On a beautiful April night, I sat down at a Milwaukee patio with my laptop and a mocktail. Soon after, a young woman waved me over.
We’re both here alone, she explained. Come split my fries?
We struck up a friendly conversation. Both of us had busy jobs. She liked to go out dancing. So did I.
Two drinks in, our casual conversation suddenly veered off course. When I heard her say genocide, I braced myself.
A year after Oct. 7, I put away my Star of David necklace. I was tired of the purity tests. I was sick of being told I was a horrible Zionist simply because I hadn’t said anything at all.
That night, I wasn’t wearing anything Jewish. I said nothing. She spoke about the loss of human life, and that the conflict needed to end. She wasn’t wrong.
Then her tone changed.
“I don’t mind Jews,” she said, entirely unprompted. “I just don’t like Zionists.”
I sat back in my chair. My heart was pounding. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears. How did she know? I thought. Then she said something that has stayed with me ever since.
“I’m not antisemitic or anything. Jews don’t deserve that!” she said. “But—”
But.
I understood the implication. Jews didn’t deserve antisemitism. But the Zionists did. My expression gave it away. I was looking for the exit.
“I said something wrong.” She grimaced. “Do you not want to talk about it? I just feel really strongly.”
I made a split-second decision.
“I’m Jewish,” I said. My hands were trembling. “I don’t like to talk about this with strangers.”
Her eyes went wide.
“I wouldn’t have said that if I knew you were Jewish!” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me you were Jewish?”
She went to the bathroom, tearful. When she returned, she was still crying.
“I’m so sorry I said that,” she said. She begged me not to delete her number. “Are we still friends? Please don’t say you hate me.”
I didn’t hate her. But I was grateful I hadn’t worn my necklace. I was, selfishly, relieved she hadn’t thought I looked Jewish.
That interaction asked a question I had avoided for years. Do I want to tell the world I’m Jewish? and What happens if I do?
Some people hate Jews. Some people have never met one in person. These groups often overlap. I’m not special, but I am a difficult lesson. Because she liked me. Because I am real.
This New Year, I choose to be visibly Jewish. I choose to wear my Star of David. I choose to be the Jew who says Why do you ask? or Why do you think that’s appropriate to say?
Antisemitism is insidious for many reasons, but chief among them is the dehumanization of our people. We aren’t people. Until we are.
In 5787, I choose. Even when I feel there is no easy choice, I choose. And I hope you’ll join me.
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