by Susan Rubin Weintrob
IT USED TO BE you could tell a lot about a person by whatever hat he was
wearing.
For example, in the Middle Ages, members of guilds wore certain hats to
distinguish themselves. We still have a few leftovers -- such as the
large
white chef's hat that top-notch chefs like to wear. Today, a baseball
cap might
identify a player, or a small green cloth cap might tell us a person
works
in the operating room.
I wear a hat too -- but not because I am a chef, a baseball player or a
doctor. I wear a hat because I am an Orthodox Jew. I am recognized as
such by some,
but most people in my town think it a new fashion. When I wear a beret,
I am
often saluted in French. One person asked me, "Is this a feminist
thing?" I shook
my head. "No, it's a religious thing." She looked disappointed.
When I am at functions withinin the Jewish community, people usually
know
that my hat means that I am Orthodox. Just as my hat tells them
something about
me, their reaction to my hat tells me something about them. Some approve
-- one
woman began telling me about her daughter, who like myself, is newly
Orthodox.
Also like myself, she is well educated and teaches at a university. And
like me, she surprises
many because despite all her choices, she chooses to be an observant
woman.
It is this concept of choice that bothers those who disapprove of my
hat. Why
would a well-educated, so-called liberated woman, want to go back to
those
things that many Jews have worked hard to discard? Why do I want to be
publicly Jewish? Why do I want to be publicly religious? Why do I want
to stand out
as different?
I don't wear a hat to stand out as being different -- I wear a hat to
link myself
to the many generations of women before me. The custom of married women
covering their heads is one of considerable antiquity, discussed in the
Mishnah
and in the Shulchan Aruch (Code of Jewish Law). Despite the tradition,
except among the
Orthodox, most Jewish women do not cover their heads.
So what's the big deal about wearing a hat? Can't you wear a hat and not
be observant? And conversely, can't you be a good person or a good Jew
without a hat? The answer is yes, of course. A hat or kippah does not
guarantee goodness anymore than a chef's hat guarantees a tasty meal.
But -- and here's the big but -- for most of us, to be a good Jew and a
moral person is a constant struggle. We'll listen to some terrific
gossip -- just this once. How about sneaking into McDonalds for a
luscious Big Mac? We'll go to that meeting Friday afternoon and not
prepare for Shabbos -- just this Friday.
Wearing a hat changes all that for me.
It reminds me of the promise that I have made -- not just to wear a
hat, but to
try to live as a good Jew. During Shavuos, we think of the promise all
Jews made when accepting the Torah. Mystically, we are told, all Jewish
souls were present at Sinai -- we all accepted the Torah and its
requirements. It's not easy to make or keep these promises, as a friend
of mine found out with her precocious son, who saw and smelled bacon
for the first time. He was upset when his mother told him he couldn't
eat it. "But why? It smells so good. I want it!" His mother told him
that Jews had made a promise to G-d not to eat bacon. Her 4 year-old
shook his head vigorously. "I didn't promise."
"Sorry," his mother told him firmly, "Until you're old enough, I made
the promise for you."
We don't always have parents to help us remain Jewish, so my hat becomes
an outward symbol of this promise, making it harder to forget Jewish law
and tradition.
Wearing a hat shows that you are a serious Jew. I cannot imagine a
rabbi who wears a hat or kippah holding a university workshop during the
week of Shavuos, as recently happened at my university last spring. I
imagine a head-covered rabbi would be in services during the holiday or
holding study sessions in synagogues.
I cannot imagine Jews who wear hats scheduling business meetings on
Shabbat or discouraging fellow congregants from eating kosher. In fact,
I can't imagine men or women who keep their heads covered trying to
denigrate observant Jews at all.
For many, being a Jew has become empty of Jewishness. Being born Jewish
is just not enough; Judaism takes discipline. Regrettably, too often
the typical Jew is one who is Jewishly uneducated. This often leads to
being disrespectful of Jewish law. What individuals do in their own
lives that is disrespectful will be harmful to themselves or their
families Jewishly. While regrettable, it pales in importance compared
to rabbis, community leaders or administrators
who are ignorant or disrespectful about Judaism, but have the power to
make decisions that affect their fellow Jews.
"Each Jew should individually decide what aspects of Judaism are
meaningful," I am told by many. To a certain extent this is true -- but
only to a certain extent. All organizations have boundaries. A friend of
mine who is Reform has often given me this individualistic line. I
agreed with her the other day.
She was surprised. Then I said, "So you think it's all right for Jews
who believe in Jesus to say they are practising Judaism?"
"Well, no," she responded.
"How about Jews who say they don't believe in G-d?" No, she told me,
they are not
practising Judaism either. I smiled. "So you don't think that
individuals rule totally, do you? Only in the areas that you want."
The many Reform student-rabbis at the small congregation in my town
frequently followed my friend's line of reasoning. Their lack of
knowledge about Jewish traditions often made their decisions counter to
what Jews have followed for centuries, though the students were
generally unaware of this. The fact that they were often ignorant was
understandable; they were students. The fact that many did not respect
Jewish traditions was not so understandable. On the bima,
reading from the Torah, many refused to wear a head covering or a
tallis; many denigrated fellow Jews or long-held Jewish traditions in
their sermons; some discouraged the use of Hebrew; most were poor role
models by their own lack of observance and reverence. I remember asking
one student-rabbi to let me know which Torah portion fell nearest to my
daughter's Bat Mitzvah, which was then two years away. The individual
told me to pick any portion that I liked, that
it didn't matter. Even when I insisted on knowing, the student-rabbi
wouldn't tell me.
I analyzed why this statement bothered me. I realized I wanted a rabbi
who said it mattered.
When I see a Jew who wears a head covering, I know that Judaism matters
to him or her. I know that if I ask a question about Judaism, I will
not be told, "It doesn't matter. Do whatever you want." When I see a
woman who wears a wig or a hat, I know that she will not try to
humiliate me for keeping kosher. When I see a rabbi who always covers
his head, I know he will not be doing workshops at a university during
major Jewish holidays. When I see a congregation of
men and women who keep their heads covered at prayer, I know that they
try, in their daily lives, to be serious Jews.
It's gotten so that my children think I look funny without a hat. When I
look at myself in the mirror, I see what they mean. I don't look
complete anymore. I guess that parallels how I feel about being Jewish.
It's hard for me to feel complete without observing the traditions that
have helped Jews survive the thousands of years of murder, conquest
and assimilation.
And that's why I wear a hat.
Why I wear a hat
JWR contributor Susan Rubin Weintrob is based at the National Jewish
Post and Opinion and is a faculty member of Ball State University's
English Department.