Where Is Tennessee? - Jewish Action

Rachel Schwartzberg and her husband, Steve, live in Memphis where they have a driveway and endless street parking. Photo: Rivka Braverman

Far from the frum frenzy, one newly Southern Jew reflects on finding home—and herself—deep in the heart of Memphis.

When my husband was offered a job in Memphis, Tennessee, I agreed to the move, sight unseen. I had never been to Memphis, but we were looking to leave New York City, and I figured we could go anywhere for a year or two.

Fourteen years later, we’re still here.

Sitting on the plane from New York, squirming baby on my lap, I turned to my husband in frustration. “Why is this flight taking so long? Wait . . . where is Tennessee?” It only occurred to me at that moment that I—a Canadian–turned–New Yorker—actually had no idea where in the country we were headed. It took some getting used to when the “tri-state area” became Tennessee, Arkansas and Mississippi.

Notwithstanding the challenging adjustment, what we found here in Memphis ended up checking so many boxes—the ones we knew about and the ones we couldn’t have foreseen. We discovered a lifestyle that back in New York seemed like the proverbial unicorn: an affordable home, no state income tax and easy commutes. How excited we were to have a driveway and endless street parking! We found a shul where we felt comfortable, and our family has grown alongside it over the years.

Granted, we traded our winter gear for hot, sticky summers. But when our kids complain about traffic because there are four cars ahead of us at the stop sign on the drive to school, we laugh knowingly.

When we arrived here, I had no idea I’d become the mother of daughters—some of whom are now teenagers. These girls of mine are figuring out who they are and where they fit in this vast, complex world, just as all teenagers must. But in some ways, the world they’re growing up in is a little less big and maybe just a little less complex.

From a distance we’ve watched as frum culture has blossomed in the years since we left New York. From modest clothing brands to high-end food options to kosher travel experiences and a growing cadre of Orthodox lifestyle influencers, all sorts of trends and fashions play an ever-increasing role in mainstream Orthodox life. In tandem, the list of “must haves” for frum families—and especially teenagers—seems to be growing at a feverish pace.

Sure, my kids care about styles and trends and wanting the “in” things of the moment. But in our little corner of the world, that’s not what they’re surrounded with. It’s not about having the exact right sweatshirt and the trending skirt and the brand-name hair ties and, and, and, and . . . Are there girls in their social circles who have some of those things? Definitely. Are there girls who place a lot of value on having all those things? Maybe. But here in Memphis, slightly removed from the booming, and all-consuming, frum culture, it’s certainly easier to sidestep the “stuff” in favor of substance. The seemingly endless list of children’s “needs” is a little shorter and just a little more negotiable.

Our children know they matter . . . they know they contribute to the klal, just by showing up. They understand they can make a difference . . . and so they do.

It’s not always easy to navigate the social dynamics of a small class. But amazingly, the kids learn to get along with classmates who are not just like them, and end up with friends they probably would never have met in a larger community. In our one-school town, our children see up close that different families live differently—the Orthodox community encompasses the entire spectrum of observance and income levels.

The age-old “but everyone is doing it” has that much less potency because, well, we know everyone personally. In five minutes or less, we can usually verify with the other parents if, in fact, “everyone” truly is doing something that my child thinks she’s missing out on. (As it turns out, not every first grader stays up until 9:00 pm on a school night after all; but yes, almost everyone else in eighth grade has a smart phone already.) It doesn’t mean my kids won’t occasionally try the argument anyway, but the fact remains that the unnamed mass of “everyone” simply doesn’t exist.

Another bonus we couldn’t have anticipated: In a place where we’re very obviously in the minority, our fellow Jews are on our team. Other Jews are not the competition—not for acceptance to school or camp, or for a spot in a coveted carpool, or even for parking spaces on erev Shabbat. In fact, there’s a certain camaraderie with our fellow Jews that only someone from a smaller community can relate to: When you see frum people in public places, you instinctively assume you must know them. And if you don’t know them, you’d better welcome them to town and see if there’s anything you can help with while they’re here.

Of course, it’s not all peaches and magnolias. Aside from the humid summers, which will never be my favorite, when you move to a smaller Jewish community, you cast your lot with people who, until recently, were strangers. No one warns you how everyone becomes so interconnected that it’s very hard when friends move away—our friends, our kids’ friends, sometimes both at once. No matter how legitimate the reason for their relocation, it somehow always feels just a little bit personal.

Nevertheless, the other side of that same coin is what makes it all worthwhile: Our children know they matter. They know they’re important—not only in our family, obviously, but in the wider community. They know they contribute to the klal, just by showing up. They understand they can make a difference . . . and so they do.

In fourteen years, we’ve wondered periodically if it’s time to move on, to greener pastures with more Jewish amenities. And each time, our conversations circle back to versions of the same: Would we really give up the values our girls are internalizing growing up here in Memphis for kosher sashimi? Should we willingly accept upon ourselves and our daughters the social and financial pressures of bigger-town living, in the name of wider opportunity?

But as we debate the pros and cons, the fourth car passes the stop sign, and we’re already at our destination . . . and the conversation usually ends right there.

Rachel Schwartzberg is a writer and editor who lives with her family in Memphis, Tennessee.