Dare to dream of something bigger

Today in a world shadowed by fear and struggle, the Jewish people have wisdom learned

Hope flew when I was a child. Each summer I washed and rinsed dusty kosher pickle jars in preparation for the trek that my father and I took to an alley a few blocks away, where a rugged stand of milkweed nestled alongside a sagging garage. I plunged into the urban forest, determined to hunt for any sign of monarch butterflies. I scrutinized the leaves for bitemarks and looked for flashes of gold, black and ivory bands amid the greenery. My larva-spying partner and I might find the tiny orb of new life, a creamy pearl in a sea of sage fronds. Sometimes we spotted a young caterpillar inching along a stout stem, its journey now directed toward the leaf I placed in its path, as my patient papa held the open container into which I placed my find with care. Anticipation bubbled in my heart as I bounced toward home, and the glee of showing my mother what we discovered. 

My parents and I gently nursed my crawling friends to grow into amber and black-winged beings, free to dance on air currents and feast on golden nectar. This pinnacle of transformation produced by care and hope, also revealed a new path for me, though I would not have the words to describe it until much later. What I did have was ancestry’s sacred memory and youthful optimism, bound at first in whispers and later a pulse of knowing that led to my first queer haircut as an adult. 

That day, as wispy strands floated down to the salon floor, I felt my heart skip and throat tighten with anticipation. I was far from the fresh face of childhood but once again on the verge of discovery. Snip, snip, the chocolate curls grazed my shoulders as they fell, gentle goodbye caresses. My stomach fluttered like the butterflies I adored when I was 10 and the world was shiny. The universe then was a boundless wonder of chocolate ice cream, grass-stained knees and late-night games of tag on balmy summer evenings. I also loved uncovering the rocks that edged my mother’s garden. I never knew what amazing being might slither away from the sudden unearthing of its hideaway.  

For most of my youth I was mystified by the makeup and hair care products that many teens labeled “girls” particularly seemed to adore. For my high school graduation picture, I wore an aqua T-shirt and a pair of plain white pants. My hair fell past my shoulders. I don’t know if I was smiling. I remember the frenzy that accompanied the preparations of my peers for their pictures, the hours they spent picking out numerous outfits for the occasion and the joy at getting their hair done in the most intricate designs.  I found the whole thing tiresome. I was certainly excited about graduation but had no interest in choosing among multitudes of clothes and fawning for the camera. Yet, something still flitted at the edges of my consciousness, a restless murmur at the wings on my inner stage. Like the beloved caterpillars I tended during those hot, sticky summers, transformation whispered. 

The stylist spun my chair to face the mirror that bright morning in the shop. My appearance was a blur, much the same as later portions of my life that had been blocked off, disjointed. I looked at the image peering back at me and guessed at the pieces, trying to find the edges. I was excited to put the fragments together and anxious that they might not fit the hopeful form I had for them.    

My freshly placed glasses revealed a novel being. I was mesmerized by a bob of thick purple curls that partially hung over my face. Clippers provided a buzz-cut path on the back and sides of my head. The skin there, exposed to light and air, was reminiscent of little hands sweeping newly cut lawn, tender, upright and fresh. The stylist’s glee was apparent in her wide smile and sparkling eyes. I gazed in awe at the difference from before to present.  Indeed, a present, a gift to myself rising. I floated in the sweet swell of vitality, seeing my own possibility contained in the purple-hued fleece of my close-clipped crown.  

As I sat in the bustling salon that day, I felt strings of interconnection vibrate in my being. I too dared to dream of something bigger than I once was. My Jewish and all-gendered ancestors were torchbearers and illuminators of divine sparks, creators of a world ripe with possibilities and promise. From desert odyssey to Sinai and through global journeys of the “huddled masses yearning to breathe free,” klal yisrael persisted, celebrated and created new life. Queer forbearers were third-gender beings and honored status holders; healers, artists and traditional-knowledge keepers. Boundary crossers and dream-weavers, holders of the sacred before there were tomes.  

Today in a world shadowed by fear and struggle, the Jewish people have wisdom learned from intrepid passages across time and geography to gather the scattered pieces of ourselves. We have the power to be joyful kinship finders of interconnection. For that opportunity resides within us, and it lives in people across the globe, regardless of heritage. 

In this season of Pride, I grieve and rejoice in what could be possible. I feel small and fragmented yet also enveloped in the universe’s rhythmic expanse. My heart carries the weight of ancestors and the delicate buoyancy of butterfly wings, ready to soar when the current wafts just so. Hold fast, the fore-elders breathe. Hold fast. 

Milwaukee born and raised, Sxdni Small grew up on the city’s Northwest side, in a Jewish household where books and community organizing were staples. They attended Milwaukee Public Schools and then college in Stevens Point. Sxdni is a member of Congregation Emanu-el of Waukesha.