Modern Rashi on the Great Kingston Crisis of 5785
Every now and then, an opinion piece stumbles into the world so fragile, so obliviously self-important, it practically begs to be bullied. And what do you know—COLlive has delivered.
An anonymous kvetcher has penned a love letter to suburban entitlement disguised as community concern, titled “Kingston Avenue Isn’t a Tourist Boardwalk – It’s Our Home.” Spoiler: it’s just someone upset that Jews are celebrating too loudly near their apartment. That’s it. That’s the whole crisis.
Let’s break this masterpiece down, line by line:
“Walk down Kingston Avenue on a typical day, and you’ll see Crown Heights on full display: Bochurim, tourists, visiting groups, locals, and families all blending into a colorful fabric of Jewish life. There is something undeniably beautiful about this.”
Translation: I’m about to spend 600 words telling you how this beautiful thing is actually a traumatic human rights violation, but first—let’s virtue signal.
“But when the sun sets and the shops close, a different story plays out—one that too many families on Kingston know all too well.”
Yes. It’s called: life in a thriving Jewish neighborhood. Not a gated Boca retirement community. If silence is sacred to you, may I humbly suggest Monsey?
“The lingering groups, the shouting across the street, the singing at all hours, and the honking—it continues well into the night.”
Oh no! Singing! In a chassidic neighborhood! What’s next—dancing? Spontaneous joy? Lock up your children.
“...those of us who live here know the cost: the baby who can’t fall asleep, the toddler who wakes crying, and the parent up again at 1 a.m. because the noise outside won’t stop.”
God forbid the toddler be mildly inconvenienced by the sound of Am Yisrael being alive. Imagine being this offended by Jewish vitality. Or worse: writing about it publicly and thinking it makes you the adult in the room.
“Let’s be clear: Kingston Avenue is not a main street in a sleepy suburban town. But it is also not a 24/7 festival ground.”
Actually, yes. It is. You moved to Chabad HQ, my friend. There’s an open-air farbrengen in every shwarma wrapper and a niggun waiting behind every Crown St. Toyota Corolla. If you wanted peace and quiet, there’s an entire Five Towns of people who feel just like you.
“We’re not trying to stop the energy and simcha—far from it. We just want some balance.”
That’s cute. You are absolutely trying to stop the simcha. You’re writing this letter because you heard people singing “Niggun Shamil” at 11:04 PM and thought “this is an injustice that must be addressed immediately.”
“Tour groups, schools, and organizations visiting the Rebbe’s neighborhood must educate their students...on the kedusha of derech eretz.”
Unreal. The same tourists who came to this neighborhood for spiritual inspiration are now being chastised for expressing joy. Derech eretz isn’t code for shut up and go home. It’s a two-way street—and sometimes that street is full of Yidden being loud in their own damn home.
“Clear signage reminding visitors about quiet hours.”
Oh, we’re doing signs now? Why stop there? Maybe install a “No Simcha Zone” between Montgomery and President? Maybe get a vaad to issue noise citations if someone sings a niggun with too much feeling?
“We’re a community built on hospitality—but also on chessed, tznius, and ahavas Yisroel.”
Yes! And nothing screams chessed and ahavas Yisroel like publishing a city-wide complaint against guests who are singing outside. Truly, the embodiment of “chossid shoteh.”
Final Thoughts:
What we have here isn’t a plea for balance. It’s the eruv tavshilin of sanctimonious complaining: wrapped in frumkeit, cooked in ego, and served with a garnish of passive-aggressive self-righteousness.
If this anonymous warrior really wanted to embody ahavas Yisroel, maybe start by not publicly scorning the simcha of fellow Jews because your sound machine couldn’t overpower some bochurim doing Al Hasela Hoch at midnight.
To live in a place like Crown Heights is to live in the noisy, messy, radiant overflow of Jewish life. That’s not a bug. It’s the feature.
If you want your kids to fall asleep in perfect silence, there’s a new development in Toms River with your name on it. It even comes with a driveway.
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