Alef: The NEXT Conversation
An Unorthodox Coming Out Story
By Jessica Annabelle
Coming out can bring out a wide range of emotions – liberating, difficult, scary, fun, slow, sudden, not actually surprising to everyone but you, political, and super confusing.
For example, the first time I had a crush on a girl was super confusing. Rachel was, like myself, a nice Jewish girl and she happened to sit next to me in Modern Lit class. The important thing to know about Rachel though, was not only that she sat next to me, but that she often wore low cut and loose fitting shirts and sometimes they fell forward and I could see her boobs.
It was the best thing ever.
Simultaneously, it was weird and inexplicable and obviously didn’t mean anything. I had already been through a handful of boyfriends, so I was completely certain having a crush on Rachel did not mean I was a lesbian. On the contrary, I decided having a crush on Rachel meant I was totally normal, because she was hot and all of my guy friends had crushes on her. This weird thing, I decided, had everything to do with her shirts being irresistibly sexy and nothing at all to do with me.
I had successfully convinced myself I was into shirts, not girls. Several years later when I went on my first date with a girl, I explained to the few friends I told that I just “really liked her piercings.” And about a year after that, when I first slept with a girl, I realized that these sorts of explanations were probably no longer going to work.
Because I wasn’t sure how to tell my family and friends from home that I wasn’t straight anymore, after 18 years of evidence to the contrary, the first people I talked to about these new experiences and the questions they raised were my college friends at Hillel. When I tell other people in the LGBTQ community that the first place I came out was in my religious community, their reactions tend to range from surprise to disbelief. For many of my queer friends, religion is dangerous terrain, full of enemy soldiers laying in wait to attack with cures for homosexuality and promises of an eternity spent unloved. This hostile environment is not exclusive to Evangelical Christianity, but can materialize in the most liberal of churches, in small talk with a fellow member of the tribe, or in the mosque. I was blessed with an entirely different experience.
For me, Hillel was a safe place (looking back, even the safest place) to come out because my friends there were also family. We enjoyed each others company and conversation, but in addition to that, we were Jewish. There was a bond between us that could not be broken, and I held on tightly to that as I reinvented myself.
As I sorted through the new questions that arose with each of my new experiences with girls – like, was I interested in women romantically as well as physically? Is this whole thing really worth potentially upsetting my poor mother? And, am I allowed to call myself “queer” when most of my relationships until now have been with men? – I started to rely more and more on the ritual of Shabbat. Once a week, Shabbat allowed me to take a deep breath and set aside the uncertainties. For one day, I focused my energy on celebrating the answers I had found and appreciating the community that sustained me.
It’s been about a year since I first admitted to my best friend and fellow Hillel board member that I might be kind of into girls as well as guys. I’m definitely queer and Jewish and while my mother is not yet able to say LGBTQ three times fast, she has a pretty solid understanding of a few other new terms, including bisexual, Prop 8, partner, and dental dam.
One last thing – Rachel came out about six months ago.
Photo by Made Underground, licensed under Creative Commons.
Changing Tradition
By Alexander Marcus
Rabbi Meir used to say: Do not look at the flask but at what is in it; there may be a new flask that is full of old wine and an old flask that does not even have new wine in it.
- Pirkei Avot 4.27
I carefully made my way down the slippery stone steps, heading toward the wooden house that had been temporarily converted into a classroom in the hillside Gurung village of Tangting, Nepal. It was early November 2007. The sky was engulfed by the snow-capped mountains of the Himalayas. I was about to participate in the academic culmination of four months of intense study and total linguistic and cultural immersion. I had already completed the written portion of my Nepali language exams, conducted research with Hindu holy men, Tibetan refugees, and farmers here in Tangting. Now was my final test. I was to sit one-on-one with Shova, the head Nepali language instructor, and have a 30 minute free-form conversation entirely in Nepali. Any vocabulary and any topic was fair game.
Shova is an intelligent, extremely well-educated Nepali woman. She was raised in the heart of the tourist section of Kathmandu and later served in countries all over the world in the Peace Corps. She is one of those people who seems to radiate wisdom: if you are lucky enough to ever hear her advice, you instinctively sense you should absorb her every word. She is strict but fair. I walked into the room where she was waiting, knowing that the next half hour would be difficult. After we dispensed with the customary Nepali pleasantries – “Have you eaten rice yet today?” “Yes, and you?” – I was caught completely off-guard by her opening question.
“What is your opinion about homosexuals?” she asked me nonchalantly, using the English word “homosexual.”
Taken aback I replied, “What do you mean? What is my opinion of homosexuals?” Stalling for time, I repeated her question in the first person, the smallest bit of panic in my tone.
“You know,” she said, “Gay people. What do you think about them? Do you think that that’s alright?”
“Of course I think it’s alright,” I finally croaked. “It’s not a choice and everybody deserves to be happy. Don’t you think so?” I have always seen myself as an ally for the LGBTQ community, and I consider it my duty, as both a Jew and a human being, to treat everyone with dignity. And some of my best friends are gay. I wondered what they would think if they could hear our conversation.
Shova was quiet for a moment. I think it dawned on her that this might not have been the greatest subject to discuss while testing my language ability. She must have seen the shock on my face, and realized that she should explain herself.
“Yes, alright,” she said, “Maybe in America it’s alright to be gay, but not here in Nepal. In America, a woman does not need a man to survive, but in Nepal a woman needs a man. If a man is gay, and decides to be with another man, then there is a woman with nobody to take care of her.”
I do not remember precisely what happened after that exchange. We quickly changed the subject, and most likely delved into a more detailed discussion of the contents of my breakfast. But I could not get that conversation out of my mind. How could someone for whom I have so much respect think such a thing?
It took me a very long time to allow myself to consider that in certain ways Shova was right.
During my first experience in Nepal, and two years later when I returned, I witnessed the troubles that Nepali women endure. In Nepal it is very difficult for a woman to own property, and an unmarried woman often has very few rights. Too many married women suffer silently at the hands of drunken, abusive husbands. In this context, it is of the utmost importance to stress the duty of a husband toward his wife, and of men toward women. Marriage is not a choice, and it is rarely a matter of love. For women it is an essential ingredient for happiness; for men it might be nothing more than the fulfillment of an obligation.
I am now living in Colorado, working with a non-profit that advocates for the inclusion of LGBTQ people in the Jewish community. It should come as no surprise to those who are familiar with the evolution of Jewish thought on these issues that the rights of LGBTQ people have often been intertwined with the rights of women. It should also be no surprise to anybody in the United States that we have only really tackled LGBTQ issues after proving the viability of “alternative” family units and created space for women to enter worlds that were once the exclusive realm of men. We have certain luxuries of thought that Nepal does not yet have.
But as American Jews we have unique difficulties of our own. We must walk the line between being true to our traditions and allowing those traditions to speak to our present age. I would guess that many traditional Jews see variations of their own concerns in Shova’s words. The breakup of traditional families can have very negative consequences for everyone involved. To expand the idea of marriage and family to include LGBTQ people can be a scary idea. But we can also learn from Shova’s position. She is concerned, just like we are, for the well-being of the most vulnerable members of her community.
While Shova recognized the limits of her time and place, she did not consider homosexuals sinners or evil people, nor did she dismiss how difficult her prescription must be for many. Likewise, we must extend our own obligations to our brethren to the fullest degree possible in our time and place. LGBT individuals have been proving for decades that they are capable of maintaining viable, healthy families, and raising children in nurturing households. As Jews in the United States, with the framework and resources that we have, I believe it is our obligation to prove to them that we are capable in turn of welcoming them into our communities as completely as possible.
Epilogue: On November 18th, 2008 the Supreme Court of Nepal directed the government to enact laws enabling equal rights to LGBT citizens. Sunil Babu Pant is the first openly gay member of the constituent assembly, Nepal’s interim governing body. The new constitution, which is currently being drafted, will contain a clause establishing same-sex marriage and protection for “sexual minorities.”
Photo by -Marlith-, licensed under Creative Commons.
An Unorthodox Coming Out Story
By Jessica Annabelle
Coming out can bring out a wide range of emotions – liberating, difficult, scary, fun, slow, sudden, not actually surprising to everyone but you, political, and super confusing.
For example, the first time I had a crush on a girl was super confusing. Rachel was, like myself, a nice Jewish girl and she happened to sit next to me in Modern Lit class. The important thing to know about Rachel though, was not only that she sat next to me, but that she often wore low cut and loose fitting shirts and sometimes they fell forward and I could see her boobs.
It was the best thing ever.
Simultaneously, it was weird and inexplicable and obviously didn’t mean anything. I had already been through a handful of boyfriends, so I was completely certain having a crush on Rachel did not mean I was a lesbian. On the contrary, I decided having a crush on Rachel meant I was totally normal, because she was hot and all of my guy friends had crushes on her. This weird thing, I decided, had everything to do with her shirts being irresistibly sexy and nothing at all to do with me.
I had successfully convinced myself I was into shirts, not girls. Several years later when I went on my first date with a girl, I explained to the few friends I told that I just “really liked her piercings.” And about a year after that, when I first slept with a girl, I realized that these sorts of explanations were probably no longer going to work.
Because I wasn’t sure how to tell my family and friends from home that I wasn’t straight anymore, after 18 years of evidence to the contrary, the first people I talked to about these new experiences and the questions they raised were my college friends at Hillel. When I tell other people in the LGBTQ community that the first place I came out was in my religious community, their reactions tend to range from surprise to disbelief. For many of my queer friends, religion is dangerous terrain, full of enemy soldiers laying in wait to attack with cures for homosexuality and promises of an eternity spent unloved. This hostile environment is not exclusive to Evangelical Christianity, but can materialize in the most liberal of churches, in small talk with a fellow member of the tribe, or in the mosque. I was blessed with an entirely different experience.
For me, Hillel was a safe place (looking back, even the safest place) to come out because my friends there were also family. We enjoyed each others company and conversation, but in addition to that, we were Jewish. There was a bond between us that could not be broken, and I held on tightly to that as I reinvented myself.
As I sorted through the new questions that arose with each of my new experiences with girls – like, was I interested in women romantically as well as physically? Is this whole thing really worth potentially upsetting my poor mother? And, am I allowed to call myself “queer” when most of my relationships until now have been with men? – I started to rely more and more on the ritual of Shabbat. Once a week, Shabbat allowed me to take a deep breath and set aside the uncertainties. For one day, I focused my energy on celebrating the answers I had found and appreciating the community that sustained me.
It’s been about a year since I first admitted to my best friend and fellow Hillel board member that I might be kind of into girls as well as guys. I’m definitely queer and Jewish and while my mother is not yet able to say LGBTQ three times fast, she has a pretty solid understanding of a few other new terms, including bisexual, Prop 8, partner, and dental dam.
One last thing – Rachel came out about six months ago.
Photo by Made Underground, licensed under Creative Commons.
Read more articles from Issue 08: “The Sex Issue.”
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