The First Night

An Essay Depicting My First Night of Marriage as an 18 year old Woman in the Hasidic Community

I am grateful and honestly blown away that over a thousand of you have signed up to read my writing. In 2020, when I published my first personal essay, I could never have imagined that it would resonate with so many of you and that this community of readers would become one of my biggest supports as I continued both my writing and personal journey.

Today, in a throwback to 2020, when I posted my first very vulnerable personal essay and in honor of reaching the 1000 subscriber mark in Substack, I present to you “The First Night.”

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My wedding ended early.

Though Hasidic weddings generally stretched into the wee hours of the morning, my parents made sure all the wedding celebrations ended by midnight.

“It’s the first time I’m late,” the wedding entertainer hired to preside over the mitzvah-tantz, the ritual dance at the very end of the wedding joked, as he began his routine, and the crowd chuckled, a little nervously.

The music, too, was carefully chosen. “I don’t want music so loud that it will burst my eardrums,” my mother said when she spoke to the musician several weeks before the wedding. The musician asked her to clarify, so my mother went through his song list, one by one. If she didn’t know the song, she made him play a few bars for her. The result was a music list that sounded more like a piano recital than a night of dancing.

My mother had a thing called “sophistication”. Exactly what that meant was unclear. What was clear was that her eldest daughter’s wedding was going to be more “sophisticated” than anyone else’s, which I took to mean that it would be fancy enough to impress her rich cousins, while not too ostentatious for her lower class friends and neighbours.

When the dancing began, the women and men took to their separate circles on each side of the divider, the women swirling in large circles in their colorful dresses and the men stomping to the music in long snaking circles.

And just like that, the celebrations were over and I, barely two months past my eighteenth birthday, was sitting in a chauffeur-driven car next to my new husband Moshe heading to our small apartment in Monsey. The thin dark wisps on his chin were barely enough to make him look like an adult, barely enough even for his twenty years.

I felt a rush of excitement during those first few moments with my husband but was soon overtaken by dread, a fear of the unknown. Up until this moment, everything had been so perfectly orchestrated.

From childhood, I knew I would marry the man my parents would choose. I knew I would meet him for a total of three or four times and then we would be engaged. I knew I would be marrying someone that would bring honor to our family; someone with a prestigious lineage, a future Torah scholar.

I knew that the Chuppah, the wedding ritual would take place promptly at four in the afternoon. I knew to expect a kiss from my husband in the private room, where we would be escorted to immediately after the Chuppah. I knew the first dance would take place after the tables were cleared of the vegetable-covered blintzes and that during the mitzvah-tantz, I would be summoned to dance first with my father-in-law, then with my father. I knew that the very last dance would be with my groom when we would hold hands for the very first time. But I had received no instruction on what to do during the hour-long car ride home.

During our five-month-long engagement, my mother had arranged for me to attend a course with a local Rebbetzin, the Rabbi’s wife. The twelve weekly prenuptial classes were designed to prepare me, a Hasidic young woman for my upcoming marriage. Here I was to be introduced to the intricate laws of a Jewish Hasidic Marriage.

I learned about the requirement to abstain from any physical contact with my husband, which included passing any items, during the time of impurity — from the start of menstruation until seven days after the last drop of blood left my body.

She taught me about the required rituals for becoming purified after menstruation, which included inserting a four by four inch cotton white cloth deep inside my vagina twice daily, during the seven days to check for any remnants of blood. If any blood was found, I was warned to be sure to repeat the entire process. And if I wasn’t sure if it. was blood on the cloth or some other colored discharge, I was instructed to bring the white cloth or panties I had worn that day to the Rabbi, for him to tell me if I was pure or if I had to repeat the entire process again.

I also learned about the monthly required ritual of dunking into a bath of natural running water, naked, with a matron observing closely and proclaiming. “Kosher” three times, giving her stamp of approval for resuming sexual relations. I also learnt about the biblical requirement to have sex that first night, to follow my husband’s lead and make sure he feels comfortable.

For the first time, someone translated the word “sex” to me and explained what it meant. This idea horrified and excited me all at once.

Due to the extreme segregation of sexes in the community, the realities of married life was a mystery to me and the excitement of being held by a man combined with the terrifying fear of doing something wrong consumed me.

“You can ask as many questions as you want”. The rebbetzin stated during our first session. I however, did not ask any questions, afraid of saying the wrong thing, as I was trained as a young child to be quiet and compliant, so I listened to every word, determined to do everything perfectly. After all, I was marrying a future Rabbi and I was determined to be a model wife.

But now, sitting in the back seat of the car, I was terrified. I timorously peeked over my shoulder, and turned towards Moshe, his thin frame melting into the large seat, hoping for a kind and encouraging smile. Instead, I was struck by the way his eyebrows were furrowed, almost hiding his small eyes, which had. turned to narrow slits. He tightly gripped the black tube that encased the Ketubah, the marriage contract, which the Rabbis had signed and made us husband and wife, between his two legs creating a dent in his black silk overcoat. His anxiety was so tangible that I knew that I could not rely on him for any reassurance.

But then inspiration struck — my role was clearly defined after all. I had to make sure that my husband was comfortable. Didn’t my teacher repeatedly tell me the importance of pleasing my husband?

“A righteous wife is one that does her husband’s will,” thundered the Rabbi as he spoke to us young teenagers in the large school auditorium quoting the Talmud. Though those words had been spoken several years earlier, they still reverberated loudly in my head. Today, I finally had the opportunity to fulfill this commandment and started jabbering, hoping to calm my husband.

“And my friend Rivky got engaged and a whole group of girls came to the wedding. It was so exciting. And wasn’t it great that the wedding ended early and we are able to be home already by one o’clock.”

My words faded out as I looked closely at Moshe, the whitened tips of his fingers and his pursed lips showed that my efforts were in vain.

And then we arrived home.

Why did I insist that the Dressmaker sew 24 buttons all way down the back on the wedding gown? Why didn’t I listen to her advice about putting in a zipper?

I sucked in my stomach and held my breath, shrinking my body as my arms twisted above me in superhuman contortions, desperate to remove the dress before Moshe came out of the shower. He had offered to help me with the buttons earlier, but the sigh of relief when I demurred made my efforts worthwhile, but now I was trapped in a cage of silk and French Lace, attempting wildly to escape. Animal-like instincts took over as I clawed out of the dress moments before he came out of the shower, relieved that I had been able to do this perfectly on my own and he had not seen me struggle.

Hugging my bathrobe, I entered the shower, washing off the sweat of the evening, and readying myself to fulfill the commandment of the evening. Having sex was necessary to consummate the marriage and I was so terrified. I had never as much as kissed a man, and now I was required to strip naked and give myself over to a man I barely knew.

“The men are taught exactly what to do on the first night. All you need to do is make him feel comfortable. Kiss him on his cheek and tell him that you are happy that he is with you. Otherwise you don’t need to worry about anything.”

The memory of the Rebitzen’s words calmed me down as the water washed over my body.

“He’ll know what to do, He’ll know what to do, He’ll know what to do, ” I whispered out loud to myself as I finished my shower.

The tone of the words were like a mantra and continued to keep me calm as I walked out of the shower wearing my high buttoned, knee length white satin nightgown and furry white turban on my head, modest as always.

I didn’t think that I would cover my hair that first night in the privacy of my bedroom. I thought my husband would want to see my hair and put his fingers through it. But as he passed me going into the shower, he murmured, his eyes glued to the floor.

“Don’t wear your panties… and be sure to cover your hair.”

The bedroom door was ajar as I left the shower. I still hoped for a kind word from Moshe, but the frame of the door capturing an image that represented the issues that would plague our marriage for years to come.

Moshe was sitting on the edge of the bed, his back towards me, head bent, grasping the tiny gold and white special pre-sex prayer book. As I drew closer, his knees shook violently under his navy blue bathrobe. With his back still toward me, he motioned for me to sit next to him and finish the prayers together. According to Hasidic tradition, saying those prayers would ensure that the physical act of sex would be relegated to the highest spiritual realms.

Once the prayers were complete, the holy Mezuzahs on the doorpost covered and the lights turned off, it was time to fulfil the religious commandment of consummating the marriage. I lay down on my back, pulled the nightgown above my waist and covered myself with the blanket, readying myself for my husband, as he nodded in my direction.

“Are you ready? Do you have a towel under you covering the garbage bag and pillow? Did you use vaginal jelly?”

His voice was tense as he belted out the questions one after another.

I wrinkled my brow in confusion, the words coming out in gasps, “What do you mean? Nobody ever told me….”.

“They really didn’t teach you anything, did they? Don’t you know that’s the only way it’ll work? You need to lie at an angle, otherwise it won’t work and I’ll come to sin.”

The words came hurtling at me as I tried desperately to understand. Several weeks later, Moshe would explain to me that he was terrified of ejactuating outside of me, a sin that the Holy Books describe as grave as all sins combined.

“I’ll go get it all and set it up and you prepare yourself.” He marched out of the room purposefully, coming back moments later with the necessary supplies as I smeared my insides with the required jelly. I lay in bed devastated.

How could I have missed that part of the teachings?

I had wanted to be so perfect, to control it all and do everything right. Instead, I had failed miserably and disappointed my husband on our very first night. I had thought that it would be all romantic and beautiful.

In the moment, it did not even occur to me to think of how this all felt to me. I hadn’t been taught to think that way.

My body quivered with excitement and grew tense with fear as Moshe gingerly drew himself under the blanket. As I felt his thin frame rest on my childlike body, I wanted to withdraw in fear, curl up on the side of the bed and hug myself tightly, but I squelched those instinctive feelings, the words of my teacher echoing in my head.

“Your job is to make him feel comfortable and he will guide you.”

I composed myself and allowed the natural hormones of youth to take over, opening my legs wide and feeling his body between them. I felt the tension in his body as he valiantly attempted again and again to perform the act.

“I thought it would be easier, why is it so hard? There must be something wrong.”

I twisted my body in absurd contortions making it easier for him, as I placed a well-positioned kiss on his right cheek, encouraging him to relax. I hid my shameful feelings of seeing him struggle, sure that I must be doing something wrong, as I continued telling him how much I enjoyed being with him, obediently following my religious teachings. That was what I was taught, and I believed that it was right and correct.

Once we had successfully completed the act, he jumped out of bed, as if chased by the devil. Rushing out of the bedroom and heading to the phone hanging on the kitchen wall, he explained that he was calling the Rabbi to confirm that he had fulfilled his religious obligation properly. The Rebitizen had not told me that it was required to check in with a Rabbi, but I lay silently and did not protest, fearing I would be told off if I did. Instead, I lay in bed shaking, relieved that it was over, but scared that that Rabbi would say that I had done something wrong.

“It was fine.”

Moshe’s summary of the conversation was concise as he came back into the bedroom and settled into his own bed, which was placed the requisite three feet away from my bed. Since my hymen broke, the bleeding meant that I was immediately impure, forbidden from touching him and obligated to go through the two week ritual of purification before resuming contact with Moshe again.

“The Rabbi said that we did everything right and we fulfilled the commandment, mazel tov, we are now married.”

We had fulfilled our religious obligation and despite the pit in my stomach, and the feeling that something was wrong, it meant that all was well.