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I’m Nice… Right?

By Leah Greenburg | February 13, 2019

A huge rage roared inside me, directed at Shmuly. How dare he hurt our parents so badly. How dare he make our mother cry. How dare he cause so much pain to our family

As told to Leah Greenburg

I like to think I’m a nice person.

In fact, sometimes I do things just so that I will be further convinced of my own niceness. For example, I call my grandmother every week before Shabbos. If it makes her happy, who cares if I don’t really want to be peppered with a million questions, don’t really enjoy it, and am only doing it because when she says, “Thank you so much for calling, dear,” at the end, it makes me feel like what I did was really very nice indeed?

Once my class went on a field trip and it was freezing. My poor friend Shira had forgotten her gloves at home and was particularly miserable. I pulled off my own gloves and gave them to her. Her resulting relief and, “Oh my gosh, Chayala, you’re SO nice!” made me feel really good, even if I did have to stick my numb hands in my pockets and within minutes I was feeling as miserable as she had been feeling just a few minutes earlier. Actually, I remember feeling a bit stuck. A few of our friends had chimed in saying, “Wow, you’re such a good friend.” After they sang my praises, I felt like I couldn’t ask for my gloves back. So maybe that means I’m not so nice after all?

One other thing I’ll tell you about myself is that I have quite a sense of humor. I’m not the kind of person who uses it to belittle people or hurt others, no, no, nothing like that. Really, didn’t you hear me? I said I was NICE! I just like puns and quips and stuff like that. But another thing that I find funny is slapstick comedy. You know, like when someone trips and falls, or stands on the end of a rake only to have it flip up and twang her on the nose or something.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a standing argument with my brother, Shmuly. We were once on a family vacation and we were all going to rent bikes and ride a trail. Our know-it-all older sister, Brachi, said to us kids, “Now, I’m the oldest and the best biker, so you all follow me.” We took off, following her obediently, but as she picked up speed, she slid into a pile of mud and went flying off her bike. Everyone scrambled off their bikes to help her, but she wasn’t hurt, just embarrassed, and I could not stop laughing my head off. Maybe it sounds mean, but it really was hilarious. Hello? You should have heard how she had gone on and on about how she was the best biker!

Later, my brother Shmuly said to me, “Laughing was a mean thing to do.”

Honestly, I didn’t really understand why. It wasn’t like Brachi was hurt. She wasn’t. And after she got over the embarrassment, she thought it was pretty funny too! So what was the big deal?

But Shmuly said, “No, you do this all the time. You’re nice when it’s not necessary to be nice, just so that you can feel good about being nice. If you’re doing nice things just so you can feel good about yourself, I don’t think you’re really a nice person after all!”

Well, that got me really upset. Because actually I do think I’m nice.

But he disagreed. “No, a nice person is someone who does something nice when they don’t have to, when it’s not expected. When it’s hard.”

Quite frankly, by this point I was getting a bit annoyed.

“No, you’re just making it sound all complicated,” I told him. “But it’s really quite simple. A nice person does nice things. Simple as that. It doesn’t matter why they do it.”

But Shmuly was not done.

“No. Imagine there’s a murderer who gives charity. Well, charity is very nice. Would you call him nice? He’s a murderer!”

I didn’t know what to say and by that time I was completely sick of our argument. I didn’t want to have to convince anyone that I was nice. I just wanted to be that person who whenever anyone hears her name, they automatically say things like, “Oh her, sure I know her. She’s so nice….”

But I thought his last point was a good one. And from that, I realized that people are all shades of gray. We’re not all one type. We’re each comprised of our background, experiences, goals, desires, and even things that we just observed. A murder is obviously terrible, but charity is good. If those two opposite actions are done by the same person, it doesn’t make the person all good or all bad. He’s human. He can do both good and bad things. Right?

Ultimately, I decided I really am a nice person, because I like to do nice things and make people feel good and I generally don’t hurt people (at least not on purpose). I am accepting of all Jews, I try to see the best in them and am overall… well, nice.

And that was that.

Until a few years later.

I don’t know what changed because I’m not particularly close to Shmuly. But suddenly I was aware that he wasn’t in yeshivah. His clothing changed. His head was bare.

One Shabbos, I smelled smoke and, becoming concerned, I peeked into the backyard, only to shrink back in horror. Shmuly. Smoking. On Shabbos.

I heard loud arguments between Shmuly and my father that would melt into icy silences as soon as I entered the room.

Things were tense and clearly Shmuly was having issues with his frumkeit. With us.

I came home one day and I heard sobbing from the kitchen. I followed the sound and saw my mother crying her heart out. My eyes filled with tears too and I backed out of the room quietly. I knew she wouldn’t want me to see her pain.

But at the same time, a huge rage roared inside me, directed at Shmuly. How dare he hurt our parents so badly. How dare he make our mother cry. How dare he cause so much pain to our family. How dare he bring shame on us like this.

Brachi was still single and I felt, with every burning angry heartbeat, that it was because no one wanted to think about a shidduch with her, with our family, because of our ridiculous off-the-derech brother. I also felt fear — would the same thing happen to me? Has he ruined my life too? Would I ever get married?

“Go away,” I’d practically spit whenever I saw him.

Once, after a particular heated scene in which I saw my parents almost shrink in front of my eyes, I followed Shmuly out of the house and hissed at him, “I wish you’d never been born.”

Those were horrible, hateful words, and I felt nasty as I said them. He threw me a wrenching look of disgust before he left, and we didn’t see him for weeks after that.

By this time, I was in 12th grade. A girl in my class who I’d never really known so well actually sought me out. Her sister was also no longer frum and she wanted to offer me support; she’d heard whispers about my family. At first, I was embarrassed, but I soon warmed up. She was very kind and knew to be discreet. She shared her story and while I identified with some of it, other parts I just couldn’t.

“You’re nice to your sister?” I asked. “After all the pain she’s causing your family… WHY?!”

“Because. She’s my sister. She’s family. We love her, even if we’re hurt. We’re nice even when she’s not. This way the door is always open, and she can always come back.”

“But she might be ruining your chance for a good shidduch!” I said indignantly.

“Do you believe that 40 days before a baby is born, a malach calls out, ‘So-and-so will marry so-and-so’ ”?

“Yes….”

“Well, I don’t think my sister was involved in what that malach said about me and my bashert…. I think she’s hurting and I’m sad for her. I daven for her every day. It’s not easy, but being nice, doing the right thing, isn’t always easy….”

She’d said the magic words. It’s not easy being nice.

These days, I’m trying. It’s definitely harder than it looks, but you know what helps? Knowing that I really am a nice person, because I’m nice even when I don’t want to be.

(Originally featured in Teen Pages, Issue 748)

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