I
t’s the season of the soundless grumble.
The boys are back.
Some are home from Eretz Yisrael — those are the ones whose hat-bands have gone slightly green and like to carry their tefillin in shopping bags (Gal-Paz and Pharmacy Geula being favorite choices) and end conversations by saying “L’hitraot byyye” as if they were born in Bucharim instead of Boro Park.
Some come from Brisk. Doesn’t matter which Brisk the uncle nephew or cousin or whether they’re in shiur the hallway or still waiting patiently in a Geulah shul for the next draft lottery. They’re the ones who exaggerate the reish when they bentsh gomel peyos bobbing impressively as they announce to friends and family that they’ve arrived. Like an environmentalist or a vegetarian someone who learns in Brisk will tell you you need not ask.
Some come from Mir — that yeshivah that is a world all its own a kaleidoscope of shiurim and chaburos and buildings exploding with Torah — while others are fresh from one of the smaller yeshivos that dot the Holy City. The common denominator between them all is that they roll their eyes about American materialism and indulgence as they drive Mommy’s Infiniti to the dry cleaners where they dispense careful instructions about hanging not folded and not too much starch please.
