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“Deborah Feldman was raised within an insular, oppressive world where she was taught that, as a woman, she wasn’t able to independent thought. But she found the pluck and determination needed to produce the break from that world and has written a brave, riveting account of her journey. Unorthodox is harrowing, yet triumphant.”—Jeannette Walls, #1 bestselling author of The Glass Castle and Half Broke Horses
“Feldman gives us special insight in a closed and repressive world. . . . Her memoir is fresh and tart and utterly absorbing.”—Library Journal
“Nicely written . . . [An] engaging and at times gripping insight into Brooklyn's Hasidic community.”—Publishers Weekly
“A remarkable tale.”—Kirkus Reviews
“Feldman’s evolution also as her look in the closed community make for fascinating reading … her storyteller’s sense along with a keen eye for details give readers a you-are-there sense of what it really is like being different when all others will be the same.”—Booklist
In the tradition of Ayaan Hirsi Ali’s Infidel and Carolyn Jessop’s Escape, Unorthodox can be a captivating story about a young woman going to live her own life at any cost.
The Satmar sect of Hasidic Judaism is as mysterious as it can be intriguing to outsiders. In this arresting memoir, Deborah Feldman reveals what life's like trapped within a religious tradition that values silence and suffering over individual freedoms.
The child of an mentally disabled father along with a mother who abandoned the city while her daughter had been a toddler, Deborah was raised by her strictly religious grandparents, Bubby and Zeidy. Along which has a rotating cast of aunts and uncles, they enforced customs with a relentless emphasis on rules that governed from what Deborah could wear and to whom she could speak, to what she was allowed to read. As she grew from an inquisitive young girl to a independent-minded young woman, stolen moments reading in regards to the empowered literary characters of Jane Austen and Louisa May Alcott helped her to imagine an alternative solution strategy for life. She had no idea the easiest way to seize this dream that appeared to beckon to her through the skyscrapers of Manhattan, but she was going to locate a way. The tension between Deborah’s desires and her responsibilities being a good Satmar girl grew more explosive until, with the chronilogical age of seventeen, she found herself trapped in a sexually and emotionally dysfunctional marriage with a man she'd met for less than thirty minutes before they became engaged. As a result, she experienced debilitating anxiety that's exacerbated by the public shame of getting did not immediately consummate her marriage and thus serve her husband. However it wasn’t until she had a youngster at nineteen that Deborah realized more than just her very own future was at stake, and that, regardless of the obstacles, she would need to forge a path—for herself and her son—to happiness and freedom.
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From UNorthodox:
I have secrets too. Maybe Bubby is aware of them, but she won’t say anything about mine only don’t say anything about hers. Or possibly I've only imagined her complicity; there's a chance this agreement is merely one-sided. Would Bubby tattle on me? I hide my books underneath the bed, and she or he hides hers in their own lingerie, as soon as annually when Zeidy inspects the house for Passover, poking through our things, we hover anxiously, terrified to become found out. Zeidy even rifles through my underwear drawer. Only when I simply tell him that that is my private female stuff does he desist, unwilling to violate a woman’s privacy, and move to my grandmother’s wardrobe. She is as defensive as We are when he rummages through her lingerie. We both understand that our small stash of secular books would shock my grandfather over a pile of chametz, the forbidden leavening, ever could. Bubby could easily get away having a scolding, but I'd personally stop spared the total extent of my grandfather’s wrath. When my zeide gets angry, his long white beard seems to lift up and spread around his face as being a fiery flame. I wither instantly within the heat of his scorn. “Der tumeneh shprach!” he thunders at me when he overhears me talking to my cousins in English. An impure language, Zeidy says, acts just like a poison towards the soul. Reading an English book is even worse; it leaves my soul vulnerable, a welcome mat released to the devil.
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