In a world of confusion and darkness, an ancient cry echoes: “Mi LaHashem eilai”

In a world of confusion and darkness, an ancient cry echoes: “Mi LaHashem eilai.”

In every era and in every corner of the world, Jews have heeded that call,  even when the stakes were high and the challenge loomed large.

Six stories of courage and conviction

The Right Note

Golda Keilson

MY high school principal (who doesn’t get nearly enough credit for putting up with my antics for four years) often lamented, “For chasunahs, our girls get dressed up like princesses, but when the dancing starts, they turn into animals.” I had never understood her until I saw my friends doing it... and until I did it myself.

I felt a lot of joy at my friends’ weddings. When I heard the announcement, “Introducing, for the very first time, Mr. and Mrs…!” and the kallah finally ran in to the hall amid crashing drums and blaring music, it was very easy for me to express that with a loud shriek, a sound I hadn’t even known I was capable of producing.

But one night it hit me: While the mechitzah may have separated the men’s and women’s sides, it most certainly didn’t block the sounds. And there were a lot of men on the other side who heard me and my friends whooping, hollering, and shrieking throughout the dancing.

I was surprised at myself for overlooking that. And I knew absolutely that I didn’t want any of that at my chasunah.

Two problems: One, how could I possibly prevent my friends from doing it? And two, how could I how could I ask them not to without making them feel like I looked down on them?

I shelved the issue for a while, focusing instead on not letting loose when I was a wedding guest. But when I got engaged just over a year ago, I had to give it some serious thought.

I didn’t know what to do. I knew with certainty that I didn’t want that behavior at my chasunah. But making such a strong statement so publicly would be horribly embarrassing! I vacillated between several ideas for a few weeks before I decided to take the plunge and place a framed note on every table addressing my concern. It was very important to me that the note was respectfully worded, not accusatory, and didn’t make anyone feel like I thought I was better than they were (because I’m not).

I spent a long time staring at a blank paper with no idea how to start, but with my mother’s help, I finally settled on this wording:

Dear Friends & Family,

I’m so excited that you’re here and can’t wait to dance with you all!

I know this request may be hard — gilah, rinah, ditzah, v’chedvah — sometimes we get carried away with the excitement and joy! But I’d like to request from everyone that we refrain from cheering, whooping, and screaming during the dancing.

Thank you!

I deliberately handwrote the note. To me, typing it felt much more impersonal, and I wanted my guests to know that I was with them in this struggle. I was nervous about how people would take it — the last thing I wanted was for my friends and family to feel judged.

On the day of my chasunah, we put all the frames into a large box and schlepped it to the hall. The women’s side of the ballroom was already bedecked with 22 beautifully set tables. Looking at them, I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t put the notes out. I stuck the box in a corner of the kallah suite and tried to ignore the ugly feeling of disappointment in myself.

I was sitting at the kabbalas panim, greeting guests, when I glanced to the side, to where the set tables were kept hidden until after the badeken. I pictured them without the note I’d written and framed with such trepidation. The image bothered me, as did the thought of what the dancing might look and sound like without it.

I could hardly focus — this was my kabbalas panim! — but I shoved all other thoughts aside, took a deep breath, and leaned over to whisper in my mother’s ear, “Ma... we should put out the notes.”

She didn’t hesitate for a second, but immediately abandoned the line of guests waiting to wish her a mazel tov and went to get the box of framed notes.

Thankfully — because I wouldn’t have known how to react — no one mentioned anything about it to me during the chasunah itself. But the dancing, without any cheering, whooping, or screaming, was incredibly leibedig, and according to many of my friends, it was “the funnest chasunah I’ve ever been to!” My mother also told me that every single one of my many teachers who attended came to her to tell her how surprised and proud they were. (Apparently everyone had very low expectations of me in high school.) Many of them even took the frames home to show their classes.

I don’t know if there are other kallahs out there who are looking for a way to end this trend. But if there are, know that there is a solution. And I’ll be here (silently) cheering you on.