What I Learned in College

I found my voice in college—though not as a student.

I worked for nearly three years at the Bronfman Center for Jewish Student Life at NYU, where I wore (as all Hillel professionals do) many hats: running internships, staffing trips, advising clubs, and more. One group I advised was Keshet, NYU’s club for LGBTQ Jews and their allies. Keshet had been larger and more active in the past, and was quite small when I started. Then, with time, incredible student leaders, and staff support, the group blossomed and became a renewed presence on campus. On a personal level, I learned so much through the experience:

Good Intentions

At first, I felt insecure and tongue-tied. I was sensitive enough to know the impact of insensitivity, and the fear of saying something wrong (LGBT? GLBT? Add the Q? What’s the deal with the word “queer”? Can I call myself an “ally”?) was overwhelming.

An NYU student-led SafeZone sensitivity training brought home what I started to feel intuitively: good intentions do make a difference. When you speak with someone, and you say something that is not perfectly up to speed with the lingo, it’s okay. Yes, learn the lingo—but don’t silence yourself as you learn. You care. That does make it better.

Keep Going

… Read the rest on the Keshet (no relation to the NYU club) blog.

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Orthodox Judaism, My Soul is Sick with Love for You

On Thursday, the Orthodox Union issued a statement publicly opposing the President’s recent stance on same-sex marriage. I read it that afternoon, got up from my desk, walked into the office bathroom, and cried. If the OU does indeed represent Orthodox Judaism, as they assert, the path towards a more honorable Orthodoxy seemed too long. I conceded to myself that feminism or LGBTQ inclusion within the movement really is an oxymoron, a fantasy. It was time for me to finally break up with Orthodox Judaism.

Yet on Shabbos morning I was back in my Orthodox synagogue, holding the Torah and reading a prayer out loud on behalf of the congregation.

Read the rest on the Lilith blog.

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Shira’s House

I wrote this story for a contest sponsored by Keshet. While it didn’t win the contest, I’m very interested in continuing to work on the piece. My main question now, though, is… what is it? A children’s story? A piece of fiction geared to adults, but written from a child’s perspective? Would love your reactions, questions, and general feedback.

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The car ride to Shira’s house is very quiet.

I look out the window at the tall dark trees. Then I look at the backs of Ema’s and Abba’s heads.

“Ema?”

“Yes, Elie?”

“Is Shira very sad?”

Abba looks at Ema. Ema turns around in her seat, and looks at me.

“Yes, Elie.” Ema’s voice is quiet. “We’re all very sad.”

Am I very sad? I don’t know. I try to feel what it feels like to be very sad.

“Can I talk to her about Uncle Zach?”

“She might not want to talk,” says Ema. “Let her show you how you can help.”

“Even if it’s just being there,” adds Abba. He takes one hand off the steering wheel, and puts it on top of Ema’s hand. “It will mean a lot to Shira and her abba that you’re going. Making a shiva visit to a person who is mourning is a big and important way to show how much you love them.”

Ema makes a noise that sounds like a sneeze or a sniffle, and I see her quickly wipe her eyes.

Abba looks at me through the mirror. “Almost there, Mister Elie,” he says.

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Passion, Action, and Being Seen

or, Keshet Training—Part II (sort of). See: Keshet Training, Part I.

Back in the days of AOL Instant Messenger, I was chatting with a friend when he said something about me that I have thought about ever since:

i’ll tell you something
what i like about julie is that she is passionate about the things she is passionate about. which is almost all issues
you have a stance
but i think julie doesn’t know that she has lots of passion to spread around
you are capable of giving a lot of passion to a lot of things.
because your passion is the kind of passion that doesn’t dry up
yours is the kind about which you can say:
“there’s more where that came from”

So, here’s the thing. This was a compliment that went past bone and to the soul. It became a part of me… but I don’t know how much, at least these days, I agree with what my friend said. I am curious about quite a lot of things. I have deep reserves of empathy for lots of different people and issues. But do I really have an opinion on most things? A stance? And what does it mean to give passion to something, anyway?

I once did an activity where a bunch of us stood in a line. A list of social issues was read aloud, and for each one that we really cared about, whether it was supporting it or ending it, we were to take a step forward. Genocide. World hunger. Womens’ rights. Childrens’ labor laws. Sustainability. Preventing animal cruelty. It was a long list, and we took many steps forward.

We left something of ours behind to mark our spot: a shoe, a watch, a cardigan. We returned to where we started, and the list was read again, word for word—except this time, we could only take a step forward if we had spent time or money towards the specific cause. A few of us came close to our shoes, watches, cardigans.

Most of us did not.

I think the point here is not: Let’s spend all our time and money working towards every thing that needs fixing under the sun. There are too many lifetimes’ worth of work to do. Instead, follow your passion—but with action. Otherwise, the gap will keep looming large between your feet and your watch on the sidewalk.

The LGBTQ movement is one I have felt pulled to for a long time. Self-consciousness and insecurity—and, let’s face it, inertia and laziness—made it hard for me to act.

I already wrote about a lot of my reactions to the Keshet training institute I attended; what I didn’t share yet is the moment it all sunk in. I don’t remember the context of the conversation, but someone suggested waiting for change to happen. Sometimes there’s practically nothing to do but wait, this participant was implying.

“I have a question for you,” replied Joanna Ware, Lead Organizer and Training Coordinator at Keshet. She was speaking to the whole room. “What does it mean to wait—when what you are waiting for is to be seen as a full person?”

…

I think it’s possible to have a stance, as my friend said, on a lot of things. Opinions are cheap. But to give passion to a lot of things? I think it’s better to pick a few at a time. And once you’ve got them—I’ve got mine—move your feet.

(Everyone deserves the right to be seen as a full person.)

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Preferred Pronouns and Queer Spaces–Keshet Training, Part I

Keshet ["rainbow" in Hebrew] is a national grassroots organization that works for the full inclusion of gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender (GLBT) Jews in Jewish life. Led and supported by GLBT Jews and straight allies, Keshet offers resources, trainings, and technical assistance to create inclusive Jewish communities nationwide.

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The very first thing we did at Keshet’s National Training Institute for Jewish educators, youth professionals, and community leaders was share our names and preferred pronouns. As in, “I’m Julie and I prefer she and her.”

Five minutes into the training, and already I was in a space very different from any I had been in before. To be asked for my preferred pronoun meant that no formal assumptions were being made about my gender. This was new, and, honestly? I liked it. While I identify as female, most would say I “look” female, and I have a common female name, it was surprising that in twenty six years, no one had stopped to ask, to confirm how I identify—even if it is (or, rather, especially in case it is) not what society says I look like, sound like, or seem.

But that was just one activity. Something that set the space apart for the entirety of the two-and-a-half day training was that it was both queer and ambiguous. I was “in the closet” as straight, until I chose to come out. This was an experiential part of the training that could never have worked using PowerPoint or a flip chart.

Over the course of our time together, most of the participants revealed their sexual orientation—but not all. I know that the sexual orientation of my peers at the training had nothing to do, to slightly distort what Zach Wahls said so well, with the content of their character… but I was seeing everything, for the first time, through a queer lens, and I wanted to know where people were coming from. I couldn’t rely on the usual norms. It felt both challenging and refreshing to understand that I couldn’t know something so private unless it was shared with me—that orientation, like gender, is not something you can just tell or assume.

Depending on who you are, this all may seem obvious, simplistic. To me, it’s putting together a puzzle that I’ve wanted to put together for a long time. I’ve had many of the pieces—but I didn’t understand them. The Keshet training was educational and informative, and I since have a lot more confidence with the language that I use. But even at the training itself, I was so, so self-conscious. How could I consider myself an ally but say the wrong word, inadvertently use pejorative slang, say “husband” and not “partner”?

And while I’ve gained more confidence, I still have a ways to go. For instance, I thought, leaving the training, that I would only say “partner” from now on… but the word doesn’t pass my lips; it trips, and stays behind.

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