The Punchline Paradox: Embracing My Jewish-Queer Identity

A recent Jewish Heritage Fund survey found that 7% of respondents identified as LGBTQ+. Queer Kentucky has partnered with the Jewish Heritage Fund to uplift queer Jewish people. With anti-Semitism spreading in the United States and abroad, it is important to uplift our Jewish community members. Queer is an identity that crosses racial, geographic, ethnic, class, and cultural boundaries, so the communities we work with are as diverse as the communities in that queer Kentuckians live.

A famous insult comic once identified me as the only Jewish person in her audience. She asked me why I was proud to be Jewish and I gave a flippant answer so she could keep going with her set. Upon hearing my voice, she replied, “You’re Jewish… and GAY? You should be on disability.” It was part of her act and it the most insulting thing she said all night by a long shot, so I took it in stride. However, I might have internalized some of it.

I used to tell people that I was half-Israeli with my full chest. I felt like it brought me some exotic clout because I lived in the middle of Iowa. Maybe it was because the other half is British, which means that Natalie Portman and I share the same heritage. Maybe it was because I didn’t know anyone else who was Israeli or had any connection to Judaism until I was in my 20s. Save for my family, the tradition of hiding that fact for a couple of generations wasn’t about to fall off with them. The one time I tired to have a lit menorah in my room, my mother yelled at me because she thought that I was going to burn the house down.

Moving to Chicago in my late twenties brought me more exposure to Jewish culture, but I became afraid to reach our or embrace the resources around me. In hiding our heritage, my family neglected to teach me anything about it, so I didn’t feel like I could fit in with anyone else. In the decade that I lived there, I don’t think I set foot inside a synagogue even once. However, I shared that part of me (through making the best Matzoh ball soup) with my gentile friends as I felt that I had less pressure on me be correct in every aspect of what it was like to be Jewish.

When I moved to Louisville, I found a happy medium where I could meet with other Jewish people without feeling the pressure. I would openly tell people that I am Jewish, half-Israeli, and queer and for the first time, I felt embraced. My intersectionality was being embraced for the first time without being pressured to be more of one thing or the other.

But then, the strikes on Gaza happened. The news was filled with images of destruction, of families torn apart, and the cries for justice from both sides of the conflict. My heart ached, not just for the innocent lives lost, but for the identity crisis it triggered within me.

I wanted to speak out against Israel’s actions. I felt an overwhelming need to condemn the violence and the suffering it caused. But every time I thought about voicing my opinions, I hesitated. My heritage and the fear of straining my relationship with my family held me back. I knew how deeply my family identified with Israel, and I dreaded their reactions to my dissent.

In everyday conversations, I found myself dodging the topic and shifting the conversation to other work that I do as an activity for the LGBTQ community and how people can use their voices at energy to help their neighbors here in Kentucky It was easier than facing the inner turmoil and the potential fallout with my family. But the silence weighed heavily on me. It felt like a betrayal of my values and the empathy I felt for those suffering in Gaza.

I started finding ways to express my thoughts and feelings in safe spaces. I joined online discussions and started organizing a monthly meeting called Schmooze, where people like me can have open discussions at the Louisville Pride Center without pressure about being Jewish as part of their intersectional identities. The more I discuss who I am, the more I find others who understand the complexity of identity in the face of global conflicts.

Now, when I think about my heritage, I do it with a more nuanced perspective. I talk about the beauty of Jewish culture, the richness of Israeli history, and the deep sorrow I feel for the current situation. I refuse to hide any part of myself anymore. I am all of these things, and that’s okay.

Ultimately, the insult comic was right about my identity being unique and multifaceted. But instead of seeing it as a disability, I’ve learned to see it as a strength. My experiences, heritage, and struggles have shaped me into someone who can empathize deeply, advocate fiercely, and, most importantly, embrace every part of me.