It happened in Williamsburg a few years ago. Reb Duvy*, a friend of mine who happens to be a mesivta maggid shiur, was in Williamsburg for a wedding. One of the “wonderful” experiences that anyone visiting Brooklyn must endure is the battle to find a parking spot. Reb Duvy had been circling for a while when he finally saw it—a coveted spot! He pulled his car in front of the empty space so that he could parallel park when, suddenly, a car whizzed in, fronting into the spot and literally stealing it from him.
He got out of his car and approached the driver. Seeing that it was a frum person, he told him that what he had done was not right. The reaction he received filled him with a mix of rage and disbelief. The man retorted in zaftige Yiddish, “Di cholov akum fresser! Zug mir nisht vus tzi tien—You cholov akum fresser, don’t tell me what to do!”
Now, let’s unpack this reaction.
The Yid from Williamsburg clearly assumed that because my friend was dressed in a short jacket, he must not care about cholov Yisroel. He must have also decided that if you don’t care about cholov Yisroel, you don’t deserve a parking spot—that you’re the kind of Jew who doesn’t have to be treated like a fellow Jew. Alternatively, perhaps the man simply had such reprehensible middos that he didn’t care about stealing someone else’s parking spot and found justification by thinking, “That guy doesn’t keep mitzvos as meticulously as I do.” Which, of course, wasn’t true.
Either way, whenever I think of this story—which reinforces so many stereotypes on both sides—I think of the words of Chazal: “Yeshivas krachim kasha—Living in big cities is difficult.” I like to explain this Chazal to mean that living in big cities “makes you hard” or hardens you. You must be aggressive just to survive: fight for a parking space, fight to cross an intersection, fight to get your child into a school, fight to buy a house before the bidding war pushes it out of reach. The list goes on. You become hardened and aggressive, and it becomes more difficult to cultivate the middos that are our legacy from Avrohom, Yitzchok and Yaakov.
The Stark Contrast
Recently, I had the opportunity to spend a few days in an out-of-town community, and when I say “out-of-town,” I mean a small, warm, close-knit community with one shul, Yidden of all types, and barely any of the usual “frum” amenities that we in-towners take for granted. The contrast hit me like a bucket of cold water.
It wasn’t just that people were naturally friendly and curious, stopping you in the street on Shabbos to say shalom aleichem and welcome you to town. It was more than that. It was clear that every person mattered. Each one was valued and cherished for who they are and what they could contribute to the community. People were wanted and needed—not seen as obstacles or competitors, but as vital additions who enriched the whole.
Yes, in Brooklyn, Lakewood, or Monsey, we have the luxury of attending minyan anytime we want, always with a large crowd, morning, night, or anytime in between. In the place where I was, there was one minyan on Shabbos, and the latest daily Shacharis is at 7:30 a.m.
But you know what? Every single person counts. You are important. It doesn’t matter what you are wearing. There is far less judgment, and people don’t instantly draw conclusions about who you are —or aren’t—based on a glance.
From what I saw, the children there are also comfortable in their own skin. They are truly part of the shul and they matter.
In-Town Versus Out-of-Town: Both Have Advantages…and Both Have Challenges
Now, I’m not saying that everything out of town is rosy and perfect. We big-city people often fail to realize how much we have, how lucky we are, and what a wonderful community we belong to, because we’re blinded by the rat race.
I’m also not saying that out of town doesn’t have its own challenges. It certainly does. In many ways, children who grow up out of town, especially in smaller kiruv-type communities, can become stronger because they must know and understand who they are and why they do what they do. They recognize that just like their parents are role models, they, too, are examples for others.
At the same time, exposure to so many different types of Yidden, and non-Jews, can present challenges. In in-town communities, there tends to be more awareness regarding tznius and interaction between genders. There’s usually less mingling, and for those who wish to be careful in these matters, it’s easier. There are also countless ways in which living in a hub of frumkeit simplifies maintaining and transmitting one’s minhagim and standards.
So yes, on the one hand, out-of-town communities often embody a purity of spirit, a temimus, a love of mitzvos seen in Yidden who aren’t compelled by peer pressure but act out of genuine love for Hashem and His nation. On the other hand, such communities face their own challenges, even to the purity and strength of Yiddishkeit itself.
No Such Thing as Perfection
Bottom line: nothing is perfect. Wherever we live, there are challenges, and our task is to face them, learn from them, and overcome them.
That said, it would be wonderful for all of us to occasionally make a switch!
In-towners should experience what it means to be part of a small community, where you make a difference, where you can be a role model, and where you are valued and appreciated.
Out-of-town communities would likewise benefit from seeing the size, scope, vibrancy, scholarship, and dedication that can be found so readily in large centers of frumkeit.
And to all of us in-towners, maybe, just maybe, there’s a way to bring a touch of “out-of-townish” warmth into our lives by making everyone around us feel important and feel appreciated.
And…don’t even think about stealing that parking spot!
