Tzitzis transformed me into the man behind a movement 

As told to Rivka Streicher by Yehuda Yosef Skriloff

J

ust a few years ago, I was 17, in yeshivah, but I wasn’t keeping Shabbos.

It wasn’t quite a mainstream yeshivah, but it was a safe space for guys who were struggling. It gave us a framework, with rebbeim who were willing to hear us out. They were shepherds of a wayward flock, there to give us back the treasure — we only had to want it.

But I wasn’t sure that I did. I had come from a frum background, went to the right schools, but by the time I hit my mid-teens, I was struggling deeply. I dropped one religious rite after another — brachos, davening, my kippah and tzitzis. I’d wear my kippah in yeshivah, but not outside. I didn’t want this overt symbol of Jewishness on my head; I just wanted to blend into wider society.

By 12th grade, I was in a rough place. It had been almost two years of not keeping Shabbos, of using my phone or taking a puff on that holiest day.

I spent entire nights chilling, watching, hanging out with friends, then stumbling through my days bleary-eyed. It was an existence entirely without structure, but by then I didn’t know any other.

That winter I felt myself wanting to change so badly. Around me, guys were on their own journeys. Many were finding the way. I’d also progressed from where I was just a few months before, when I’d only wanted to want. But I still didn’t know how. I was, if not comfortable, then languid. And well and truly stuck.

One morning, after a night spent aimlessly with the guys, instead of hitting the sack, I dragged myself out. I wanted to try, to give yeshivah a shot, even though it was so awfully hard.

The bus came and I staggered aboard. It was full, and I must’ve been standing too close to an older woman. She yanked her purse close to herself and gave me the dirtiest look, as if I were a common criminal.

“Whadja think you’re doing?” she started yelling.

Just then the bus shuddered to a halt. I sighed and got off, ignoring her.

I transferred to the subway, and when it made an abrupt stop, I bumped into a passenger in formal dress. He glowered at me. I’m a tough-looking guy; between my disheveled hair, tight jeans, and solid physique, he must’ve thought I was a hoodlum.