hair giggles (poor man doesn’t know what he’s gotten himself into) but before she can lay into him, we hear a commotion at the front gate.
“Is that him?” says sidecurls, straining to see over the half-dozen people who are crowded around a livery cab at the curb. Chest hair seems more interested in Iris than whoever has arrived, so sidecurls abandons him and joins the group escorting a man I assume is Dov Lowenstein up the stairs and into the synagogue.
“Do you know him?” I ask.
“From Facebook. I’ve read about him. Everyone hates him, but I don’t know. I wanted to see for myself.”
“Why do they hate him?” asks Iris.
“Because he calls the Chassidim a cult.”
“He does?”
“Yes, of course. Don’t you know? I understand he had a bad time. But he is hoping for a big payday.”
“We should go in,” I say.
“One more smoke?” says chest hair. He loves Iris.
I take her hand. “We’re good,” I say. “Thanks.”
We follow the rest of the smokers and stragglers into the multipurpose room. Iris grabs two more beers from our six-pack and we find two folding chairs along the edge of the room. As we wait, I blurt out: “I called my mom.”
“Excuse me?” she says, almost spitting out her beer.
“She didn’t pick up,” I say. “I tried twice. Straight to voice mail.”
She stares at me, her eyes glassy.
“You’re high,” I say.
“I know!” she says. “Wow.”
If she wasn’t high, Iris would probably have questions, but she’s just sort of staring at me, shaking her head. At the front of the room, Dov has taken off his jacket. He is wearing a white t-shirt with a rainbow Star of David on it, and his head is uncovered. He has very light hair, so light his eyebrows blend into his pale face. People start sitting down, but everyone is still talking. Finally, the boy with the sidecurls from outside, who is sitting in the front row, stands up and yells “Quiet!”
Dov steps forward to the standing mic at the front of the room. He opens a spiral notebook and sets it on the table beside him. “My name is Dovi Lowenstein,” he says, leaning forward. “But you probably know that.” The crowd murmurs a light laugh. “Let me ask you a question. How many of you know somebody who is gay?”
Iris and I raise our hands. I look around and about half the room does the same.
“Okay, put your hands down. Now, how many of you know somebody who is gay and Chassidish?” About the same number raise their hands.
“Yes,” says Dov. “You see. Yes. Now how many of you know Chassidim who are gay and married?”
Fewer hands this time, but Dov’s point is made.
“Yes, you see?” he says. “This is what I am talking about. Why would a gay man marry a woman? Why! Because he has no choice. His parents tell him to marry and so he marries. Or she marries. What else can he do? If he does not want to lose everything he has to pretend. He has to keep who he really is a secret.” He pauses and picks up his notebook, looks at what he’s written, remembers, continues. “Now, how many of you know someone who went to New Hope?”
About a fifth of the room raises a hand.
“And are they still gay?”
“Yes!” shouts a man at the back. Everyone turns around.
“My friend!” says Dov, gesturing to the man. “Was it you?” The man, who appears, like Dov, to be in his mid-twenties, nods. He is wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt with B ROOKLYN written across it. I don’t see a yarmulke. “How old were you?”
“Sixteen,” says the man.
Dov says something to the man in Yiddish. The man says something back and the room becomes agitated, people whisper to each other, shift broadly in their seats.
“What did he say?” asks Iris.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“We will talk later,” says Dov to the man. “But see? See?” He is trying to bring the crowd’s attention back to the front of the room. “And that is why I said it is a cult. Not Judaism. No. But the way we grew up.
“Is that him?” says sidecurls, straining to see over the half-dozen people who are crowded around a livery cab at the curb. Chest hair seems more interested in Iris than whoever has arrived, so sidecurls abandons him and joins the group escorting a man I assume is Dov Lowenstein up the stairs and into the synagogue.
“Do you know him?” I ask.
“From Facebook. I’ve read about him. Everyone hates him, but I don’t know. I wanted to see for myself.”
“Why do they hate him?” asks Iris.
“Because he calls the Chassidim a cult.”
“He does?”
“Yes, of course. Don’t you know? I understand he had a bad time. But he is hoping for a big payday.”
“We should go in,” I say.
“One more smoke?” says chest hair. He loves Iris.
I take her hand. “We’re good,” I say. “Thanks.”
We follow the rest of the smokers and stragglers into the multipurpose room. Iris grabs two more beers from our six-pack and we find two folding chairs along the edge of the room. As we wait, I blurt out: “I called my mom.”
“Excuse me?” she says, almost spitting out her beer.
“She didn’t pick up,” I say. “I tried twice. Straight to voice mail.”
She stares at me, her eyes glassy.
“You’re high,” I say.
“I know!” she says. “Wow.”
If she wasn’t high, Iris would probably have questions, but she’s just sort of staring at me, shaking her head. At the front of the room, Dov has taken off his jacket. He is wearing a white t-shirt with a rainbow Star of David on it, and his head is uncovered. He has very light hair, so light his eyebrows blend into his pale face. People start sitting down, but everyone is still talking. Finally, the boy with the sidecurls from outside, who is sitting in the front row, stands up and yells “Quiet!”
Dov steps forward to the standing mic at the front of the room. He opens a spiral notebook and sets it on the table beside him. “My name is Dovi Lowenstein,” he says, leaning forward. “But you probably know that.” The crowd murmurs a light laugh. “Let me ask you a question. How many of you know somebody who is gay?”
Iris and I raise our hands. I look around and about half the room does the same.
“Okay, put your hands down. Now, how many of you know somebody who is gay and Chassidish?” About the same number raise their hands.
“Yes,” says Dov. “You see. Yes. Now how many of you know Chassidim who are gay and married?”
Fewer hands this time, but Dov’s point is made.
“Yes, you see?” he says. “This is what I am talking about. Why would a gay man marry a woman? Why! Because he has no choice. His parents tell him to marry and so he marries. Or she marries. What else can he do? If he does not want to lose everything he has to pretend. He has to keep who he really is a secret.” He pauses and picks up his notebook, looks at what he’s written, remembers, continues. “Now, how many of you know someone who went to New Hope?”
About a fifth of the room raises a hand.
“And are they still gay?”
“Yes!” shouts a man at the back. Everyone turns around.
“My friend!” says Dov, gesturing to the man. “Was it you?” The man, who appears, like Dov, to be in his mid-twenties, nods. He is wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt with B ROOKLYN written across it. I don’t see a yarmulke. “How old were you?”
“Sixteen,” says the man.
Dov says something to the man in Yiddish. The man says something back and the room becomes agitated, people whisper to each other, shift broadly in their seats.
“What did he say?” asks Iris.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“We will talk later,” says Dov to the man. “But see? See?” He is trying to bring the crowd’s attention back to the front of the room. “And that is why I said it is a cult. Not Judaism. No. But the way we grew up.
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