When I tell my friends who are not Orthodox that I’m out of the closet and attending a Modern Orthodox high school, many of them do a double take. Why would I subject myself to that, they ask. One even asked why I hadn’t left and fled to the comforts of public school. Why would I choose to stay in a community where, my friends thought, I wasn’t accepted?
Those were the very same questions that I asked myself when I first realized that being openly gay was something that I wanted to do. To be fair, though, it wasn’t quite a realization that I wanted to be completely out, but rather, something that happened almost accidentally and that I realized ex post facto. I knew that my closest friends, the ones whom I had come out to first, wouldn’t have a problem with my being gay, nor would they out me to anyone with the intent to hurt me. I knew that the friends whom I had told at first had other friends who were LGBT, and who could — and would — be supportive of me as I proceeded to come out to my parents and more friends.
I had known that these friends would be there for me, but as I started coming out to people with whom I wasn’t particularly close, I headed into uncharted territory: outside of my circle of friends. How would I know that they wouldn’t run off, screaming at the top of their lungs? How could I know that my telling them that I am gay wouldn’t make them feel uncomfortable? After all, going to a Modern Orthodox school where I was the second student in the history of the school to have been out of the closet, there was little to no precedent for how people would respond. (The other out student graduated before my grade even entered high school.) For many people, I would learn later, I was the first out person they met.
With back-to-school season upon us, Julie Sugar reminisces on what she learned at college…as an educator, not a student. Julie’s reflections remind all of us, in turn, about the immense, powerful, and sometimes under-appreciated role allies play in creating inclusive space for everyone.
I found my voice in college—though not as a student.
I worked for nearly three years at the Bronfman Center for Jewish Student Life at NYU, where I wore (as all Hillel professionals do) many hats: running internships, staffing trips, advising clubs, and more. One group I advised was Keshet, NYU’s club for LGBTQ Jews [no relation to the Keshet that runs this blog!] and their allies. Keshet had been larger and more active in the past, and was quite small when I started. Then, with time, incredible student leaders, and staff support, the group blossomed and became a renewed presence on campus. On a personal level, I learned so much through the experience:
At first, I felt insecure and tongue-tied. I was sensitive enough to know the impact of insensitivity, and the fear of saying something wrong (LGBT? GLBT? Add the Q? What’s the deal with the word “queer”? Can I call myself an “ally”?) was overwhelming.
An NYU student-led SafeZone sensitivity training brought home what I started to feel intuitively: good intentions do make a difference. When you speak with someone, and you say something that is not perfectly up to speed with the lingo, it’s okay. Yes, learn the lingo—but don’t silence yourself as you learn. You care. That does make it better.
I worked with three consecutive student presidents of Keshet. When I started working with the third student, we would darkly joke that she was president and sole member of the club. We met for an hour every week. We felt confident—as the previous president and I had felt—that there were students who would greatly benefit from the presence of a group for LGBTQ Jews and their allies. So we kept going. Another student stepped up as vice-president. We kept going. The group came together over time, and I’m sure that every moment we kept going was what brought us to the next.