About a year ago, I went to Nanuet, New York to mail a package. I think it was at a UPS store, but it could have been FedEx. I don't remember now.
Nanuet is in Rockland County, an area I would call multicultural.
Near Nanuet is another town called Monsey, which is overwhelmingly Hasidic Jewish.
I was fourth in a line of about eight people waiting to mail a package.
A Hasidic man who looked to be in his early thirties was at the counter mailing several boxes. He wore traditional Hasidic clothing: a black suit jacket and pants beneath his long black coat, with tassels hanging from the four-cornered prayer shirt underneath his jacket.
Blondish curls ran down from under his black top hat.
The man was short, very thin, very pale, and gaunt. His shoes were in desperate need of polish and repair—the heels were practically worn through.
The counter worker was clearly frustrated by all of the Hasid's questions.
All I could hear was the man asking about the best way to ship his packages. (Which, incidentally, weren't neatly wrapped or taped.)
"How many days until they arrive?" he asked. "Is there a less expensive rate? How much is insurance?" Normal questions anyone would have when shipping packages.
Normal, that is, if you aren't a Hasid in a store full of people who resent your existence.
The worker was clearly annoyed. He didn't say anything outright, but his body language told the story.
"These people are ruining the county," a woman in front of me blurted.
"They are disgusting, filthy people. Go to New Square and see what I mean," a man behind me offered.
When the Hasid opened his wallet to retrieve a credit card, comments erupted from the line.
"And they all have like eight or nine kids. They get six hundred dollars a month per child and collect food stamps because the women claim they aren't officially married in New York State. Do the math—that's like forty-eight hundred a month, plus free food," another man said loudly enough for the Hasid to hear.
The orthodox man fumbled with his wallet, which was filled with papers and receipts, making it look like George Costanza's wallet from the television show Seinfeld. It also had a plastic drop-down holder for credit cards—there had to be twenty if there was one.
He selected a card and scanned it.
Rejected.
He tried another.
Rejected.
"Jesus Christ, I have a meeting tomorrow. This is ridiculous," a man behind me shouted.
"Besides the kids, they don't pay property tax like I do," the woman in front of me added. "They say their house is a synagogue or temple and they're exempt. I should try that. They've destroyed my neighborhood."
"And they can't drive either," someone offered. "Go down near Spring Valley and see the accidents along Route 59. It's incredible."
The line grew longer.
Finally, someone came from the back to open a second register.
The Hasidic man waited for his long receipt and looked it over carefully. He had another question.
"Get off the line, dammit. People need to mail their packages," a burly man who had just walked in shouted.
The religious man paid no attention, as if he was used to being treated this way.
His question answered, he turned and headed toward the door.
"Why don't you go back to Brooklyn or wherever the hell you came from," someone shouted.
"Yeah, and make more babies so we can pay for them," a woman added.
"I happen to be Jewish. These people are an embarrassment," someone said behind me.
An older gentleman on the line added his commentary: "A couple of them knocked on my door the other day to make me an offer on my house. I live up in Thiels. Some of my neighbors have sold to them—all cash deals, too. Pretty soon I'm gonna take them up on it."
The animosity and hatred toward this man was palpable.
I don't live in Rockland County and don't see Hasidic Jews where I live—at least not yet.
I keep thinking about what I've read and heard about Germany in the 1930s and how the Jewish people were treated.
That can't happen here in the United States.
Right?
