Ellery Kauvar standing on the first floor of Fisk Hall, on his way back to his dorm for prayer.

When I first received my acceptance letter, a sense of fulfillment and dread overtook me. I would be going to a program I had heard much praise about from my last three editors. But I would be away from the security, the normalcy of home.  I accepted and, for the first time, placed myself in a situation where I would be cut off from the very things that help define my religious identity as an Orthodox Jew.

In the months leading up to the cherubs program, any disturbing thoughts I had slowly faded, until all that was left was pure excitement.  Three days before going on a plane for the first time, I once again realized I would be stranded on an island in Evanston without kosher food, a temple or the requisite materials, such as a prayer book and head covering, necessary for my practice.  While the very thought would have made me panic years ago, I just accepted this as a taste of real life, where I am not in a homogenous community of Orthodox Jews that go to school and temple with me.

My father shopped, packed, found a list of kosher restaurants in the nearby town of Skokie, Ill., and tried to ease my qualms.  We packed snack foods, phylacteries (boxes containing biblical text, worn on the arm and head during the morning service), a prayer book, more snack food and enough money to order out often enough that I could pretend I was at home.

I arrived in Evanston, armed with chocolates, processed potatoes and a twinge of uneasiness.  I had been in a fairly similar situation two years ago.  I went to a camp called BIMA, a pluralistic Jewish arts camp, where most people there were fairly secular, yet services were held and all food, including the meat, was kosher.   

The first few days went smoothly. I ate only dairy foods, some snacks that were unceremoniously crushed in my suitcases and managed to pretend I was exactly like everyone else.  Then, the Sabbath came.  I would not be able to write, use a computer or touch money.  I realized that completing some of my longer assignment might become an issue. 

That Friday night and Saturday, everyone asked me why I was wearing a yarmulke, and why I couldn’t turn the lights on or off and why I couldn’t spend any money.  It was a humbling experience to be in a position where those around me had no idea why I did things I took for granted.  Seventeen years of living in a Jewish bubble ended suddenly and unequivocally.  I was happy to be here.