statement
Williamsburg, Brooklyn has been home to Latinos, Italians, Orthodox Jews, but the last decade has attracted an increasing number of hip newcomers. I may have been considered one of them. As a filmmaker at UnionDocs Collaborative Studio, I was tasked with creating a short film about this ever-evolving neighborhood. I was reluctant to make yet another film about gentrification. My very first film was about gentrification and art in the 1990s. I wanted to tell another kind of story.
I took to the streets with an audio recorder, crossing from the newly redeveloped waterfront, to the Puerto Rican block parties, to what felt like another country — Hasidic Williamsburg. It was there among the uniformity of black garments, beards, and furry hats, that I realized I was the only outsider. Men crossed the streets and averted their eyes. Children stared. I returned to Division Avenue, a street that literally divides Hasidic Williamsburg from Latino Williamsburg. I spoke with passersby. Had they ever wandered over — crossed the line? No? Why not? I knew then that this is the story I wanted to tell — a story about boundaries, both real and imagined. When do we self-segregate? When do we traverse boundaries?
The film was going to be a rather abstract visual work depicting the eruv. An eruv is a wire that looks like a telephone line that literally marks the boundaries of the Hasidic community. The eruv redefines the encompassing area as ‘home’ which enables people to do things they might not otherwise be allowed to do on Shabbat - like carry objects. It seemed a perfect visual metaphor for the lines we draw in self-segregating ourselves within the greater neighborhood. I envisioned shooting birds, perched on the wire, free to fly wherever they choose; and, people, below, maintaining their own circumscribed paths.
Only, the Williamsburg eruv was nowhere to be found. You can see eruvs in other neighborhoods like the Lower East Side, but in Williamsburg, the eruv is highly controversial. One sect of Hasidism believes in it, the other does not. And, so, those who believe have hidden the eruv lest those who do not try to tamper with it. Its existence is verified each Friday by an inspector. One can phone a hotline to find out if all is kosher for the coming Sabbath.
An invisible eruv didn’t bode well for the film, a visual medium. What to show? Determined to find it, I solicited the advice of Deborah Feldman, author of the bestselling memoir, Unorthodox. Her book recounts her story of leaving the Hasidic community. Over coffee she said, ‘It seems what you are actually interested in is what happens when people cross the boundary. You should meet a Hasid.’
Deborah Feldman suggested I place an ad on Craigslist: Seeking Researcher from Hasidic Williamsburg for an Independent Film Project. She suggested that I post it to the ‘strictly platonic’ section. I was stunned. It seemed misleading. She didn’t think so. Why not post it to ‘gigs’? ‘They’re not looking in gigs,’ she replied.
She was right. I wouldn’t have believed it, but within 48 hours I had over 40 responses. Most of these men were clearly seeking something else, but from our very first call, I could tell ‘Marty’ was different. I liked him. He was candid, respectful, and a good listener. We agreed to record all of our calls. We’d keep his identity anonymous. I’d know him only by an assumed name, ‘Marty,’ and his voice would be altered. We agreed never to meet.
‘Marty’ and I spoke almost every day, sometimes for hours. Hundreds of phone calls followed over the course of three months. He’d call whenever he felt like it - whenever he had a spare moment. Our calls were always ‘for the movie,’ although it became less and less clear how exactly. In retrospect, I think this gave us both permission to ask questions we might not otherwise, in the name of ‘research’ - both perhaps emboldened by a sense of purpose - the pursuit of the eruv.
But, it was ‘Marty’s’ questions for me that ultimately made me realize just how absurd of a pursuit it was - the notion that I might be able to understand the Hasidic world through this one human being - himself, an outlier to the community. It was no less preposterous a pursuit as that of an invisible eruv. We were two outsiders, the least suited pair for cross-cultural diplomacy. And yet, we both expected the other to somehow represent an entire way of life.
I felt completely ill equipped to represent the sexual customs of the secular world, as I was grappling with my own questions about sex, marriage and monogamy. Like ‘Marty,’ I had only been in one long-term monogamous relationship. The world of dating and the varieties of potential relationships felt just as foreign to me.
It was fairly early on that I realized this attempt to understand one another was the heart of the story. Did ‘Marty’ also? Was he okay with this being the story? Yes, he understood. Our phone calls stopped when the film was complete. Nevertheless, I was surprised by the sense of loss that accompanied the silence of my cell phone. I thought about calling. I’m guessing ‘Marty’ did also. But, we each upheld our end of the agreement.
Three years passed before we spoke again. ‘Hi, Marty, it’s Annie.’ And, there on the other end, was that voice I knew so well. We picked up where we left off. Only this time, we weren’t recording. He wanted to know how the film was received, what people thought. I shared with him some reviews, and told him we’d been asked to contribute the story to the Love + Radio podcast. I wanted to know how he felt about releasing our story online. Until now the film had screened at festivals like the Boston Jewish Film Festival for limited audiences. They weren’t places members of his community would attend. The Internet would be different. ‘Marty’ phoned me back the next week after checking out the podcast online. He saw no problem with it as long as his identity continued to remain anonymous - his voice disguised and his name remained ‘Marty.’ He also asked to listen to drafts and give feedback. The team would have it no other way.
Marty reviewed final drafts of the piece but was as accepting with the choices as he had been with me. I know that his decision to speak with me in the first place or to share his story publicly could not have been an easy one and I continue to grapple with my own decision to make public this quite private and intimate conversation.
The telephone line creates an open connection between two parties. It is an open door. Neither one of us wielded a microphone. In the comfort and safety of our own environments, we could be ourselves and perhaps try on other identities. I do think, to some degree, there was always an ever-present third party, a listener - the recorder. As real, honest, and immediate as our conversations were, I sometimes think that the presence of the recorder inadvertently rendered us at once subjects, actors, characters, performers.
— ANNIE BERMAN