“I’ll walk with you and hold your hand.” I will always remember that precious display of alliance I received as a closeted queer child. I was in high school and wanted to attend my first Pride event. The words over the phone felt like a beacon, guiding me as I investigated my fresh understanding. I identified as bisexual at that time. No one else knew.
Tears of overwhelming feeling flowed down my cheeks. That voice belonged to a veteran community activist, also Jewish and a lesbian. Both of us navigating complex identities, a journey which epitomizes the entire Jewish experience.
Our people have a history of prosperity and tragedy, illustrated by Jewish author Emma Lazarus’ poem “The New Colossus” on the Statue of Liberty. Her piece entreats wayfarers and established souls alike to unveil the meaning of what it means to be an American and a Jew. Like my queerness, my Jewish identity is bound in layers that I have yet to unpeel. Unraveling exposes peril as well as hope, as I am often forced to choose which part of myself I can show. As a young person, I had no words for many of my feelings. What I did have was the advocacy to which I was exposed at a very early age.
Community activism was a household feature of my childhood. Our Jewish identity – like so many liberal American Jews – was based on the cultural components of food and language, as well as on the values of education and repair of the world. In adulthood, I continued to show up with people of multiple backgrounds in support of those deemed “other.” Most of the time, I was one of only a handful of Jews; sometimes the only one. In left-leaning spaces I experienced “nice” antisemitism, the kind that forces one to decide if they will attend an event on Pesach or leaves one pondering at a blue and white Christmas tree. Antisemitism where what isn’t said flashes like a neon bulb in ancestral consciousness. Antisemitism in the very act of refusing to include the world’s oldest hatred when other types of marginalizations are specifically named.
In the aftermath of the Oct. 7th pogrom, as a queer and transgender Jew, I must now also decide whether to wear my Magen David at queer events. I browse Facebook pages of event organizers to determine if there any “warning signs” that “Zionists” – which means most of the world’s Jews – are not welcome. I feel betrayed by so many of my queer and left-leaning siblings whose shelter does not include me. In multiple spaces outside of my welcoming shul, I am forced to withhold the most spiritual and authentic parts of my being.
Pride Month is a metaphor for embracing the stranger. Not only the stranger in the crowd, but that which is both hidden and blossoming in oneself. Being out as both Jewish and queer/trans carries deep hope and complexity in these times. Our legacy as Jews emboldens us to wrestle with the divinity of love and the depth of identity. How can we embrace the holy sparks that connect us? How can we dare not?
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Read more, I am Jewish, queer and a Milwaukeean. This is my letter of resistance.
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