Edited by Alloe Mak
I’ve watched as the queer community has been painted as a beacon of hope, a sign of home, and a sign of life pulsing prominently through the chest of society. I think that I spent a lot of my life trying to find this form of understanding—trying to find someone who could see me to the point that my insides were completely transparent, with my thoughts exposed and my love oozing from my skin as opposed to just its leftover scars decorating my chest. I didn’t ask this of a lover. Frankly, I didn’t ask it from anyone. I guess I thought it was something I was supposed to already have. I was almost always surrounded by bisexuals and queers, so I thought that maybe this outsider feeling was an issue with me. I’d attribute it to my struggles with mental health, diagnosing my estrangement as a psychological issue rather than an unanswered question. My clinical assessments were derived from a lack of understanding. I didn’t know why it was still different. We talked about women, we talked about love, we talked about sex. Being around them helped me accept who I was. Our conversations comforted me, taught me that I could accept myself, and despite our differences in attraction, I was still one of them.
Yet I was their only lesbian friend. And I was my only lesbian friend.
I remember when I had sex for the first time, and my friends’ initial responses were asking whether or not that ‘counted’ as sex. If that counted as me losing my virginity—as if a penises penetration was the only thing to change my status as a non-virgin.
Maybe that’s when I stopped being ‘one of them.’
But I was still accepted by myself and them.
When I was 15, I went to the Toronto Dyke March for the first time. I couldn’t stop smiling. The euphoria filled my lungs with each breath—it flowed through my body and controlled my every action. The dykes around me didn’t just accept each other. There was not an ounce of tolerance but a sea of pride. The people around me were grounded in their identities—they didn’t just call themselves queer, they called themselves dykes. Their language vulgar as they tamed the street just by walking. Hundreds of our feet left marks on the ground, moving in unison. We were present and we were prominent. It was the first time I felt proud to be a lesbian.
After I left, I felt more prideful than before, and it didn’t wear off. After that moment where I was with so many other people whose identity as a dyke mirrored mine, I stood in that same mirror and saw only me.
When you’re walking in the march, it’s easy to acknowledge the intersectional identities of the dykes there. They’re waving banners, flags, being proud of their heritage alongside their lesbianism, while I remained hesitant to do so—lesbian in one space, Jewish in another.
I’ve been going to Jewish summer camps my whole life. It taught me what it was like to be in a community where you didn’t have to explain anything—not needing to explain my religious practices, beliefs, and history. There was a comfort in that, but I still felt alienated. I never understood why—I just remember the anxiety bubbling in my gut with every movement—how I was overly cautious with every word spoken, stressed with every imperfection. I was desperate to fit into the world of the other girls because I never knew why, while they were sitting around gossiping about their crushes, I was still picking mine. Picking the one that would make the most sense, that would match their preferences, so mine wouldn’t be considered weird. I still tried to be one of them.
When I was about 13, I came out. As I explored my identity and the feelings that came with it, I became increasingly outward and bold in my queerness. I tried not to hide it when I was in Jewish circles. While my mind kept trying to push myself further, to be out and stay out, my body fell back into its familiar panicked state. When I was in those spaces, I accepted myself, but I wasn’t proud of myself even if I tried to be.
Maybe that’s when I stopped being ‘one of them.’
This year I started university. During O-week, I met a girl named Chloe, someone who I instantly knew was a lesbian. As we reached the peak of our small talk, she asked me, “is your family Jewish?”, to which I casually responded, “yeah.” “Oh cool, me too!” I whipped my head around, mouth agape, as the corners of my mouth formed an ear-to-ear smile. It was the first time I met another Jewish lesbian. With every conversation we have, I know that I am transparent. She sees right through my words. She dissects my mind with ease, every crevice of my brain is a path she has travelled. We may not be the exact same, but even our differences are understood better and deeper by her than nearly every person I’ve ever met. With our shared identities comes shared experiences, resulting in shared growth. She has taught me the importance and privilege of having representation of both of my identities, not just as a Jewish person and not just as a lesbian, but as a Jewish lesbian. By supporting one another, I felt more comfortable integrating into Jewish spaces without denying a whole part of myself. Every Shabbat, we’d go to Shabbat dinners with Chabad, all of the Jewish events, and connect with my other Jewish friends. Being in this community with her by my side has aided in deepening my religious and spiritual connections. I started studying with the Rebetzon, learning more about how I, as a lesbian feminist, can not only be accepted but loved. But that doesn’t mean I was out to her or the Rabbi.
The vast majority of my other Jewish friends are straight, but still sweet and accepting. Innocently, they’d ask if I would ever come out to the Rebbetzin. I thought about it numerous times, but kept coming to the conclusion that I would not. I was terrified of being ostracized from this community I’ve built, losing a safe space, even if I didn’t know if it was safe for all of me. I dwelled on this for months, allowing the what-ifs to eat at my corpse until they hit my heart. And as they gnawed at my ribs, I realized that there is no point in being in a community if their love for me is unrequited.
In our next session, I told the Rebbetzin I wanted to learn about homosexuality and Judaism. As she stumbled on her words, the tears welled in my eyes—hearing her sentences veer in the direction of the ‘lifestyle’ and the ‘choices’ started slowly crushing me. I wasn’t regretting my questions, I was just becoming increasingly angry. She didn’t say anything definitive until she made the statement that G-d loves everyone, and admitted her own confusion with the text. I asked her, “what would you do if one of your kids is gay?” Her eyes darted to mine before saying, “I’ve actually thought about this.” My anger eased as she told me she would love them and make that known, as well as connect them to queer religious figures to know that they can still be involved with the religion. Though as she continued with the contradictory commentary of her personal beliefs compared to that of interpretations of G-d’s word, I decided that if I were to lose my community over my lesbianism, it’s better than faking that I’m not. It’s better than staying closeted after being out for 5 years. So I told her, “I wanted to talk to you about this because I’m a lesbian.” I went on for another 10 minutes giving in-depth detail to my life, the homophobia I’ve faced and the struggles as a result, and how this is not a choice for me. I explained my worries, my fears of being unwelcome in my own religious life. The tears on my face dried, and hers fell from her eyes. Once I finished, she responded with a smile before asking if she could hug me. As she squeezed me tightly, she made it known that I am always loved at Chabad, and my queerness does not change that.
I am grateful for the courage I had and for those around me who supported me and continue to. Most of all, I am grateful for Chloe. Merely knowing that even if there’s only one person, I am not alone. This is the first Pride where I am genuinely proud. This is the first Pride where I am not compartmentalizing my identities, shoving one under the rug when I am scared or when it doesn’t match the setting. I am a proud Jewish lesbian everywhere.