That Feeling

On a Sandwich That Shouldn’t Matter

I’m hungry.

It’s mid-afternoon. Frum people everywhere. I feel it again - that faint edge of terror.

Lately, I’ve started taking my yarmulke off in the car. It just feels… lighter. More natural. Freer. No more subconscious balancing act. No tiny, ever-present awareness of keeping it in place. A small thing. But I notice it. It’s a win. In this world of small wins.

And now I want something to eat.

Even after more than a decade, there are still firsts. Still new things to try. Like regular food. Places I used to pass without registering. Or maybe I noticed them, but only as background noise. Not somewhere I could go. Not even in the realm of consideration.

I see a Chick-fil-A coming up.

I’ve seen it in commercials. Heard people talk about it. But otherwise it’s completely unfamiliar to me. And now it’s just… there. Right in front of me. I could just go.

I once told a friend I’d never fried bacon and didn’t even know how. He couldn’t believe me.
This feels like that.

But then it hits. That whiff of fear again. It’s across from a busy shopping center. Frum territory. Too exposed.
I hesitate.

It’s a bad idea. Someone could see me. Maybe I should keep driving. Find somewhere safer. More anonymous.
But then what? Spend the rest of my life scanning parking lots for sheitels and yarmulkes? Let fear keep drawing the lines of where I can and can’t go?

I exhale. Shrink down in my seat. Make myself small.
And I pull in.

The drive-thru moves quickly. Just another weekday. Just another lunch rush.

For everyone else, this is nothing. A routine.
The car in front of me holds a man on his phone, barely paying attention.
In the minivan behind me, a woman looks into her rearview mirror and talks to someone in the back.
A group of teenage girls laughs their way out the door, arms linked, like they do this every day.

Because they do.

And then there’s me.
Two hands on the wheel. Head low. Heart pounding.
Trying not to look too out of place. Trying to look like I belong.

It’s not the food. I have no qualms about the food.
Treif doesn’t mean anything to me anymore.
Kosher is the thing that’s different now.

It’s the possibility of being seen.

If the wrong person saw me here, it wouldn’t just be a raised eyebrow. It would be a thing. A shock. A scandal.
And I wouldn’t care - if not for my family.
They’re still so tightly wound into the community, I don’t get to not care.

And that’s the worst part.
Not the fear of being seen.
But the fact that I have to be afraid.

The line moves.
I pull up the menu on my phone - first time here.
Chicken sandwich. I think that’s the thing here. Okay. That sounds good.

“Chick-fil-A, how can I help you?”
There’s a tiny pause.
A breath.
Before I cross another invisible line.

“Yeah. I’ll have a chicken sandwich.”

“Would you like a drink with that?”

“Yes, please.”

I pull forward. The minivan behind me rolls up to the speaker.
I sit. Waiting. Watching.

To everyone else, this is just a stop.
A coffee. A burger. A milkshake.
Nothing worth remembering.

But for me, this is a moment. A moment I’ll carry.
A time I chose not to bend to the inherited belief that I’m different. That I don’t belong.

I wonder what it would feel like - to walk in and out of a place like this without thinking.
To just exist.
To not feel like I’m doing something transgressive.
To not think about it at all.

Maybe one day.

The line moves. I get my sandwich. I eat it in the car. It’s good. Crunchy, flavorful.

And for a moment, I don’t feel like I’m trespassing.
I don’t feel like a rebel.
I don’t feel like I’m hiding.

I just feel normal.

And that feeling?
That feeling is everything.