He doesn’t see it, and honestly, I don’t want to talk about it. The pain I carry like a shell, hardened over time, is all my own. My siblings have theirs, I’m sure my parents carry their own pain, too. But we don’t discuss it — we don’t need words to empathize.

I followed my younger brother one afternoon, just a few months ago. I found him on the courts, in another neighborhood. He slipped a cap over his yarmulke and I watched him transform into a boy suddenly comfortable in his own skin. He caught me, standing near the gate looking through the holes, understanding flowing between us. You do this so that for two hours, you can feel what it’s like to look just like everyone else around you. I understood his need.

But now there is Josh. And somehow he’s supposed to be, eventually, another piece of me. But there’s a space between us I don’t know how to fill. The thought of opening such a deep layer of myself to another person is terrifying. How can I explain things that cannot be explained but only felt?

We near the end of the block and I stop in front of my host’s house, a colossal brick mansion surrounded by manicured gardens, complete with a three-car garage.

“Here’s the house.”

Josh looks up, a little smile twitching on his lips. “This isn’t a house.”

I laugh. “No joke. I took a wrong turn yesterday and found a whole other wing.”

Josh shakes his head, smiling. “How do you know the Beloff’s again?”

“Laylee Beloffs sister Sarah is a friend. When she found out you were learning in Elmway and we’d be moving here after our wedding she told me I had to stay at her sister’s house when I came to visit. So I took her up on it, but I didn’t realize they were…” I trail off, struggling for the right word.

“The Beloffs,” Josh says, helpfully.

I laugh. “Exactly.”

A few people exit, while newcomers arrive and make their way to the front door.

“Looks like they have a crowd,” he says.

“Yeah, they’re hosting some fancy parlor meeting or something.” I stifle a yawn.

Josh gives a low whistle. “Impressive.”

A few more people leave. As they walk down the path toward the sidewalk, some of them glance at us discreetly; others stare as if trying to work us out. Josh frowns. Clearly he’s not used to being stared at. Our dates had all taken place outside the frum community, and since getting engaged we’ve only spent one Shabbos together in Brooklyn.

Josh opens his mouth to say something, but I’m faster. I don’t want to talk about this with him. Not the girl from the store. Not the stares or looks. I need to handle being me the same way I have up until now.

“I better get going. Looks like things are winding down. I’m sure Laylee could use my help.” I offer him a quick goodbye and hurry inside.

“How’d the shopping go?” Laylee asks, sitting down on the couch later that night. As soon as the last guest left, a cleaning crew had appeared like magic. They were making their way through the dining room.

“Could’ve been better. But at least we signed on an apartment yesterday, that’s a huge relief, even if it’s the size of your smallest bathroom.”

Laylee waves her hand. “It’s not about size, it’s about what you do with the space you have.” She doesn’t seem to see the irony in her statement.

She’s impeccably dressed and naturally elegant; the type of person who lights up a room when she walks in simply by looking so perfect. And yet she’s surprisingly easy to talk to.

“Can I ask you a funny question?” I blurt out.

“Sure.”

I hesitate for a minute.  “It’s hard to put this into words but… I’m a pretty private person. I don’t feel the need to share everything that’s going on inside, but now that I’m getting married….”

“You have to be very specific when it comes to what you like or don’t like.” Laylee says confidently. “Gavi kept buying me white-gold jewelry until I explained I generally prefer platinum. Uch, it was a whole thing. My advice? Be open right from the get-go.”

I smile. “Noted. I actually meant more like… like inner emotions, the way things affect you. Things like that.”

“Oh.” Laylee blinks, adjusts herself on the couch. “Well, I’m not the one to ask. I mean… I’m not someone who does the whole vulnerable thing very well.” She makes a vague gesture around the lavish room. “Obviously.”

She frowns, gets up to adjust a painting on the wall, then turns to me. “For what it’s worth, I can tell you that life is lonely in a glass box. Empty. Everyone just saying their lines, living their lives, no real connection. When you let the right people into your world, it strengthens you.”

I turn this over in my head as I head upstairs to the guest wing. I’m not scared of loneliness — I’ve had my fair share of it. And I don’t need any strengthening. No, what I’m scared of is uncorking the pain I hold inside. I’m scared that if I let it free and share it with someone else, it may consume us both.

If I can keep it in, I can control it.

“There are extra blankets in the closet,” Laylee calls up the stairs. “Supposed to snow tonight.”

The world is buried under white when I wake up. Laylee’s kids are bouncing around the house — school’s been canceled.

“The main roads have been plowed, but Gavi says the only thing open on Main Street is Bleichman’s Bagels,” Laylee says, when I tell her that Josh and I were supposed to meet for lunch before going to meet a rebbetzin he wants to introduce me to.

“Well, then, bagels it is.”

“I’ll drive you. I’m dropping off my girls for a snow-date anyway.”

As we near Main Street a little while later we get stuck behind a van unloading teenagers.

“Oh, no. Not again,” Laylee mutters.

“Who are they?” I ask, watching the group as they pull out large, homemade signs from the back of the van.

Laylee sighs. “For the past few months, kids and teachers from the lower-income neighborhoods have been gathering to protest the state of the public schools. They claim their Title I funding was slashed and their schools are suffering, blaming it all on Trump. Gavi says it’s ridiculous: If you live in an area with low property tax, then your schools just have less money. It’s the way it works.” Laylee shrugs.

“But why come here to protest?”

Laylee hesitates. “I guess, if they want their message to get out, they need to send it from a place where it will be noticed — a nice upper-class neighborhood like this one. And today’s the perfect day because school’s out.”

I get out in front of the bagel store. A tall black woman clutching a clipboard approaches me.

“Hi, there! I’m Alexis. Would you like to help us spread the message about the injustice our public schools are facing?”

My heart skips a beat. “Oh, uh… No message spreading today, just cream-cheese spreading.” I point to the bagel store, slightly repulsed by my own corniness.

Alexis’s smile falters for a moment, then comes back in full force.

“Does the plight of young minds in our community receiving a subpar education not bother you?”

Our community. I stare at her. “Yes, of course, terrible stuff,” I stammer.

“Good! Sign this petition.”

I sign my name quickly and hand the clipboard back.

“You seem like a nice girl. Would you be interested in joining Hand in Hand? It’s a mentoring program. We’re always looking for role models for the kids.”

Honestly, I just want to get far away from Alexis and her assumptions.  “Oh… um, I don’t think I’m the right address. I’m Jewish. Religious. I’m part of the Jewish Orthodox community.” It’s the wrong thing to say.

Alexis lets her hand drop to her side, clipboard and all.

“Ohhh.” She says it very slowly, taking a step back. “I see. You’re one of those. If your mind tells you you’re black, then you’re black. If your mind tells you you’re white, then you’re white. If one day you wake up and want to be Jewish, you’re Jewish. What’s next? Suddenly you decide you’re an office chair — so be it.” Her smile has turned snide. “Guess what. I have news for you. You’re black. Just like me.”

I’m speechless for a few seconds. “Of course I am. My maternal grandparents converted to Judaism in the early 60s, before my mother was born. My father converted in his twenties. I’ve been a religious Jew my whole life, and that’s what I know. That’s the community I feel comfortable in.”

Alexis stands very still, pondering this for a minute, then she seems to perk up. “Fascinating. I imagine you encounter your share of discrimination.”

I open my mouth to answer, but Alexis plows on. “I don’t know much about Jews. I know they keep to themselves, not very fond of outsiders, right? They all look the same, dress the same.”

In the pockets of my coat, my palms grow warm and sticky. She’s a story seeker, this Alexis, just looking for an angle. I’ve met my fair share of those — saccharine teachers in high school and seminary, sure I had some fabulous journey to share, trying all sorts of transparent tactics to get me to open up.

I have no journey to share with the world — I was born a frum Jew. And yes, there are challenges, but not ones I wish to air. There are things no seminary teacher could ever understand about growing up frum and black. Things Alexis could never understand about being neither here nor there. Things I have always chosen to keep inside, because sharing them would be pointless.

Alexis is staring at me, eyes boring into mine, a hungry look on her face. “Look, if there’s anything you’d like to share about your life as a black Jewish woman I’d love to hear it. We have a long history of discrimination in this country, and part of our goal here is to stop the cycle. Bringing these issues out into the open can help,” Alexis says, sweet again.

Behind us, two frum men exit the bagel store. They stop for a moment taking in the scene. Since I started talking to Alexis, the street has filled with teenagers; organized chaos ensued. Signs and banners, laughter and some rowdy yelling.

“Look,” I say, rubbing my forehead. “The Jewish community has always been accepting of me. Without fail. In no way do I feel discriminated against.” My voice is strong and steady. Lie. Just lie, Yochi.

Alexis nods, a smirk dancing over her lips. “Sure. Okay.”

The two men from the bagel store pass us, sipping their to-go cups of coffee. As they pass, one calls out: “Geitz aheim, shvartzes.” The other laughs uproariously.

A bubbling rage springs from my chest up into my throat, but I manage to keep my face calm, my smile steady.

“We’re not… this community is not racist,” I say to Alexis.

She raises her eyebrows. “Racist. Your word, not mine.” She hands me her card. “In case you change your mind.”

I ignore the gesture, turn around, and come face to face with Josh.

His eyes are very blue. “Did those… did they really just say that?” he asks, staring down the street at the receding figures of the two men.

I feel myself flush.

“We should go in,” I say, pointing to the bagel store.

Josh starts walking. “I’m gonna go say something….”

“No!” My vehemence surprises us both. “No,” I repeat, softly. “I’m… just hungry. Haven’t eaten a thing today. We should just go in.” The thought of confronting the men makes my skin crawl. That’s not how I deal with ignorance. Josh is searching my face, waiting for me to explain. I can see the disillusionment in his eyes — the newly frum, happy bubble he’s been living in is being stretched, and soon it will pop. I should get it over with. Explain what I have to deal with on a regular basis from the frum community. Life is lonely in a glass box. I should, but I can’t. I can’t shatter the walls, I can’t explain. I walk toward the bagel store instead, and say nothing.

“Remind me who we’re going to see again?” I still felt shaky half an hour later as I climb into the passenger seat of the car Josh has borrowed.

Josh checks his mirrors and pulls out of the spot carefully. “Mrs. Koppelberg. I told you about Reb Zev, right?”

“The one who learned with you when you were fresh off the boat?”

Josh nods. “When I first came to Elmway I spent a lot of time with the Koppelbergs. I’d only spent a few months in Ohr Somayach after college, so when I got here my skills were still weak. Reb Zev was already retired and somehow we connected. He became a sort of a private tutor for me.

“After he passed away I made sure to stay in touch with Mrs. K. They have no kids nearby, so I helped around the house. You know, broken garbage disposal, cleaning out the gutters. That sort of stuff.”

The clouds on the horizon are giant foreboding formations that fill me with an odd sense of exhilaration.

“She moved into a retirement home a few months ago. She can’t wait to meet you.”

We walk quickly through the squat brick building, my mind still replaying the conversation with Alexis. This community has always been accepting of me. A thought suddenly pops into my head. I open my mouth to say something, then close it. Josh stops outside room 58 and knocks softly.

“You told her I’m black, right?” I say quietly. From the other side of the door, I hear shuffling.

“Huh?”

“You told her. Prepared her, right?”

“Prepared her?” Josh’s eyes narrow. “What is there to prepare her for? It’s 2018, Yochi.”

Oh, Josh. Naive, sweet Josh, who grew up as liberal as they come. Whose best friend from NYU was a black man from Boston who wore Gucci shoes and majored in philosophy. Innocent Josh, who thinks all the circles around him, all the world around him is post-racial. I hadn’t realized until this very moment how clueless he is.

The door opens and I paste on the brightest smile I can manage, heart thumping. Mrs. Koppelberg’s eyes brighten at the sight of Josh, then grow round as she turns to me. Josh’s smile falters. I smile wider.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” I say, sweetly. “Josh has told me so much about you.” I still one hand with the other as we walk into the small living room. Mrs. Koppelberg remains standing as we sit down on the couch.

“Yehoshua is a good boy. Such a good boy. Kind, always so helpful.”

She avoids my eye, fidgeting with the throw pillows instead, straightening the cloth runner on the coffee table.

“Baruch Hashem. My mother’s been bragging to all of her friends for weeks about how her future son-in-law grabbed a broom after the l’chayim and began sweeping up,” I say lightly.

Thick silence.

“Can I offer you a drink?” Mrs. Koppelberg asks politely. She is giving Josh strange, questioning looks, her lips pursed.

“Please, let me. What can I bring you?” I stand up quickly, making my way to the small kitchenette.

“Nothing for me, thank you. There are cups in the cabinet. Help yourself to the tea box.”

I take my time, enjoying the reprieve. I can hear Mrs. Koppelberg whispering to Josh. I can only imagine what she’s saying. A few tortuous moments pass and suddenly I hear Josh’s voice, loud and firm. He doesn’t bother whispering. He wants me to hear.

“My parents and my rebbeim think Yochi is wonderful. As do I. Because she is.”

Something deep inside of me cracks in half, a weariness fills the gap, swirling through my entire body. It’s not just about me anymore. It’s about him, too. How can I hold the pain for two of us? I walk back into the living room with my tea.

“This is delicious,” I say, smiling again.

Mrs. Koppelberg is still staring at Josh, who looks as if he’s about to give her a lecture. I give him a quick shake of the head and glance down at my watch. Five more minutes. I can do this for five more minutes. No confrontations, we’ll just dance around the issue. I point to a photo on the wall of four giggling little girls on a park bench. “They’re adorable,” I say, desperate to break the tension.

Mrs. Koppelberg’s face softens. “They finally have a brother, those little girls. The first baby to be named for my husband. A little Zevi…” Mrs. Koppelberg begins rambling, much to my relief.

We say our goodbyes, with empty promises to visit again. Outside, the wind has picked up, the clouds above us are furious, and I know we’re going to get more snow. Josh lets out a long breath, as if he’d been holding it in.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t believe…”

“It’s okay. It’s over and that’s it.” I cut him off, walking quickly toward the car then stopping short when I notice he isn’t following me.

I turn around to face him. “What?”

“That’s it? It’s okay and that’s it?”

“Stop. Please, Josh…”

“But it’s not okay.” His voice is sharp.

“Look. I’d rather not have to rehash all the ugly details.”

The snow is starting up again, huge swirling flakes.

“But, I mean… do you want me to pretend that acting that way is okay? Is that what you want? You can’t just let people treat you—”

“You can’t tell me how I should or shouldn’t let people treat me.”

A flash of pain jumps across Josh’s face. “That’s not want I meant…” He trails off.

We stand in frigid silence.

“Are we going to go through this every time someone stares at me?”

“People need to learn, Yochi.”

“But if you think that it’s our job to teach them… then we have a problem,” I say, my eyes burning with ice and tears and the effort it takes to keep the pain away.

The snow is swirling fast around us, both of us blinking away flakes.

Josh looks at me expectantly, waiting for an explanation. I take a deep breath.

“Josh, I… I can’t constantly focus on the way people relate to me. I can’t spend my time harping on little things. The way I stay sane is by deflecting and ignoring and pretending I don’t see. I just keep smiling and let things slide.” I pause, gathering my thoughts.

“When I asked you if you had prepared Mrs. Koppelberg you told me that it was 2018. It is 2018. But you will find, married to me, an alternate reality to the one your liberal education painted. You thought you were living in a world where race is no longer a thing. Believe that. Go ahead. But that means you need to let it go when you are confronted with an alternative. Because if you don’t let it go…” I take a deep breath. “If you don’t let it go, you will be at odds with the whole world.”

“No.” Josh shakes his head. “That’s not true. Not the whole world, Yochi.”

“This whole world, Josh. It’s constant and it’s real and honestly confronting it just makes it worse. And if every stare… if every bit of ignorance is going to bother you… than this won’t work.”

“But people can be taught,” Josh says, looking slightly panicked.

“But I can’t be the one to teach them. And if you’re married to me, you can’t either. No scenes, Josh. I can’t do scenes. No drama. You have to let it all go. If you can do that, then this can work. Otherwise… it’s too… painful.” I trail off, watching the world around us grow white. “Do you think you can do that?”

Josh rubs his temple, thinking. It seems like an eternity before he finally speaks. “I can do that, and I’m sorry… about all the pain,” he says.

Relief courses through my body.

“But I still think you’re wrong.”

Our eyes meet.

“If you are constantly protecting yourself by avoiding the issue, you’re missing out on an opportunity to change the world around you.”

All that day I replay his words and decide he is the one who’s wrong. I’m only one person. One person cannot change the world.

We’re on the checkout line at Kosher Grocer, a few weeks after our wedding, and Josh is telling me how the iconic Elmway High mascot, Chipper the chipmunk, got his shtreimel. “So one of the guys was a bit tipsy, in honor of the first day of Adar and all, and he says ‘Hey, why don’t we paint a shtreimel on the chipmunk from the Welcome to Elmway sign?’ ”

A frazzled-looking mother in front of us loads her groceries onto the belt. Her two children keep turning around to stare at us.

“I’m like, guys, you’re about to commit a federal offense, you can’t vandalize government property…” Josh goes on, but I’m no longer listening. I’m watching the little boy with the plaid yellow yarmulke tug on his mother’s sweater dress. I know what’s coming.

“Is she a goy?”

My heart skips a beat. The little girl turns around to look at me, then scrunches her face.

“Or maybe she’s a Mitzri. Right she’s a Mitzri, Mommy?” The mother glances at me, then looks away, her face burning crimson.

I pretend not to hear. Josh raises his eyebrows. I reply with a tiny shake of the head. He’s kept his end of the bargain; no confrontations, no drama. I look back at the two children and their mother who’s ignoring their questions.

Josh’s words come back to me. You’re missing out on the opportunity to educate others.

The two little kids will one day be two big kids, and then two adults. And what about my own future children? Am I going to be like my mother? Give my children nothing but a raincoat?

I step forward and bend down, until I’m at eye level with the kids.

“I look different, don’t I?” They stare back at me.

“But I’m a frum Jew, just like you two.” I give them a big smile, which they return shyly. “Hashem made all sorts of people in the world, some with darker skin, some with lighter skin, some taller and some shorter. Every single person in the world is different and special in his own way.”

Maybe there are times when confronting the uncomfortable is worth it. Maybe, for the sake of the ones who will come after me, I have a responsibility to look the pain in the eye, instead of constantly letting it slide off of me.

They are only children and we are only two people and no, I cannot change the world. But maybe I can change a moment in time, fill it with something positive and send it rippling forward to the future.

(Originally Featured in Family First, Issue 586)