“We all want to make it to the Promised Land — ideally in a minivan. But guess what? Hashem decides which vehicle I drive. I might just have to show up on a motorcycle.”

I

t was a typical Shabbos table. Amid flecks of spilled grape juice and apple crumble a lively discussion erupted. Cogently and articulately Rachel Avigdor Burnham — then a 29-year-old single woman living in Flatbush — shared her take.

A fellow tablemate snorted. “When you have a ring on your finger we’ll hear what you have to say,” he said. Rachel felt the blood rush from her face. She grabbed a dessert plate and stumbled into the kitchen.

“Had it been an isolated incident the remark of a crazy person it wouldn’t have hurt,” she says. “But it reflected vibes I’d felt all along. I wasn’t married so I wasn’t legitimate. I was single so something was wrong with me.”

Rachel — an occupational therapist dating coach wig stylist general powerhouse and now a happy sleep-deprived mom — dated for 14 years before meeting her husband. She says the emotional drain of extended singlehood was exacerbated by the way community members viewed her. Though she was deeply involved in kiruv and chesed, she was frequently passed over for more executive roles. Her opinion was met with bemusement.

“I was intelligent accomplished and capable — as were all my friends ” Rachel says. “But my contribution to the community was minimized and curtailed. My opinion was…cute.”

Now on the other side a besheiteled Rachel can see just how deep the prejudice was. “I got engaged and suddenly I was worth listening to. I got a sudden influx of speaking engagements clients. The contrast was comical.”

Second-Class Citizens

A shockingly high number of single women voice near-identical feelings. While they may not be “untouchables,” these women describe a painful, unspoken caste system that places single women at the bottom — socially, professionally, and communally.

“I’m 30 years old, but I’m considered a ‘girl,’ ” says Alana Rothstein, a successful real-estate manager who’s lived in Brooklyn for eight years. “There’s this sense that once you get your kesubah, you’ve upgraded.”

Shoshana, a native Brooklynite and nurse anesthetist who has dated for ten years, says that she and her friends are often perceived as Peter Pans who never quite grew up. She believes this is because our society’s only demarcation for adulthood is… marriage. “If marriage doesn’t happen, at what point do you become an adult? Mid twenties, upper thirties, late forties?”

The disparity between her work and community life, Shoshana says, is stark. “I trained extensively for my profession — and I’m respected for my expertise. I have doctors in their forties, fifties, sixties waiting on their decisions until they get my input. Then I go to shul on Shabbos, and I’m ‘the pretty girl who, tsk tsk, needs a shidduch.’ ”

Tsivya Weisenberg is a 37-year-old social worker who has counseled parents of special-needs and at-risk children for 15 years. Sincere and well-spoken, she endured a difficult two-year marriage, which ended at age 35. Now that she wears a wig — albeit post-divorce — she gets far more acknowledgement. “This is going to sound crazy, but if you have to live life as a single, better to do so as a divorcee. That’s been my experience. You get more empathy, more validation, and more respect.”

For years, Tsivya offered crisis counseling both in person and by phone. She notes that while a not-insignificant number of parents booked face-to-face initial sessions, met her, then failed to return, her phone clients almost never dropped out. She attributes this trend — at least in part — to the fact that her phone clients never knew she was single.

Along similar lines, Tsivya’s friend — a top-tier pediatric oncologist who did post-doctorate training at Columbia — has learned to make peace with the fact that many frum patients will call her by her first name (instead of “Dr. Klein”). “In their minds, she’s still a girl,” Tsivya explains.

The bias translates into dollars: professionally, single women employed by frum companies tend to get paid less. Shulamis, a sought-after educator, requested a raise in a previous place of employment. The administrator — arching his eyebrows dramatically — gave a chuckle. “But I don’t even give married women that kind of salary!” he exclaimed.

“Salary should be based on expertise. What does marital status have to do with pay level?” Shulamis questions.