These are things

There are things, when you grow up Jewish. Like moving from the north to the south when you’re 7. And it takes time but eventually you start to understand the Jew jokes. And it may take getting through 3rd grade but you realize they’re about you and your mom and cousins and grandma. So you learn to hide your Jewishness and you drop out of Sunday school. And you don’t get bat-mitzvah’d. Which is OK because you weren’t really sure about God in that way anyway.

Later you learn that the reason you could hide was because of this thing about privilege. And you can taste it and see it all around so you rarely talk about your Jewishness. Also the world doesn’t call on you to bring it up much. And since you’re not really sure about God in that way, it’s fine. 

So you do your work to center folks who are really marginalized. People who don't hide or pass. People with brown skin or black skin and people who need abortions and people without jobs and people who work 3 jobs but still can’t support their families. And sometimes passing annoys you because you have a knowing of things. But knowing is insignificant when it's hidden. So you do the work. That is what’s important. These are things. 

And then oops also your mom is a lesbian. And oops so are you. And oops your spouse is genderqueer. And oops. Oops. Oops. But all the love! Oops is good! Life is a gift! Rejoice! 

And you are at heart, a joyful person. This has stayed with you. And you are grateful. 

And then there is a new president. And the stories of your great aunts and uncles that “didn’t make it” come up in your guts and sleep and the knowing grows. And one day you cry hard but you don’t tell anyone because it didn’t happen to you and so. And you wonder about your great-grandma’s sisters and how they lived and how they died, even though you forget their names. And you hear your grandmother’s voice telling you small things and you realize she was planting seeds. And you remember your great-grandfather’s hands warming yours when you were small. His hands were not born here. And you feel comfort and discomfort all at once. 

You remember this thing you heard about ancestral trauma. And it’s not yours. But. It’s as if on this day someone handed you a membership card. And you want to show your new shiny Jew card and tell people about your discovery but your ancestor whispers in your ear “Shhhh” so you don't. But. You can feel it in your blood. Like when you type words on a computer, how it’s there in your fingertips. Or when your purse your lips your grandmother is there. 

And then one day there’s a hate rally in Virginia. And in the past you would have turned your cheek because “Whatever dumbasses.” But today is different and you can't say why. And you think of your privilege. And your membership card. And you get back to work. 

The president says it turned violent because of people on both sides. That “your side” was at fault too. For a moment you believe him. Because yes we did go there and show up at that place. But then you also remember when you were raped and people asked “Why didn’t she press charges” and the answer is because things were so blurry and you didn’t know what to do. And you imagine that people in Charlottesville must have just thought “Well I can’t stay home.” And so they went. Because who else would show up for them and say “Hey I am a person” except themselves. But the president says getting harmed was their fault. And then you think of your great-grandmother’s sisters. And you wonder if there was a rally before they were killed and what their president said. And you wonder if anyone went to that rally to say “Hey these are people.” And you wonder what victims are supposed to do when people would like to see the earth wiped clean of them or rape them or both. 

And really all you want is to keep your family safe. To not feel relieved that your last name is not Jewish. To not have secret anxiety when your spouse travels without you. To imagine that brown people will stop being killed for sport. To imagine that victims are allowed to speak their pain. All you want is for all of us to be better at sharing and general niceties. These are kindergarten things but we didn’t do a good job teaching them so we never learned. 

I am not scared. My privilege has shielded me from so much. And yet. There is a knowing in my bones.