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A tale of two shadchens

My parents came from Shiraz, Iran. The little English they spoke had a strong “FOB” (fresh off the boat) accent, which the class clowns could impeccably impersonate.
[additional-authors]
May 19, 2016

My parents came from Shiraz, Iran. The little English they spoke had a strong “FOB” (fresh off the boat) accent, which the class clowns could impeccably impersonate. My father worked two jobs — as a rabbi at a shul, Ohel Moshe Synagogue, and in Anaheim, 26 miles from home, commissioning car parts in a junkyard.  My mother worked three jobs — as a nightly mikveh lady, elder caretaker and mother. Ashamed of my parents’ struggles, I distanced myself from my inherited culture and stopped speaking Farsi.

Like many others who fled their homeland, my parents felt most comfortable in their ethnic Persian-Jewish enclave. To them, the obvious choice was to send me to Bais Chana High School (now Ohel Chana), a religious Jewish school for girls in Pico-Robertson. As the oldest of four children born to hard-working immigrants, I dared not voice my desire of attending another school that would have a stronger secular education. I already felt guilty enough for their sacrifices.

[LISTEN TO CHAYA TELL HER STORY ON KPCC’S OFF-RAMP]

When I received Bais Chana’s welcome packet, I cried. The school’s mission was to educate mothers of the future Jewish generation, and its off- and on-campus rules included restrictions on any dress and behavior that could be construed as seductive, including bicycling. It was obvious: We girls were mere baby-making machines. Every two years or so a genetic company would come to our school to collect our DNA for matchmaking purposes. Matchmakers would call the school after graduation or seminary to ask about our prayer and tzeniut (modesty) grades. Natural-looking makeup was allowed only at the beginning of 12th grade, because that’s when we could begin dating for marriage. BCHS was not a school, it was a shadchen, a matchmaker.

In this small and unfamiliar world, I never fit in. Among distant, non-Orthodox family, my parents’ religious customs were strange. My father had a beard and wore a black hat, and my mother wore a wig and modest clothing. In school, I was also the Other — a dark-skinned Persian among Ashkenazim. Where did I belong?

The answer came in 2008, when I was in 10th grade.

Our curriculum included a current events class that deliberately, and somewhat scandalously, prompted us to garner knowledge outside our small world. Of course, the Los Angeles Times, Newsweek and many other secular publications were too liberal and far too “unkosher” to be permissible for class. So, in order to to play it safe at Bais Chana, I picked up a copy of the free Jewish Journal at my local neighborhood Walgreens to keep myself updated on current events.

I knew I would be pushing the strict school limits. The joke about the Journal was that it was “Jewish” in name only, because it advertised non-kosher bagels and lox. But, I was also trying to save money. The Journal was free, and I preferred to spend the $40 I made each month as an art teacher buying chocolate and more art supplies.

Considering that 75 percent of the school day was Torah-based, I grew accustomed to reading from right to left, and thus instinctively read the Journal from the back cover. The “last” column was Seth Menachem’s singles column, “My Single Peeps.” I learned from Rashi that if you want your teaching to be effective, you start with a joke. Because the first article I read was Seth’s hilarious, laugh-out-loud description of the single friends he wanted to set up, my learning of arts, culture, religion, philosophy, science, history and literature, from the sections that followed, proved very effective.

Though I felt a bit guilty indulging in the Journal, I also felt I had a rabbi’s stamp of approval — oddly enough, Seth’s last name, Menachem, was also the seventh and last Chabad Lubavitcher Rebbe’s first name.

Through the Jewish Journal, I not only learned about topics far outside the school’s narrow confines, I also gained a strong sense of my intricate identity. Through Gina Nahai’s poetic descriptions of Iran, pre- and post-Iranian Revolution, I became a proud Jewish-Persian woman. I was no longer ashamed of my genes but wore them like the gold bangles on my sleeve. Through Rob Eshman’s columns mentioning his love of cooking and for his wife, a rabbi, I learned about the fluidity of gender roles. The possibility of being something other than just a mother arose. I could do what the guys did. (And hey, I even found someone who’ll do the cooking instead of me.) Jewish Journal writers helped me develop compassion and camaraderie for those of different (and often marginalized) backgrounds from mine: converts, LGBTQ and other folks in and outside of the tribe. Jewish Journal writers exposed me to the diversities and realities outside my sheltered life.

I learned about everything: the good, the bad and the ugly. One week, all of the Jewish Journals in my neighborhood were gone. So, I walked 40 minutes to a non-kosher Jewish-style deli to discover some unclaimed Journals that uncovered some disturbing sexual-abuse scandals in the community. The Jewish Journal’s chutzpah rubbed off on me.

Through the Journal, I learned it did not matter how I prayed or what I wore, because I was a fabulous Jew simply for being one. Mostly though, through the Journal, I developed a more light-hearted, fun and loving relationship with the challenges of dating and marriage. It did not have to be black and white; it could be unconventional like Menachem’s matchmaking methodology. And so, I found a shadchen, unlike Bais Chana, that was free-spirited and open — the Jewish Journal.

This is all preamble for what happened last week, at a rooftop bar near my apartment called L.P. It was a beautiful night and my friends and I decided we wanted a group picture beneath the starry sky. I turned to ask a nearby stranger to take it. And like magic, it was Seth Menachem.

I was starstruck. There stood the shadchen that changed my life and got me on the very path to the double-date I was on.

With confidence and a touch of chutzpah, I pointed my index finger straight at his face and said, “I know you. You are Seth.” He was startled by a stranger spotting him. My friends chimed in, asking him who he was and what he does. He couldn’t have been more gracious — or funny. I just stared at the scene with the biggest smile in the world. I did not tell him what his column, and the Journal, meant to a very sheltered, searching and mixed-up Persian Jewish girl at Bais Chana. At that moment, I was without words. I only hope my story explains my gratitude to him and the many wonderful writers at the Journal who opened my eyes to a big and more beautiful world. There really is no telling how one star leads to the next.


Chaya Leah Esakhan is an undergraduate student at UCLA studying physiological science and gender studies. She is currently a writer and editor for UCLA’s Jewish Newsmagazine, Ha’Am. In 2017, she will be the first in her family to graduate from a university.

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