue-COAT]. Our men eat, drink and sleep outside for seven days,” she says. “And we cannot do any kind of work for a week.”

Like setting light timers and ovens.

Thanking her for the cake, we descend the stairs.

“So when do you work, just in case we need something else?” she asks us.
“Well are you able to call us?” I ask.

“No.”

“What about leave us a note?”

“No.”

“Ok, well if you see us outside, we’ll come help if you need it.”

Note taking and dialing were all considered exerting themselves during this time.

It was at this moment I felt a part of this culture. Hasidic Jews are a quiet, ultra orthodox culture. I get it.

On New Years Eve an acquaintance I don’t know well approached me at a bar.

“How come you live in that neighborhood?” she asked rudely. “I’m Jewish and I wouldn’t even live in that neighborhood.”

Well good. Then don’t. Because it’s my neighborhood. And when they need their ovens set, I’m the only gentile they've got. And I'm ok with that.