From queer text study and institutional inclusion to profiles of queer clergy and youth voices, the Keshet blog features new ideas and reflections by and for LGBTQ Jews and their allies. The blog is produced by Keshet, a national grassroots organization with offices in Boston and the Bay Area that works for the full inclusion and equality of LGBTQ Jews in all areas of Jewish life.
Recently a friend of mine made a very astute point: “We’re from the Midwest. We don’t do conflict.”
His offhanded comment hit home with me, and I’ve found myself using my Midwestern roots as a justification for disengaging. A car cuts me off and starts yelling worrisome obscenities? I’m from the Midwest—I’ll just wave. Facebook sends a slew of disturbing and frightening images my way? I’ll be keeping my thoughts to myself.
Yesterday my bubble of self-protection was challenged when anti-Semitic graffiti was scrawled outside of a home in my own community. I’m lucky to live in one of the most accepting and friendly places in New England. I’m happy to call the town of Salem, Massachusetts home—and although we might be known for witches and Halloween-related tourist traps, it’s a town where one always feels safe.
And, that feeling of security is well earned. This summer Salem was awarded a perfect score on HRC’s Municipal Equality Index. Earlier this year Salem signed an anti-discrimination ordinance specifically aimed at protecting the rights of trans* individuals. Salem’s Mayor, Kim Driscoll, even went as far as to donate $5 to nAGLY (the North Shore Alliance of Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgender Youth) for each phone call her office received objecting to a recent decision to end a contract with college displaying discriminatory practices.
It’s safe to say that it is very safe to be yourself in Salem.
Yesterday I was forced to question that safety. A friend shared a picture with me—anti-Semitic graffiti was found outside a home flying an Israeli flag. This was something I never thought I would see in my very safe, very friendly, very accepting neighborhood. Suddenly the fear of a rise in anti-Semitic actions and the conflict that seemed so far away was playing out in my back yard. Suddenly, I was very afraid.
I am lucky enough to have grown up in a time and place where anti-Semitism is a rarity, making this incident all the more difficult for me to process. This was a new fear for me, as well as a new sadness. Even though the graffiti was blocks away from my home, I felt unwelcome, singled out, and sad. For the first time in my safe community, I felt afraid. Now my familiar coping mechanism of avoiding conflict felt wholly inadequate; my well-being was challenged by one individual’s act of hatred. And I wasn’t sure what to do next.
In today’s highly pressurized world, our responses to actions of hatred become almost more important than the acts themselves. Realizing this, I’m forced to challenge myself and ask at what point do my Midwestern tendencies towards passivity need to be suppressed? How do I respond to the very real evils taking place around me? How do I speak up for myself, and for others, without escalating an unsafe situation? And how do we, as a society, learn to balance our reactions in a way where hatred and fear never win over kindness and morality?
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