In honor of the upcoming annual observance of Transgender Day of Remembrance we are devoting space in our blog to posts about gender. Be sure to check out other stories of gender in our Jewish community including: “Transgender 101,” the personal reflections of two parents faced with the reality of gender roles at day care, and a Tachlis of inclusion post entitled “How to Hire a Transgender Rabbi.”
When we first meet the Biblical figures Sarah and Abraham, they are not yet called Sarah and Abraham. When we first meet Abraham and Isaac, their bodies have not yet undergone a surgical alteration. We know our first Jewish family in the Torah both before and after these transitions. And the ways in which we know them can help us to be better allies to transgender folk within our current communities.
Abraham and Sarah were not always called “Abraham” and “Sarah.” Born as Avram and Sarai, their names are changed by an encounter with the divine, and they each receive an extra letter (the Hebrew letter “Hey”). From then on, they are known as Abraham and Sarah.
We call the first Jewish couple “Abraham and Sarah” because those are their names. We do not reject these names because they were not given at birth. We do not refer to their birth names their “real” names. We understand that to insist on only referring to our Jewish foremother and forefather as “Sarai” and “Avram” would seem confused as best, and insulting at worst.
In short, we get it.
We understand the fundamental concept that names are important, and can represent significant identities. We get that names may be altered or changed during the course of a lifetime, and that names assigned at birth do not trump names taken on later in life. And, we can know it with those in our world today. Just as we know this with Abraham and Sarah, we should know how to relate to transgender folk whose name is not that which was assigned to them at birth.
We read that Abraham performs the act of circumcision on himself. He also performs it on Isaac. This surgical action declares them both members of the tribe. From this, we see that alteration to a body given at birth can be a method of enhancing holiness. It can represent connection to an identity—a physical manifestation of a metaphysical plane. We understand that this act is not represented as an act of mutilation, but of holiness. We further understand that not all Jews must undergo this change in order to be Jews. For some it makes sense, and for some, it does not.
Some transgender individuals choose to surgically (and/or hormonally) alter the body they were born in. We know that a physical alteration can interact with and support identity in significant ways. And today, we are seeing the many ways in which gender-affirming healthcare (which includes hormones and/or surgery) can lead to positive health outcomes overall. If we are to believe (as I was taught in Hebrew school) that our bodies are a gift from G-d, then hormonal and/or surgical alterations may indeed be a tool for some to use in order to be a proper caretaker, and thereby sanctify the body they were given at birth.
Our first Jewish family can show us how to be a better support to transgender folk in our communities.
The ways in which we know with Sarah and Abraham and Isaac show us a path towards love, support, respect, and affirmation for transgender folk in our lives. We know and love Sarah, Abraham, and Isaac through their transitions. We can do the same for those in our communities today.
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- Transgender Day of Remembrance is November 20th. How will your Jewish community observe the day?
Lekhah Dodi (‘Come my friend’) is the hymn sung on Friday night to welcome Shabbat. The prayer begins, “Come my friend, to meet the bride; let us welcome the presence of the Sabbath.” Samantha Kuperberg explores the disconnect she feels towards the prayer and the assumption held within the words of the hymn.
I turned toward the door and bowed and felt nothing.
I focused on the Shabbos bride. I focused on how beautiful she is, and how joyous I should be to greet her. I focused on her flowing hair, her warm smile, her pure white dress. It was then it occurred to me, and I wasn’t sure why it hadn’t occurred to me sooner.
She was not for me.
This Shabbos bride was not for me. She was for her husband: “ateret baʿalah” (crown of her husband). I was supposed to rejoice thinking of that lucky man greeting her: “kimsos chatan al kalah” (as the groom rejoices in his bride). In that moment, Lekhah Dodi was no longer a celebration of the Shabbos day. It became a heavy imposition of the male gaze. I found myself struggling. I imagined myself a mystic in Safed. My beautiful bride running down a hill to meet me. I still felt nothing. Then imagined she wasn’t for me. She was a friend. A friend who was walking down the aisle. I imagined I was the bride.
And then I felt anger.
In my moment of supposed connection and utter joy, I was reminded to conform myself to a universe where male desire reigns large. I was twisting my brain in order to respond and react to the male gaze. I was not to see the Shabbos bride through my own eyes, but through a husband’s eyes. I had to imagine my happiness and pleasure in that shadow. She was not for me.
Lekhah Dodi has always been one of my favorite prayers. In the temple where I grew up, our rabbi would grab his guitar and lead us children in a line throughout the sanctuary. We would sing and dance and be uplifted. For me, that was true joy, and I was giddy to welcome in Shabbat. I miss that natural, effortless feeling.
We need new ways of viewing this Shabbos person.
We need to acknowledge that the overarching masculinity of Judaism may contribute to disconnect.
And as we do that, I will continue to struggle with her.
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