A Portrait of an Accidental Advocate
A recent letter to the editor claimed that there should be no space for queer activism in a religious college such as YU. I am reminded of Amos’s confrontation: go you advocate and flee for the secular colleges which are more hospitable to your values, and there find supporters and there you shall speak. Don’t speak at YU, for it is a yeshiva and an Orthodox institution. But I am not an advocate nor representative of advocates but a college student who was engaged in my studies, until a voice came to me and demanded “speak.” So here I offer a defense, my story of how I became an Orthodox queer advocate.
I never intended to end up this way — I was always a strong Torah student and have been committed to Judaism my whole life. I went to Heichal HaTorah and MTA for high school and spent two years in Yeshivat Kerem B’Yavneh. There, I developed a love for Torah, a passion for the word of God. I also developed a deep appreciation and love for my fellow human beings, created in the divine image.
It is important to me to understand perspectives and experiences different from my own. Therefore, when I was confronted with the then-developing controversy surrounding the Pride Alliance, despite my halakha-based skepticism, I felt it was important to look into the issue. In the articles I read when I was in Israel, the authors consistently clarified that their goal was to advocate for those who are often made to feel lesser because of their sexuality or gender identity. I saw fellow Jews in pain and I was silent. I was conflicted and unsure if I could believe their words, my instincts about what others believed blinding me to their actual claims.
I could not rid myself of the buzz of discomfort with what I had seen. I could not square the pages of Gemara I had been learning, the Jewish ethics I value so much, with my silence on the matter. I spent long hours researching the halakhic aspects of topics that could be relevant to LGBT advocacy. I made sure that everything I could see myself getting into, every situation I could find myself in, would be able to be handled in accordance with halakha.
Still, I wouldn’t do anything; the voice shouting “cry out without restraint, raise your voice like a horn” was silenced. But as the atmosphere on campus turned tense and the spotlights of national media descended upon YU, I felt unable to remain silent; I felt a hollowness in the institutions I valued as long as this inexcusable exclusion was in place. I needed to overcome my suspicions, close my eyes and take a leap of faith. I reached out to a board member of the Pride Alliance offering to help in any way I could, and I eventually became part of the board. I had found my voice, to be able to call even as the earth shakes, hoping for true empathy to well up, proactive sympathy as a mighty stream.
If I can push for the development of that sympathy, I ask the reader to imagine the beauty of a Jewish wedding, the happiness of the bride and groom standing under the chuppah. Consider somebody raised in a community that so valorizes a moment they will never have because they are gay. Imagine how they may feel sitting there, as they watch a friend walk down the aisle and quietly wonder “will I ever be able to experience this happiness?” Should we need the secular world for our hearts to overflow with care? Consider the experience a transgender person desiring to remain in Orthodoxy goes through. Day after day waking up feeling themselves trapped in the wrong body. Should they not be able to find a place within our communities?
In my advocacy, my goal has never been to overturn halakha. The goal of the Pride Alliance, as has been stated time and time again, is to support students who, frequently precisely because of Orthodox convictions, feel alienated or othered. The goal is to be a voice for the voiceless, to represent those who need a space.
Further, I have met people who inspire me with their dedication to Orthodoxy and humanity despite facing difficulty. While I refuse to judge those who have left Orthodoxy, I have been deeply moved by the resilience of those whose faith in God shines in their individual religiosity despite living in fear of communal rejection. I feel honored to be able to serve some of the most incredible Jews I know.
In regards to the author’s implied but never stated view about queerness as something to be kept quiet, I cite Doniel Weinrech’s Walking The Walk of Empathy:
“If you listened to the now numerous accounts by gay people in YU or the Orthodox community, including the famous 2009 panel, you would understand why their demands are so important. You would understand, as Justin Spiro put it on Sunday, that “Being LGBTQ is not primarily about a taivah — it’s not about wanting sex. It’s an experiential process of growing up feeling different, other than, less than, questioning everything about yourself.” If you understood, you would stop talking about “sexual proclivities” or making crude analogies to other proscriptions and predilections.”
To demand somebody hold in a formative part of themself is unconscionable; imagine being told one should not express their Judaism because it could be kept private. More importantly, when queerness is properly understood for its experiential aspects, there is no halakhic foundation I have seen for why it should be kept quiet.
It is deeply frustrating to see myself and those like me painted as anti-Torah agitators. I resent representations of us that do not accord with our own words and actions.
We come to YU because we value Orthodoxy. We also desire that students be included no matter what experiences and realities shape who they are. YU is a bastion of Modern Orthodoxy and its decisions often inform the movement’s values. I am fond of saying I could never leave YU — there’s too much to fix. As such, I can think of no better place than YU to advocate for the Judaism of tomorrow to be a more perfect Judaism than the Judaism of today.
___
Photo Caption: Students protesting
Photo Credit: The YU Pride Alliance
