Our 1st Rejection

The gan’s director, the dream nursery school for our 4-year-old firstborn daughter, had put her foot down. Hadas Weisberg was not welcome. Our rejection, I assume, was based on defects so numerous
that it is hard to enumerate them all here.
But here’s the short list for starters:

-My husband wore the wrong kippah
-My husband taught the wrong subjects at the wrong yeshiva
-We lived way over on the wrong side of Jaffa Road
-My husband’s clothing was all wrong
-My clothing was even more all wrong

But we really, really wanted to get Hadas into that gan. It was just two blocks away from our home. My husband and I really admired and felt connected to a few families that sent daughters there. And
also, of course, having a daughter who would know a bit of Yiddish
sounded incredibly, irresistibly cool.

So we persisted. A rabbi Josh is close to from her community called Rebbetzin Cohen* to plead our case. And the following week, Rebbetzin Cohen reluctantly relented. Josh and I were thrilled.

And in the end, it turned out we were right to push. Hadas’ Chassidishe teachers were the absolute best. The 18 girls in the gan were beyond adorable with their little girl ponytails and knee socks
pulled high. And most importantly, I still believe that that year at Gan
Sara* played a significant role in shaping Hadas into the special girl
she is today.

But the truth is that the whole application process left its scars. Not that I couldn’t sympathize with Rebbetzin Cohen’s point of view. I understand that the she felt like her Yiddish-y culture was
under siege, and that a certain amount of xenophobia was warranted to
maintain and protect her secluded island of shtetl from a raging sea of
modernity. And I guess, in a certain way, that raging sea of
non-shtetl-ness included the Weisbergs.

But still, and to this very day, when I see Rebbetzin Cohen coming my way on the street, I feel bad. I tug up my collar, tug down my headscarf, and profoundly regret my lack of socks. I know that she
thinks my shirt is too bright, and that my headscarf is too colorful,
and that she would never, ever let a daughter of hers wear a denim
skirt, like mine.

Every time I see her, it’s like Rebbetzin Cohen is rejecting me and my family all over again.

But recently, I saw Rebbetzin Cohen on my way to the market, and something switched inside me.

Instead of her diplomatic yet scornful nod, I focused, instead, on Hashem looking down on me from up in Heaven. Hashem, I knew, doesn’t just see my shirt and scarf and skirt. He sees my heart, and
how much I yearn to be good and to become better.

And that feeling of G-d’s embrace, G-d’s love, warmed me, comforted me, protected me all the way past that diplomatic yet scornful nod and home again.