Thoughts from a quiet observer in 'the Heights'

The Heights are full of such diverse kinds of people. There's the mainstream ones, hat, jacket, beard, the works. There's the extremist, who wouldn't be caught dead without a moshiach flag pin on their lapel. There are the rebels in jeans and t-shirts. There's the ones that think they are cool, in corduroy, and pink button downs, and brown suede jackets.

Good chassidish girls, who actually believe all that they are taught, and in what they do. They are too scared to question.

The ones who are a little daring, wearing their green Bais Rivka uniform skirt slightly above their knees, with a jean jacket. Scandalous.

Theres the shlumps, long skirts, hoodies, messy buns, with bumps.

Theres the preppy ones, with leggings and wellies, short jean skirts. So cute.

Theres the fancy ones, post sem, black pleated skirts, stockings, patent leather shoes. Straight hair. It's a rule if you want to join that club. No curls.

And where do I fit in? I don't.

I've practically walked the whole Crown Heights today. Starting out from my house, going down Schenectady till Lefforts, up Troy, over till New York, up till Eastern Parkway, till the museum, (k almost, but then I turned back) down Kingston, back through Empire, up Albany, down Montgomery, back up New York, down Crown, up Kingston, and down my humble block again.

Why did I do this, you may ask? (I wouldn't ask, but I must consider my faithful readers queer train of thoughts.) Cuz I was sitting here in frustrating contemplation, trying for all I was worth to put together camp schedules, and I simply needed a break. A breather.

It was an intoxicatingly refreshing walk, what with all the rain, and wind and all. I walked so fast it almost felt like I was flying! Exhilarating.

In Parshat Lech Lecha, it said Avraham traversed the Land of Israel, so it would be considered his. But I walk the streets of the Heights, and it doesn't feel like mine. I am a stranger here.

I looked around, at this place I call 'the Heights'. Not my home, no. Just a stopover, till the next stage. They ask me where I'm from. I cringe as I regretfully say, the Heights. Yes, that's where I'm from. Thankfully, most of them say, 'noooooo way! You are like totally NOT a Crown Heightser!' I know, thanks. I've worked hard over the years to detach myself from that title. I'm just me. I am not a Crown Heightser, no.

I look around as I walk. There are many people walking by me. Mothers with strollers, little kids, teenagers, bochurim of all ages, yungerman, fathers, etc.I smile, but they don't know me, they don't see me. It's like I'm invisible, like I don't even exist.

It's like being in a hotel where the bell boy and maids are very rude to you. Would you want to return there? No. You'd report them, and make sure that all your friends knew not to ever go there.

Am I a guest here? Am I a resident? I'm not sure. I think I'm just floating by. But one thing is for sure: if I ever wanted to get a job in stalking, this place has ample opportunity to do it. I can watch, and they would never know, cuz they just don't see me.

I do understand all the OTD's now. (A little bit, anyway.) No one gives you a chance, so why bother? My advice to everyone in Crown Heights? Get out of this hell hole as fast as you can.