“For National Coming Out Day I’m coming out … as a Keshet blogger!”
Okay, okay, maybe that wasn’t a strong opening line. A little too flippant and cute, especially for my first time on here. Alright, let’s start again.
“Hi. I’m coming out. I’m a queer, Jewish, non-binary trans man living in the deep deep south who converted through Reform Judaism, though my personal practice leans more Reformodox / Anarcho-Talmudist.”
Okay, that didn’t go so well either.
So, as you might have been able to tell, this is supposed to be an entry about Coming Out. And I’m going to be perfectly blunt. Yes, I was making light earlier, but coming out is huge. It’s massive and scary and integral. It fills you with terror and hope. It briefly throws your whole world off kilter. It is wonderful.
Until it isn’t. Until it happens every day because it has too. Until for the 20,000th time someone refuses to believe your gender. It’s beautiful until the millionth time someone starts making assumptions about you because you revealed you’re a convert. Or the billionth time you come out as queer in straight spaces and gay spaces and everyone—gay and straight—has problems with it. It’s magical until no one believes you’re disabled because they can’t see it. Until you are constantly coming out over and over and over again because the world won’t stop making generalizations on who you are based on the minimal information our retinas can absorb.
Coming out is freeing.
And it is a burden.
It is a burden to live under the an identity that isn’t yours, to hide yourself for protection and safety. And I think more and more of the world is thankfully beginning to realize that. But its also a burden to have to come out in the first place.
So I issue a challenge. On this National Coming Out Day, support anyone you hear coming out. Support them fully by listening and recognizing the power of that experience, realize how scary it can be to say those words. Wear purple on Spirit Day (October 16th, which is also Oscar Wilde’s birthday). Celebrate LGBT History month this October and learn more about the glorious multi-hued beauty that is our community.
But the bigger challenge is this. The rest of the year we need to support people’s discovery of themselves and support our continually growing identities beyond that one Coming Out moment, beyond the comfort of the known narratives. We need to stop making assumptions about people’s genders and sexual orientations and religions and everything else. We need to let people tell their own stories and not create it for them simply by looking at them. We need to stop over simplifying just how amazing we are, just how complex and complicated humans can be. And one day, maybe there won’t have to be a National Coming Out Day. Maybe we can all just be.
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It was a small miracle when the Northern Virginia Pride (NOVA) committee scheduled its first pride after three years of planning and venue-seeking.
When we (Nice Jewish Girls) heard about the Norther Virginia Pride celebration, we were thrilled! We couldn’t wait to recreate our successful Jacob’s Tent Project, which had been our inaugural effort to bring more Jewish groups to the Pride celebration in DC.
We were so excited, that is until we checked the date—October 4th—Yom Kippur.
Arlington, we have a problem.
Other cities have had this problem too.
In 2011 Atlanta Pride was held on Yom Kippur when the Atlanta Pride Committee asserted that the overlap was an accident. The Atlanta Pride Committee felt, at the time, they had to hold Pride on Yom Kippur due to venue limitations. Available venues and dates for an event this size were limited and Yom Kippur was open at one favored venue.
But, we weren’t ready to give up. The Nice Jewish Girls started talking to each other and put it to our membership. Our members sent emails. We sent the message out of Facebook and Twitter. We all asked the same thing, change the date. We worked every angle we could find. We networked with other organizations that so we sent a united message. Within 36 hours, the date was changed from October 4th to October 5th.
Now, we just have to deliver—so who will join us on October 5th?
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My niece just started Hebrew School. As someone who didn’t have a formal Jewish education as a kid, I’m pretty jealous of what she gets to do. She’s only five, but she’s already discovering the essence of Judaism—learning. Week one she decorated a spice box for havdalah (or, “a jewelry box for cinnamon” as she first explained it), and the next week she created a mobile featuring the highlights of the creation story. She not only gets to create art, she also gets to mumble prayers at dinner time. But, perhaps most importantly, she’s learning about Kehillah, or community.
Kehillah is particularly important this time of year. With Rosh Hashanah only a few days away, I’m zoned in on my community.
My immediate community, my partner and I, have a tradition of baking an apple pie on the first night of Rosh Hashanah. Last year we tried to do this over a campfire in Utah—which, to be frank, was an utter failure. I do not recommend this.
My community of friends has been planning for weeks—coordinating potlucks and rides to services. Emails have been flying back and forth about starting times for dinners (late enough to accommodate those who are going to services, early enough for those traveling across town to still get home at a reasonable time) and dietary restrictions (of both the kashrut and allergy kind.) My community, in our late twenties and early thirties, is one mostly far away from our biological families, some in relationships, and most without children. Celebrating together, as a community, means being part of a family.
My extended community, those who I know on a more casual basis, is on my mind as well. In the past 24 hours alone I’ve asked the property manager of my condo building if he needs a place for Rosh Hashanah, and offered an invite to a fellow photographer to join a potluck dinner. This time of year I don’t want anyone to feel excluded.
And then, of course, there’s my extended-extended community—the entire Jewish world.
One of the many perks of working at Keshet is being aware of the lengths that my co-workers go through to ensure that everyone in the Jewish community has a place to feel welcome, especially during the holidays. Last week I overheard my office mate speaking on the phone with someone who was in need of an LGBT friendly synagogue for Rosh Hashanah services. I listened as she googled synagogue after synagogue, providing not just the names of welcoming places to worship, but also providing driving and public transportation directions. (For those of you still looking for an LGBT friendly congregation, check out Keshet’s Equality Guide here!)
Kehillah keeps us together year round. During the High Holidays, it takes on a special importance. Knowing we have a welcoming and inclusive community to celebrate, reflect, pray, and, of course, eat with means knowing we belong. I wish everyone in the MyJewishLearning and Keshet community a happy and healthy new year.
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With the High Holidays right around the corner, now is a great time to be thinking about the message your synagogue sends to new and potential members about LGBT inclusion.
Here are several suggestions for how to make your synagogue a more inclusive, welcoming, and safe environment for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, and questioning individuals and families. This guide is neither exhaustive, nor does it apply to every synagogue community. A special thanks to Keshet educator Suzie Schwartz Jacobson for helping to compile the original, more detailed version of this guide—which will be published on the Keshet website soon.
Values and Policies:
Here a few suggestions to help you express your values clearly through your synagogue administration:
- Make inclusion of LGBT members a core value of your synagogue: Before you can examine how your synagogue could become more inclusive of LGBT individuals and families, there must be a commitment and buy in on the part of all staff, lay leaders, and members for this to be a core value of your community. It is essential that this value be explicitly expressed and discussed openly. One way to do this is to open up public and communal discussions about LGBT inclusion at the beginning of the year, or when discussing the vision and values of your synagogue. LGBT inclusion must be discussed by your board, professional staff, clergy, committees and lay leadership, general membership and in your religious school and teen programming
- Make sure your registration forms are inclusive of LGBT families and individuals: When crafting registration forms and other documentation, be sure that they are welcoming to a spouse or partner of any gender. Rather than marking only “mother” and “father,” or “husband” and “wife,” write “parent 1” and “parent 2,” or “partner 1” and “partner 2,” etc. If you need to ask for the gender of an individual, allow room for a write in category if the member identifies outside of the two binary genders (male and female), or avoid asking for gender if the information is not necessary.
Language and Communication:
As a synagogue professional or lay leader you are an important role model in the lives of the individuals in your community.
- Do not assume the sexuality or gender of your members: When leaders make incorrect assumptions about the sexuality or gender of community members we risk rendering gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender and questioning individuals invisible. For example, when talking to members of all ages about dating, don’t assume that they are interested in the “opposite sex”, and rather than referring to members as “ladies,” “girls,” or “boys,” ask them how they identify, and what words they use to describe themselves.
In order to achieve your goals, your values of equality and inclusivity must be embedded in the everyday culture and activity of your synagogue.
- Talk together about how to make your synagogue more supportive of LGBT members…often: The only true way to create a fully open and supportive community is to be committed to values of equality and respect all the time, every day. Have your rabbi, professionals, lay leaders and members check in regularly and discuss how your synagogue is meeting its goals and achieving its values.
Torah and Ritual Moments:
Our commitment to the inclusion of LGBT Jews is not just a secular value, but a Jewish value.
- LGBT issues on the bimah: Invite clergy or others speak from the bimah about Jewish values of equality, inclusivity, and safety for all LGBT individuals. This is an important way to teach about LGBT issues, encourage sensitivity regarding sexuality and gender expression and also publicly discuss your synagogue’s commitment to its LGBT members. Click here and enter the keyword “sermon” to see examples of sermons on LGBT themes.
- Provide adult learning on LGBT topics: When appropriate, integrate LGBT issues and topics into lectures and learning series in order to see how inclusivity is essential to our Judaism. When discussing Jewish ethics around love and sex, do not just refer to heterosexual dating and marriage, but include a full spectrum of relationships and ways to experience human love. When studying Torah, understand the text using a LGBT lens. One way to do this is to use the book Torah Queeries, or Keshet’s Torah Queeries online database, which provides a LGBT reading of each parasha (torah portion). You can also introduce or bring in LGBT scholars who interpret Torah from a LGBT perspective (Here is an example from Dr. Joy Ladin, and one from Rabbi Steven Greenberg. When studying Jewish history, include the history of LGBT Jews (for example: http://lgbtjewishheroes.org/). And start a conversation about Keshet’s Seven Jewish Values for Inclusive Community with your community. These are just a few examples of the many possible ways to teach about LGBT and Jewish topics.
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Sarah is barren, Rachel is barren, Rivka is barren. As a single man, I too am barren, unable to conceive and birth a child. I remember the exact moment I knew I wanted to parent, and that I wouldn’t wait for a partner to co-parent. I remember deciding that foster care would be my path to parenting, as at that time, adoption by openly gay people was outlawed by the state where I lived. And so I took the class and filled out the paperwork, and endured the grueling inspection of my home, my finances, and every other nook and cranny of my life.
And I was denied, because of a health issue and a history that included some legal complications.
I took the tour of the tunnels under the Kotel, where one can stand in that one spot closest to where the Holy of Holies stood. Usually this spot is reserved for women, so I knew it was full of the power of motherhood. And it was empty of people at that moment, so I prayed there too.
Like Sarah, like Rachel, like Rivka, and like Hannah, my prayer was answered.
It took resources, it took sacrifice, it took letters from and the support of my community, and it took good (legal) counsel, but I prevailed and was allowed to foster and then later, when that anti-gay law was changed, to adopt.
Last month I was again in Jerusalem, and with a friend who had never been, so we took the same tour through the tunnel under the Kotel. As we approached that same spot I was overcome with gratitude to G-d and love for my children, and my eyes filled with tears and I started to cry. A helpful guard thought that I was claustrophobic, and came to help me. How could I explain what I felt? But as we passed that spot, that one place in Judaism where women get a better location than the men, I could only thank G-d for all of the blessings in my life.
Tu B’av is a great day for love. For romantic love, for family love, and love for G-d and the community. I know that not everyone can (or should) parent. I know that having children is difficult for many, inside and outside the LGBT community. But for those that are able, and willing, the love that will enter your life is beyond measure–as is my gratitude to G-d.
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Last week on the blog, S. Bear Bergman of the Flamingo Rampant Book Club issued a call for children’s books that feature diverse LGBT families. He emphasized the need for books in which diversity itself isn’t the core issue of the plot. That is: “Let these people take trips! Let them have adventures, let them solve mysteries, let them celebrate things, let them worry about other things besides their identity–moving, new school, going to the dentist, any number of interesting childhood challenges that can be overcome.”
Well, Bear, you (and everyone else too!) are in luck: Your post comes just at the moment that author Dana Alison Levy introduces her debut novel for middle grade (ages 8-12) readers, The Misadventures of the Family Fletcher.
The family at the heart of The Misadventures of the Family Fletcher is made up of two dads, four adopted boys, and various pets. They’re Jewish and Christian and Hindu, white and African American and of Indian descent. They’re interested in soccer and ice hockey and turtles and imaginary friends. They have seriously mixed feelings about homework. And they’re constantly getting into a variety of hilarious scrapes.
Jill Ratzan caught up with Dana Alison Levy to ask her some questions about her book’s inclusion of same-sex parents, religious diversity, and zany humor.
The Misadventures of the Family Fletcher is being hailed as a contemporary take on the classic middle grade family story. What inspired you to modernize this familiar genre?
I grew up adoring novels that I now know are called “middle grade” but I thought of as just kids books. Books like Elizabeth Enright’s Melendy Quartet, Sydney Taylor’s All of a Kind Family series, and of course Beverly Cleary’s Ramona books were among my favorites. I also loved the ones that had a little magic thrown in, like Half Magic and Magic by the Lake by Edward Eager. (My sister and I called them “Cheerios books” because we’d reread them again and again, usually while eating Cheerios out of the box.)
When I thought about writing the Fletchers, I wanted that same kind of story, but set in the world we live in now. And the world we live in has many more diverse types of families than ever before. Still, the core of the story is the same as these books written dozens of years ago: a loving family and the shenanigans and trials they go through in a year.
The boys in The Misadventures of the Family Fletcher struggle with various “issues” like whether or not to try out for the school play, how to approach a grumpy neighbor, and how to repair a damaged friendship. The fact that they have two dads is never itself an issue, though. What made you decide to take this perspective?
That’s a good question, and a hard one to answer. I guess in part I believe that kids, if they’re lucky (and the Fletcher kids are really lucky), get to live in a bubble for a while. In the bubble, they don’t have to pay a lot of attention to the big issues of society, be it race, or socioeconomic inequality, or sexual orientation. Nobody gets to stay in the bubble for long, but for this book at least, I wanted the Fletcher kids to have the luxury of taking their life for granted.
I worry about this element of the story, honestly. I know that our world is not colorblind, nor blind to differences in sexual orientation. Most kids like the Fletchers will, at some point, experience some challenging and hurtful moments related to these issues. I would hate for kids or parents to feel that, just because the book doesn’t focus on those moments, it erases those challenges. But I wanted to avoid writing an “issue” book and instead let the more universal and mundane hurts and conflicts rise in importance.
One of my hopes in focusing the story on the everyday challenges in the Fletchers’ school year is to normalize and universalize the experiences of a family that might look different on the outside. Hopefully I was able to do that without ignoring what makes them unique.
One of the Fletcher dads was raised Jewish (“bar mitzvahed and everything!”), while the other is Episcopalian. They want to honor these traditions while making sure that their sons’ African American and Hindu birth backgrounds are also recognized. The family loves creating holiday celebrations that can “belong . . . to everyone,” like hosting elaborate Halloween parties and leaving a plate of latkes for Santa Claus. Again, why did you choose to bring this aspect of interfaith families to your story?
This part of the book came pretty close to my life. I was raised Jewish, though not religious, and my husband comes from a Catholic background. Both of us have strong ties to our traditions, but neither feel that the organized religion quite represents us. So the question becomes: how can we maintain traditions and a sense of spirituality without organized religion? Many of our friends also struggle to answer this question with their families, merging different religious traditions into something new.
Like the Fletchers, we believe in marrying rituals and traditions from all faiths, melding them and shaping them to become our own. When writing the book I wanted to include the Hindu festival of Holi, which takes place in early spring and involves a massive color fight, and I also wanted to include Sukkot, which I think the Fletchers would really get behind (An outdoor house for all meals? Of course!). But I just ran out of room!
The Misadventures of the Family Fletcher is full of anecdotes of everyday family zaniness, including a series of Thanksgiving cooking mishaps, an ice rink surprise, and a memorable incident involving a sandwich, a dripping-wet cat, and a pair of underwear. Do you have a favorite Fletcher family moment?
I confess, the scene of Zeus the cat falling into the bathtub then racing around the house dripping wet while being chased by Frog [the youngest of the boys], wearing only his underwear and a cape, was one of my favorites to write. I will not speak to whether a version of this story happened in my household, but leave it up to the readers to wonder.
I hear that a sequel is in the works! What can you tell us about it?
Yes!! I’m so very delighted that I get to spend more time with the Fletchers! I am working on the sequel now, and it will come out in the spring of 2016 (In theory at least. Publishing works in mysterious ways). While I won’t say too much, I will say that we pick up pretty much where this book ends, with the Fletchers heading out to their beloved Rock Island for summer vacation. Rock Island is a place where time stands still, except this year, the boys must tackle some unexpected changes — on the island and even in themselves.
Dana Alison Levy was raised by pirates but escaped at a young age and went on to earn a degree in aeronautics and puppetry. Actually, that’s not true—she just likes to make things up. That’s why she always wanted to write books. She was born and raised in New England and studied English literature before going to graduate school for business. While there is value in all learning, had she known she would end up writing for a living, she might not have struggled through all those statistics and finance classes. You can find Dana online at www.danaalisonlevy.com or on Twitter and Facebook.
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The Fourth of July is one of those official summer milestones. No matter what part of the country you’re from, there’s some uniformity to the celebrations. There are picnics! Firework displays! Patriotism—waving flags and full on American flag outfits.
To be honest, it’s not my favorite holiday. There’s a sense of machismo to it that doesn’t resonate with me or my lifestyle. I like a good display of pride, but I react to the loud booms of fireworks by cowering, not standing taller. Truth be told, I was hard pressed to reflect on Independence Day in a light that made sense for the Keshet blog and community. But when I sat down to really think about it, I was struck by the parallels between the Fourth of July and the recent progress made in LGBTQ equality. Both are centered on two hard to miss themes: freedom and community.
Which makes me wonder, can a case actually be made for July Fourth as an LGBTQ Jewish holiday? Let’s break it down.
Just two months ago we celebrated the 10 year anniversary of legal same-sex marriage in Massachusetts. It makes sense that Massachusetts, home to Paul Revere’s midnight ride, the (original) tea party of the Boston Harbor, and the shot heard around the world, would be the place for same sex marriage to originate.
And, the fight for our freedom has taken root and spread. Currently, 19 States—plus the District of Columbia—protect the rights of their citizens with legal, same-sex marriage. And here’s what those numbers mean:
- Nearly 44% of the U.S. population lives in a state with the freedom to marry for same-sex couples.
- Over 46% of the U.S. population lives in a state with either marriage or a broad legal status such as civil union or domestic partnership.
- Over 48% of the U.S. population lives in a state that provides some form of protections for gay couples.
We’re fighting for freedom and for progress, and this is seen not just in our government, but in synagogues across the country as Jewish individuals lead the charge for equality. There is still a long way to go, but the Jewish community has truly begun taking concrete steps towards inclusion. And with that change comes an independence from outdated ways of looking at gender or sexual orientation.
From block parties, to family gatherings, to the idea of country, the Fourth of July is about community. And community isn’t just about where you live; it’s about a sense of belonging. Community is central to the identity of many LGBTQ Jews. Community often comes in the form of chosen families, or from synagogues and institutions that support LGBTQ Jews. Community isn’t something that’s taken for granted by most LGBTQ Jews. Over the month of June we heard stories about LGBTQ pride from countless individuals, and with those stories came mentions of communities—both supportive and otherwise. Communities play a huge role in being comfortable with our identities. And, just as we celebrate the entirety of our American community on the Fourth of July, it’s important to celebrate the way our communities push us to be better people and comfort us when we struggle.
So, there you have it. My argument that July 4th isn’t just about blind patriotism—it’s also about appreciating our many varieties of freedom and the communities that make us strong.
When Adina wanted to come out to her family four years ago, Passover seder was the obvious opportunity. Adina grew up in a vibrant Jewish family with a rabbi and Jewish educator for parents, and so it wasn’t simply that everyone would be gathered together, but more so that seder presented an invitation to teach words of Torah to frame her coming out. For Adina, Passover represented some of Judaism’s most important principles, and the call to retell the story of our own liberation resonated with her experiences as a queer person. As she reflected, “it is our hope as queers that our voices will be heard by those we love; those we need to help us usher in a more just world. It is easy to make this plea and hope some divine being will hear us and solve it. It is easy to be part of a movement or campaign or political tag line. It is harder to look around our table and hold the hand of the one sitting next to us and cry out with that person. God only took us out of Egypt upon hearing our voice.”
We’ve asked Adina to share her Torah with all of us this year. We hope this family haggadah supplement will offer everyone gathered around your Seder table the opportunity to consider how you may pursue justice and liberation for LGBTQ people.
And you will answer and say before Adonai your God, “My father was a wandering Aramean. He descended to Egypt and resided there in small numbers. He became a nation–great, powerful and numerous. The Egyptians treated us badly. They persecuted us and put us under hard labor. We cried out to Adonai, the God of our ancestors. God heard our voice. God saw our persecution, our toil and our oppression. God took us out of Egypt with a strong hand and an outstretched arm, with awesome power, signs and wonders. God brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land of milk and honey. Now I have brought the first fruits of this soil, which you, God, gave me.” (Deut. 26:5-10)
When we return to the story of Peasch (or Passover) year after year, our maggid (story), we return to a reminder of from where we have come. Our parent wandered. Our ancestor searched for a place to call home; out of which we emerged as a nation and a community. As Jews, we are blessed with a tradition that teaches us to stretch what it means to be family and on all days of the year to welcome the orphan, the widow, and the stranger. The lesson is especially salient on Pesach, as we open our doors and invite all who are hungry to come and eat. Food, however, may not be the only nourishment our bodies and souls are craving.
When we recall our slavery in Egypt, so too are we called to notice the oppression in our midst, the Egyptians of our day treat those who are LGBTQ harshly. Those in our LGBTQ community suffer from higher than average rates of abuse, homelessness, harassment, and violence. For some of us, just walking down the street poses a threat to safety that others never need consider. None of us are exempt from being in the role of Egyptian. We may believe we have just cause for persecuting those who are different, we may do so without intent to harm, and we may do so with our silence. Yet our story teaches that it is our responsibility to recognize oppression and cry out for justice. The Torah teaches us that as human beings we are created b’tzelem elohim–in the image of God. The divine spark is in each one of us, and we each have the power to hear those who cry out and witness their pain, to extend our hands and stretch out our arms to those who are still in a narrow place. Some years it might be us, or the people we love, who need those open arms and a strong hand.
Jewish people living in the United States today are in many ways living in a time of milk and honey. While we have our individual and collective struggles and hardships, as a people we are not under the threat our ancestors once lived with. We have a responsibility to use this land, this time and space that we are in, to make fruit from this soil. We honor our tradition and history by standing on the side of justice and fighting for space at the table for the LGBTQ people in our lives and in our communities. For all who are hungry will come and eat on this night with us: the stranger, the friend, and those whose hunger will be sated not by food, but by love, acceptance, justice, and equality in our homes, synagogues, and the world at large.
*Hebrew translates to “My ancestor was a wandering Aramean.”
Growing up, Passover was always my favorite holiday. Not only did Passover provide me with an eight day vacation from my Jewish day school, it also was an opportunity for my family to get together and celebrate the holiday. It probably didn’t hurt that we were also most likely the only family on Long Island that actually enjoyed eating matzah.
My first Passover in college and away from home was horrible. Although I was able to go home for the two seders, it became clear to me that what I truly loved about Passover was the opportunity for my entire family to be home together and take a break from our normal day-to-day schedule for eight days, yet I was spending the majority of the holiday at school. By Passover of my sophomore year, this issue was exacerbated by my new vegetarian diet, which left me hating Passover even more.
However, by my junior year, Passover started having a different meaning to me. That year, I began identifying as a humanistic Jew and started thinking about each Jewish holiday’s significance to me, as a queer humanistic Jew. Before, Passover had been important to me because it was an opportunity for me to spend time with my family for eight days. However, I had never really engaged in what Passover, the holiday and story, actually mean to me. Now when I think of Passover, I think about overcoming oppression. Because that’s ultimately what the Passover story comes down to: an oppressed and enslaved people overcoming obstacles and being led to freedom.
As a queer individual, this narrative especially resonated with me. We live in a world where queer people are oppressed: by a heteronormative society that erases our existence, by laws that dictate that we are lesser than our heterosexual peers, and—at times—even by ourselves and our own internalized homophobia. However, unlike the People of Israel in biblical times, we cannot wait for plagues or a super natural being to free us from our oppression; we must be our own saviors.
Since Passover of last year, we have made significant gains for LGBTQ Equality. In June of last year, the Supreme Court struck down part of the Defense of Marriage Act and Prop 8 was finally put to rest. In addition, nine states welcomed marriage equality in 2013. While there are reasons to celebrate, there is still a lot more that needs to be done.
The People of Israel’s departure from Israel did not signify equality and freedom for all. Women were still less equal then men and slavery was still condoned by the Torah. Not everyone who was granted freedom when they left Israel received the same amount of freedom. As we gather to celebrate the story of Passover, it is important that we celebrate the successes of the last year. At the same time, however, it is important that we recognize who is benefiting the most from these successes and who still has the farthest to go. The transgender rights movement is still lagging significantly behind the LGB equality movement. The same summer that parts of DOMA were struck down, key parts of the Voting Rights Act were also struck down. And women, on top of many other obstacles, continue to earn significantly less than their male counterparts.
The fact of the matter is, all issues are queer issues. We cannot fight for queer equality without fighting for trans equality and racial equality. As long as females and people with disabilities are oppressed, so too will segments of the queer population be oppressed. As Passover comes and goes, let us pledge to not just fight for the issues that the mainstream LGBTQ movement has prioritized but for equality for all. In just the past year, we have managed to overcome and break down several oppressive institutions, but we cannot stop until all people, regardless of identity, are truly equal in this country.
A few weeks ago a recipe started making rounds on the Internet. Not just any recipe, but a recipe for hamantaschen with rainbows. I’m no baker, but I knew I needed to give these a shot. Truthfully, I’ve never really been that excited about hamantaschen. I stay silent when debates about the best of Jewish food turn to the cookie. Yet, I appreciate the symbolism and the history behind the pastry. These triangle shaped cookies represent the villain of the Purim story, Haman. I’m a little fuzzy on the details, but the way I remember the story it has something to do with Haman being pretty uncool towards the Jews, and Esther and Mordechai saving the day. Because of all of that, we eat pastries that resemble the tricornered hat Haman wore.
Well, if we’re going to be celebrating a holiday where someone saves the day by standing up and declaring their hidden identity, it seemed like celebrating with rainbows made sense. I’m an amateur in the kitchen, so I figured if I was going to do this, we could take this adventure together.
I knew Kitchen Tested’s recipe was the only one out there suggesting rainbows, but as a pretty basic baker, I thought I’d start someplace easier. I went with with JewishBoston claimed to be “The Easiest Hamentashen Recipe on the Internet.”
- 4 eggs
- 1 cup oil
- 1 1/4 cup sugar
- 2 teaspoons vanilla
- 3 teaspoons baking powder
- 5 1/2 to 6 cups flour
- 1-2 small jars baked good filling (apricot, prune, cherry, poppyseed, etc.)
Before we get too much further, I’m going to go on the record here—we will be using chocolate chips as filling. This isn’t up for debate. If there is an opportunity to bake with chocolate, in the Rozensky family, we take it.
Because we’re going to be making these rainbow style, you’ll also need food coloring. Gel-based food coloring is your best bet for making bright colors and not making the dough too sticky.
To make the dough, you’ll want to first mix together eggs, oil, sugar, and vanilla. I borrowed a friends standing mixer, which I recommend, if only for the fact that you feel very important using such a fancy kitchen implement. After your eggs, oil, sugar, and vanilla are properly mixed up- add the baking powder and flour.
Next, you’re going to separate the dough into six sections. While wearing rubber gloves, knead food coloring into each of the sections of dough.
I wore a Wonder Woman apron while baking, which I recommend if you’re feeling less than confident about your abilities. Getting the food coloring uniformly into the dough took the longest in the process. It was also the messiest part, since no matter what I did I seemed to contaminate the colors. I just stuck with my mantra (“This is just for fun. Rainbows are for fun.”) and I managed to make it through.
The next step was to roll out each individual section, and to stack them in a 9″ x 4″ pan. Midway through the baking process I realized I didn’t have a rolling pin, but managed to do just fine by substituting in a can of tomato soup.
After I created the amazing rainbow loaf, it was time to put the dough in the freezer for a half hour.
For the next step, you cut a narrow (1/8 inch thick) slice of dough. I completely own the fact that I was beyond amazed that the dough seemed to look the way it was supposed to look. To make your hammentaschen, you’ll want to use a cup or a circle cookie cutter to cut a circle in the middle of the dough.
Next up, you’ll put your choice of filling in the center of the circle, and fold the sides up into a triangle shape.
Bake the Hammentaschen for 15 minutes at 350 degrees, and you’ll end up with a fantastic rainbow way to celebrate Purim.
Let me be the first to wish you a Happy Purim from Keshet! If you’re in the Bay Area, be sure to check out the Gender Schmear: our Bay Area LGBTQ Purim party. And, if you find yourself celebrating Purim with a few rainbows, be sure to send us your photos!