God is pretty taboo these days. I realized this only recently, while exploring notions of Jewish peoplehood on a leadership trip in Israel. Sitting in a room with thirty-odd Jewish college students from around the country, one person offered to share her thoughts on her Jewish identity. She noted hesitantly that it involved God. “That makes some people uncomfortable, but there it is,” she quipped.
As a member of Yavneh, the Orthodox group of the Columbia/Barnard Hillel, both the reservations and the recognitions of this student resonated with me. At Columbia, I often experience a strange pairing of uncomfortable and proud feelings when I tell people that I am an observant Jew. Uncomfortable, because I know the stereotypical images all-too-easily conjured by any college student: the narrow-minded Orthodox Jew who wants nothing more than to be left alone to his Yiddish phrases, foreign rituals, and strange books. Such notions are frequently reinforced as a consequence of religious tradition and outside perspectives, such as the recent article on marriage, which appeared in the Dec. 10 Spectator (“Students Balance Homework, Husbands”).
On the other hand, I also feel a sense of pride because I know that my tradition is at least as quirky as any other foreign or unusual practice. Diversity is a word much-used in Columbia jargon—interfaith and intercultural events which bring about the interaction of various cultural groups are emphasized, even if in theory more than practice. Supposedly, people appreciate exchange with those different from themselves.
My experience at Columbia has led me to believe that another factor, beyond simply the concern of stereotyping and judgment from peers, limits appreciation of diverse interaction and causes my feelings of discomfort. Columbia is lucky enough to house relatively large populations of foreign students and students who affiliate with diverse ethnic and religious traditions. This good fortune of large ethnic groups, though, often means that these groups tend toward insularity, and my own community within Hillel is no exception. Before I came to Columbia, I found this reality hard to believe and understand. I remember specifically a conversation about religious life on campus with a friend who was then a sophomore. She warned, half-joking, that “everyone on campus thinks that Hillel is kind of weird. But the Orthodox? They’re aliens.” From my perspective at the time I didn’t see how that could be possible. I was the only observant Jew at my high school, and although at times I felt slightly isolated, I never felt detached from my friends and peers. If they had questions, they approached me—I answered to the best of my ability and sometimes they responded in turn. I appreciated how we constantly traded practices and traditions. We took for granted our easy interactions, our acceptance, and our appreciation of differences. At the annual “Cultural Extravaganza,” different religious and ethnic clubs presented dances, skits, songs, and food from their respective traditions. I sat and cheered on my friends during their bhangra performance, as they laughed at my performance in a “tour of the Middle East.” If college is supposed to be a broadening of horizons, I thought at the time, why would people ever tend toward the narrow?
Now I unfortunately find myself directing the same question inward as well as at the greater Columbia community. I certainly feel and reap the benefits of a secure comfort zone. I appreciate the close-knit Orthodox community and my friends within it. However, I often reflect on the amazing wealth of knowledge and experience that exists in the greater Columbia student body and wonder how it can be that my high school of 500 was more diverse than my university of 10 times that size. I think the problem stems both from my own failure to reach outside of my immediate parameters and an accepted standard on campus that the large (and some of the small) ethnic and religious groups keep to themselves. This status quo provides an excuse for me to not look for diversity outside of Hillel because I glance out and see that every other ethnic group is acting the same way.
Right now, I am struggling with how to find a balance between my insular community and the wider world of Columbia. So if you see me on College Walk or around EC (I’ll be the one in a skirt and long sleeves when it’s 70 degrees in May) and you don’t understand why anyone would possibly wear such layers willingly, do me a favor—come over and say hi if you want, and ask me why I’m so crazy instead of wondering it to yourself.
The author is a Columbia College sophomore.