Dugma Dogma: Patterned Prisons

“Any stigma… will serve to beat a dogma.”
Masters and Men, Philip Guedella (1923)

A medical student, in my early 20s, in the early 1970s, I crave female companionship. Unfortunately, very shy, very poor, I lack the confidence and cash for a “Real” date.

Fortunately, Stern (Yeshiva University’s college for women) is on Lexington Avenue, a few blocks away from my NYU Medical School. (“Sex at Lex”, YU-alumni med-school classmates affectionately call it.)

Propitiously, living in New York City my entire life, I have many friends there. Providentially, NYU has a new program offering free tickets (to fill empty seats) at Broadway shows.

My occasional free evenings take on a predictable pattern: pick up tix at NYU, girl at Stern, attend a show. It isn’t a “Real” date; there’s no sex at Lex, or anywhere else, but it is female companionship. That’s enough.

One evening, that pattern shatters.

I obtain tickets to an opening-night! Celebrities! Photographers! Hoopla! I’m excited.

Man plans; God laughs. Stern’s in finals; no one’s available. I leave, tickets in hand, no one on my arm.

I walk up Lex, angry with myself, also concerned. Had I called ahead, I could have invited a classmate instead. What if another NYU guest, noticing my empty adjoining-seat, reports I took a ticket I didn’t use? Will I be expelled from this ticket-program?

Lex is deserted. I pass but one girl. Quite beautiful, she self-confidently smiles at me. I blush.

A few yards past, I have a brainstorm. I stop, muster my courage, turn around and approach her. I’m heartened she seems pleased.

I never before asked out a stranger. My heart’s pounding, my mouth dry. I don’t know what to say. Holding up the tickets as my shield, I stammer:

“By any chance, would you like to go to a Broadway opening-night?”

She looks at the tickets, my Kipa, finally me, tosses back her head and laughs.

I’m humiliated, angrier at myself than at her. This mistake was stupider than my first. This is why I don’t ask strangers out. I furiously stalk off.

She apparently feels badly because she chases after me, grabs my arm:

“Actually, I’d be delighted.”

We start walking uptown. She hooks her arm into mine as if I’m escorting her. No Stern girl has ever done that. Feels nice. Is this my first “Real” date, albeit with a nameless stranger?

Reading my mind, mocking our situation’s inherent awkwardness, she grabs my hand she’s holding and formally shakes it: “I’m Laura.”

“I’m Ike.”

I desperately want to add something witty or gracious, but can’t think of anything.

She, obviously more comfortable than me, smiles: “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Ike.”

I smile back. Despite my discomfort, I’m proud to be escorting her. Everyone we encounter stares unabashedly, first at her, then at me. Reflecting my insecurity, I imagine they’re thinking: “How the hell did he wind up with her?”

I can’t blame them; I’m thinking the same. She’s more attractive than me, and despite my jacket and tie, far more stylishly dressed. Her knee-high boots, short skirt, designer fur-jacket are perfectly matched, obviously expensive.

I sense men looking at her covetously, women enviously.

We silently walk west on 42nd Street. She asks if she can stop for gum. Unaccustomed to anyone asking me permission for anything, I happily comply.

We enter a store. Predictably, everyone stares. I don’t however expect, and can’t abide two drunks inexplicably making suggestive remarks to her. I intercede. She again grabs my arm, this time to restrain me. I’m furious at their audacity.

At the counter, I pay for her purchase. (For pennies, I can afford to be chivalrous.) She’s surprised.

I’m surprised. She anticipatorily took out a wad of rolled-up bills. The drunks snicker.

Oh my God! Suddenly, embarrassingly, belatedly, it all makes sense. A flirtatious boot-fur-clad babe carrying a wad of bills, standing on a street-corner. I finally understand the drunks’ risqué banter. Laura (if that’s her name) is a “Working woman.”

Great! Just great! My first “Real” date is with a prostitute. Observers weren’t surprised by our pulchritudinous disparity, but shocked to see a Kipa proudly escort a whore.

What a stigma! What a Chilul Hashem! Can I disgrace my religion worse than this?

Yet, that same religion teaches it’s a sin to shame someone. What do I say? “Sorry, gotta dump you. Didn’t realize you were a hooker. Have a great night.”?

Continuing our silent trek to the theater, she again takes my arm. I wordlessly reject her. I stare at the sidewalk, assiduously avoiding eye-contact with anyone, especially her. I consider removing my Kipa, but can’t think how to explain that.

When we finally enter the theater, I witness an extraordinary transformation. On 42nd Street, she appears a prostitute; Broadway opening-night, she looks like every other woman there, only younger and prettier.

Normally, opening nights, I loiter downstairs, blend into the background, stargaze, then retreat to my nosebleed seats. Laura isn’t normal; she creates the foreground. I can’t blend.

Strangers compliment her on her fur, obligatorily smile at me, wondering how I inherited the money I’m spending on her. Willy-nilly, I’m again proud to be escorting her.

I’m also excited. Zero Mostel approaches, teasing we’re a “Shyna Maydel (nice girl) with her yeshiva Bochur.” Though she has no idea what he’s talking about, a professional flirt, she laughs coquettishly as if she does.

I’m in heaven. A Funny Thing Happened on My Way to The Forum was the first film I ever saw on my own, The Producers, my favorite. I idolize Mostel. I could never afford to see him on Broadway, yet here he is, kibitzing we’re “the only Frum couple in the joint.”

I immediately correct him: “We are not a couple.”

I regret my rudeness as soon as it leaves my mouth. Too late. Everyone stares at me. Mostel doesn’t miss a beat: “Well, in that case…”

He takes Laura by the arm, walks away with her. Everyone laughs, including Laura. He returns her as the lights dim. We hastily climb upstairs to the last row in the theater.

The play stinks. (Closes quickly.) It could be Fiddler on the Roof; I still wouldn’t be able to focus on it. All I can think about is her. Does she realize I now know her profession? Did she imagine I knew it when I invited her?

Oh my God! Is she expecting me to pay her evening’s close, “Happy ending”, or not? Will she pull a gun, call her pimp, to enforce payment? I panic.

Act One concludes. I’m not looking at the stage. I’m leaning over, head in hands, desperately pondering my next move.

We haven’t spoken since she said “Thank you” to me for the gum. She gently strokes my back, touches my Kipa, softly says two words I’ll remember till my dying day:

“Nice Dugma.”

I bolt upright, stare at her disbelievingly. Dugma (pattern) bespeaks intimacy with Orthodox Jewish culture.

She, once again, tosses her head back laughing: “Ike, you should see the look on your face!”

I’m not laughing. She recognizes my confusion:

“Zero was right. I am a Shyna Maydel… At least, I was. I went to yeshiva through 12th grade, knitted my share of Kipot, even made an ‘Ike’ once.”

“What happened?”

“I decided I didn’t like the pattern into which I had been woven. My parents are survivors, married in name only. He sells Shmatas, never talks to me. She mostly complains to me about him. Thank you very much, I don’t want to wind up like her.”

My mouth is agape, my mind blown. I nod: “Ditto. Ditto. Ditto. Ditto. Ditto.”

“When I started college, I started questioning the dogma they had brainwashed into me those 13 years of yeshiva. I started questioning the pattern that imprisoned me.”

The more we talk, the more we have in common. I tell her about my life, omitting nothing. She shares hers, avoiding only any reference to her current vocation. To spare herself embarrassment, or me?

Intermission ends. She touches my hand: “I’m sorry, Ike. I can’t stay.”

I’m not surprised. Or disappointed. The only actor I recognize is Wilfrid Hyde-White from My Fair Lady. This play is no My Fair Lady; my escort is.

I was embarrassed to enter with her. I’m honored to exit with her. I take her arm. She’s surprised, but clearly pleased. I hope Zero sees us. We are now a couple.

Retreating from the canopy’s bright lights outside, we talk. She’s so cynical she no longer believes in God, marriage, or even love. She vehemently justifies rejecting her Dugma, our dogma, sarcastically mocks my intention to replicate my father, marry, send my children to yeshiva. She passionately tries to convince me I too can shatter the pattern ‘imprisoning’ me.

Once again, I’m at a loss for words. Finally, I quietly say: “So can you, Laura. So can you.”

She stops speaking. Blinded by passion and compassion, I want to tell her I’m in love with her, but fear she’ll mock that too.

Without turning around, she extends her hand behind her to hail a cab. Two screech to a halt.

This time, I grab her arm before she can leave. Only then, I notice tears streaming silently down her cheeks.

“Laura, I’m sorry… Please don’t go.”

“I have to. I have to… You don’t understand.”

I write down my dorm-floor’s phone number on her Playbill.

“Will you call me?” She doesn’t respond.

Instead, she kisses me passionately on the lips, the first time anyone ever has. I’m stunned. I can taste her tears. She pushes me away, rushes into the cab. It speeds off.

On my slow painful trek back, I resolve to never talk about this. Yet, as soon as my suite-mate asks me why I’m back early, I blurt: “A funny thing happened to me.”

I share (almost) every detail. Embarrassingly, the story spreads. Classmates tease me. Every time I return to my floor, I eagerly check my messages. My heart leaps when I see she finally called. Each time, it’s a prank. She never does.

I habitually walk up Lex looking for her. I never find her.

The street soon changes character; so do I.

As yearbook chief-editor, I select the photos. I include one of our dorm-floor’s message-board because it has her name all over it.

I still look at it.

I still remember my first “Real” date. I still remember my first”Real” kiss.

A half-century later, I can still taste her tears.

Sometimes, when I think of her, they combine with my own.