I am a somebody.
You will recognize me in the street as a somebody, and we may cross each other’s path every day, or daven Shacharis, Mincha, and Maariv together in 770 every single day.
My wife and I are well-off financially. Not because we are well-educated or because we have great jobs, but because our parents are rich with “old money”. We are accustomed to getting discounts at most Crown Heights stores because our parents know the owner and because our families donate hundreds of thousands of dollars to the yeshivas and girl schools.
I am gezhe.
Lubavitch Magazines and newsletters love writing articles about my great-great-great grandfather because we call him “elter zeide” and because his childhood story includes White Russia, hiding from Russian police and learning in an underground cheder.
I am not immuned to the shidduch crisis. When it comes to marrrying off my children, I am forced to endure the hardships of having to answer the phone that does not stop ringing. The hassle of dealing with endless shidduch offers is something I do not wish on my worst enemies. I cannot eat dinner or shower without being interrupted by yet another shadchan with a list of names, each one hoping that he or she can claim to have been the one who made the shidduch for us.
One can only imagine how difficult it is to choose a match from among the endless prospects offered to me on a daily basis. Do I choose the one with the better name and less money? The one with money but less of a name? The one with name and money but very few uncles and cousins? The one with name, money and family, but no children on shlichus? The one with no money and no name, but 8 children on shlichus?
And one can only imagine what it’s like to have to move an entire large family into a 5-bedroom duplex apartment for a full year while our house is being gutted and renovated after we came into inherited money from my great uncle who was in the textile business?
As if that were not enough, there are the nonstop calls from political figures all vying to hold a fundraiser in our home and to be photographed with our family and friends. Then there is the never-ending slew of each mosdos’s annual dinner where they hound us for the opportunity to honor us. The burden of preparing an acceptance speech, dressing for each dinner and posing for photographs is unbearable.
So the next time you see me on the street, sitting in my place in the front of the shul, at my summer home, getting in or out of my Lexus, at the head table of a dinner or at a political fundraiser, please show some sympathy and understanding of my plight.
I am human too.
The following Op-Ed is a satirical humorous take on a past Op-Ed titled “A Letter from Nobody” please do not take it as anything but in the lightheartedness in which it was written.