Finding Her Calling

Gloria Rodríguez

April 12, 2004

Walk outside the Kingston Avenue stop off the subway station in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, and you will catch a glimpse into the world Estee Schreiber left behind. On Fridays and Saturdays, bearded men stand outside the Lubavitch World Headquarters just across the street wearing black suits, black hats, and tallit or prayer shawls. Women wear long skirts and push their children's strollers. Walk down the quiet streets, and many of the stone homes have yellow signs with Hebrew words and the picture of the leader of the Chabad-Lubavitch movement, Rebbe Menachem Mendel Schneerson, who died in 1994.

This is where Schreiber, 20, was born and raised. It is a world away from Birmingham, Ala., where Schreiber works as a teacher and is one of the few Hasidic Jews. Although she looks like any other young woman with her trendy outfits, her gelled hair with blond curls locked in place and her lightly powdered face, Schreiber lives a different life than most young women her age. Her religious beliefs govern all aspects of her life. In a day when scantily-clad celebrities like Britney Spears grace the covers of magazines, Schreiber only wears skirts below her knees and always covers her elbows and neckline, like most Hasidic women. She doesn't watch television or movies and works as a preschool teacher at the Friends of Chabad center. The center, nestled in a quiet, hilly Birmingham suburb, is one of two places in Birmingham that conducts Orthodox Jewish services. In Alabama, Schreiber interacts mostly with non-Orthodox Jews.

In April, Schreiber came to New York for 10 days to celebrate Passover with her family and friends. She attended services at the Lubavitch headquarters regularly. While she stood on the second floor of the synagogue, where the women sit and often engage in their own conversations during services, old friends welcomed her and young girls continuously asked about her experiences and whether she liked Alabama. A couple of young girls said they, too, planned to move to another city soon to reach out to smaller Jewish communities. Such outreach work is common among Chabad-Lubavitchers.

One unavoidable question kept popping up for Schreiber: Would she stay in Alabama or would she return home? She wasn't sure, she answered.
From the crowded balcony, the women could hear the soft prayers from the services below and witness the men through a tinted window that separates the men from the women. Below, it was a sea of black hats, bobbing to the rhythm of prayer.

To Schreiber, the separation of the sexes makes perfect sense.

"There's a plain reason," she said. "The men will be distracted by the women. It doesn't make me feel less. It makes me feel special. We're behind the glass, not on display."

The window that separates the men from the women in the Chabad center in Mountain Brook, Ala. is smaller. On the other side of the window, Schreiber can see the men, but most of them don't wear black hats and suits, and some know less about Judaism than some gentiles. The center has a diverse following. Some who attend regularly are from different countries, some are Reform, some Conservative. Schreiber mentors one woman who is converting to Judaism, and often answers questions of less observant Jews.

"To teach Judaism, that is my mission," Schreiber said. "That is my life."

While she teaches them about the power of Judaism, they teach her about a different type of strength.

"A lot of people are struggling to change their lives to become more Orthodox," she said, telling the story of one woman who struggles to give up smoking on the Sabbath, and of others who switch to a kosher lifestyle or buy more expensive homes so they can live closer to the synagogue and not have to drive to Sabbath services.

"For me, it's my nature, it's not a struggle," she said. "It's what I am going to do. But people really make a lot of sacrifices."

Schreiber lives with two other young Hasidic women at the Chabad center. Reminiscent of college students across the country, they share an apartment that has three beds in one room, a bathroom and small living room area. They all teach at the Jewish school there and help prepare Sabbath meals. After Friday night services, the congregation gets together for dinner in the hall next door.

One rabbi stressed the importance of observing the Sabbath in Jewish life after dinner on a Friday.

"Shabbas is Shabbas, even if it's 'March Madness,'" the rabbi told the congregation, referring to two Alabama schools competing in the popular NCAA basketball tournament at the time. After saying a blessing with grape juice in an overflowing cup, the congregation celebrated the rabbi's birthday. "L'Chaim," he said, meaning "To Life" in Hebrew, as he lifted a glass of Vodka and swallowed it in one gulp. The group, consisting of more than 30, gathered in a circle, sang popular Hebrew songs, and pounded their fists on the tables to the rhythm of the music. One man, who bore a resemblance to Santa Claus with his white beard and portly figure, wore a large fur hat, black suit, squinted his eyes and grabbed his belly when he sang.

Another woman, who had moved to the area recently from Colombia, spoke in accented English.

"The Hasidic style is rich," Lina Rezonzew, who is Orthodox, said in Spanish. "Ya a se Shalom, Ya a se Shalom," she sang, joining the others in singing, her accent lost in the Hebrew tunes while she moved her feet. The singing lit up the plain room, which had a view of the quiet Alabama sky and trees.

"There's a feeling of unity," Rezonzew said. "It's like a family. We're a family."

Across the room, Schreiber played with the children. This group, so different from what Screiber is accustomed to in her ultra-Orthodox community in Crown Heights, has become her family.

In Brooklyn three weeks later, her biological family happily welcomed Schreiber home for the Jewish holidays. She knows she is home when she sees the a yellow sign with a picture of Rebbe Schneerson, who was the leader of the Lubavitch movement until 1994, when he died. Inside her cozy home, a large picture of the Rebbe hangs above the couch, which has two sections that form a half moon. Among the pictures of her, her four brothers and sister on two long tables in the living room are more pictures of the Rebbe, who lived in Crown Heights, some including the rest of her family. On a shelf in the dining room, is another picture of the Rebbe and a frame with a crown that sits above his head, symbolizing he is the Messiah.

"He was not a regular person," Schreiber said. Whether he is the Messiah is a topic of controversy among Jews. Most Lubavitchers consider him the Messiah, Schreiber said, but some are more private about it. In her own family, each person is allowed to make his or her own decision, she said.

Schreiber, like so many other Lubavitchers, has fond memories of lining up with other children to get a blessing and dollar bill from Rabbi Schneerson on Sundays. She calls him simply, "Rebbe."

It was Rebbe who started the outreach program Schreiber is a part of, which encourages Lubavitchers to reach out to less observant Jews. Her mission in life has been defined by this man.

Schreiber's mother, Sara Hana, also hails the Rebbe. She talks about how he anticipated the instability of the Vietnam era and how he was ahead of his time. Sara Hana Schreiber and her husband grew up in nonobservant households, but found Hasidim and now live the lifestyle of observant Lubavitchers. She wears long skirts and a wig, a part of the Hasidic tradition that requires married women to always have their heads covered for Hashem or God. Wigs were adopted as a way for the women to integrate into society.

The ritual of Passover, which brought Schreiber back to New York, takes months of preparation. Schreiber gets the latest book, which lists the foods and other items that have chametz, or leaven. This includes the five grains of oats, wheat, rye, barley and spelt, which are forbidden during Passover. The restriction of chametz commemorates the Jewish slaves who were unable to eat leavened bread during their exile out of Egypt. The Schreibers rid their home of perfumes, shampoos, and makeup containing these ingredients. They cover their kitchen in foil so their hands do not touch anything with chametz. Old china is removed and special Passover china is brought in. Matzoh, which looks like a big cracker because it is made without yeast, is a popular food during this time. It commemorates the Jewish slaves who did not have time to cook bread with leaven.

After services at the Lubavitch headquarters on the second day of Passover, the family had a lunch at their home. The women sat on one side of the table and the men on the other. Schreiber's father sat at the head of the table. He said a blessing over wine and everybody drank from a cup. Then everybody washed his/her hands in the sink with a cup. Nobody spoke until the last person was done. Schreiber's father said a blessing over the matzoh, after which it was dipped it into salt and eaten. Afterwards, different courses consisting of salads, side dishes, chicken, fish, kugel, and homemade Italian ices and cake were served.

The family sang Hebrew tunes together and laughed at jokes. Schreiber showed them the book she had made for her students in Alabama, recounting the story of Passover, as written in the Torah, or what non-Jews know as the Old Testament. The story goes that God placed 10 plagues on the Egyptians who had enslaved the Jews. The Jews placed lamb's blood on their front doors so they would be "passed over" and not suffer the last plague -- the killing of the first-born. Schreiber's book showed pictures of the children dressed up as characters from the Torah. Her family applauded her, proud of her contributions to Alabama's Jewish community. While restrictions on Orthodox women give the appearance of docility and fragility, women like Schreiber demonstrate their agency through such work.

Divided between Alabama and New York, Schreiber was still unsure where she would spend the next year. But a couple of weeks later, she made up her mind.

"I decided to go home, and possibly continue teaching," she said from a phone in Alabama. "It's better to be closer to my family and friends."

(Updated May 12, 2004)