By Sophia Goldberg
Guest Columnist
Sophia Goldberg (photo provided)
I have experienced a phenomenon over the last three years where, quite suddenly, I’ve had to come out as Jewish. I’d experienced the ongoing process of coming out as queer for half my life, but “Jewish” was never something I had to come out as – it was just something I told people.
Now, however, the only way I can think of my Jewishness is in terms of coming out, because every time I tell someone, it’s clear there are broader stakes involved. I worry whether people will respect me the same way, or whether they will trust me the same way. That’s been an isolating experience, especially because the people I worry most about receiving judgement from are the people who I previously felt most comfortable with.
I attend a relatively conservative university (Miami of Ohio), and being in queer spaces used to give me an opportunity to be myself without needing to worry about how people perceived me. These spaces are staunchly anti-Zionist. Anti-Zionism on my campus embraces a large umbrella of thought, ranging from genuine critiques of violence and oppression to uninformed and violent rhetoric.
Personally, I do not identify as a Zionist. That doesn’t really matter, though. People in these spaces appreciate that Zionism and Judaism are historically linked, and knowing that I’m Jewish sets off a social chain reaction that, after three years, has become exhausting.
When I tell people I’m Jewish, especially those who have known me for some time, there’s an initial tentative understanding. It goes something like this:
I know that you realize it would be impolite to ask me if I am a Zionist simply because I told you I’m a Jew, and you know that it’s possible my answer won’t be what you want. The truth is that I’m suspicious, too. I know you associate with people who have said things I don’t believe, who I’m willing to share space with but might not feel comfortable around. Are you like me, willing to build a coalition with those you don’t always agree with? Or are you someone who feels the same as they do, just in a quieter way? I like you, and you like me, and so we deliberately avoid wanting to know each other’s answers. In other words, we choose to live in a state of plausible deniability.
While we live amid that plausible deniability, we also live in a condition of tension, distrust, and guilt. Nobody likes to be suspicious of their friends, and for a long time I worried that my assumptions amounted to paranoia. What did it say about me that I assumed people would be judgmental? I felt a strange sort of relief at having my beliefs validated. A good friend, fellow member of the LGBT community and self-identified leftist organizer sat down with me last semester to talk politics. She admitted to me that my being Jewish had been “the elephant in the room.”
Plausible deniability is uncomfortable, but safe. I’m not going to stop spending time around other queer people on campus, and I’m not going to stop being Jewish. It’s tiring though, in a way it never was before. Those spaces used to be where I could let my guard down, and to an extent they still are, but not fully. Theoretically, a solution to this problem might be to spend more time in Jewish spaces, to give myself a break from having to worry about being questioned. One of the most frustrating things about this whole experience is that I’ve dealt with the same unspoken questions from within the Jewish community. The only thing that changes is the answer people want to hear.
Unlike my experience with other queer people since October 7, this is not a recent phenomenon. My Jewish friends and I have lived in plausible deniability and tension for years. We have not spoken about Israel, because we were afraid our opinions wouldn’t align, and we didn’t want to face that disconnect. Now, in a time of rising antisemitism, it feels like I don’t have anywhere I can be my full self. Whether in queer spaces or Jewish spaces, I feel isolated in a room full of peers.
We’ve reached a crossroads, because I don’t think I’m the only one who feels this way. Anecdotally, I know I’m not. I’ve heard it from a handful of Jewish people my age, and some older than me, who feel on edge at Hillel or in synagogue. On a broader scale, according to a Jewish Federations of North America survey, only 35% of Jews ages 18-35 identify with the term “Zionist.”
There are a lot of young people who clash with Jewish leaders who have long insisted that being Jewish means being vocally Zionist. I want to be a proudly Jewish young adult, and I want to feel connected to a Jewish community, but dealing with the unspoken tension in these spaces has pushed me away.
While my experience on campus pushed me to confront this problem, I don’t believe I would have been confident enough to consider speaking up if not for the Year of Civil Discourse initiative. The program, which launched late last year, will provide structured, constructive dialogue programs with trained facilitators. The goal is to build a Jewish community based on mutual respect. I wish the program had existed when I was a teenager with questions I felt I couldn’t ask, or was afraid to get answers to.
I’m eager to see the programs and conversations that take place in the coming year. For the first time ever, I’m optimistic that we have an opportunity to cultivate a shared space where people will be encouraged to both listen and make themselves heard. I’m tired of living in plausible deniability and tension. I want to help create a space where I know where I stand, where I can respectfully disagree and still feel welcome, and where I can make others feel welcome in turn. Dialogue can’t happen without engagement, and though the initiative isn’t accepting new facilitators at this time while it enters its public phase, as a Jewish young adult searching for a community I hope you’ll keep a close eye on its progress.
A Louisville native, Sophia Goldberg is a senior studying media and communications at Miami (Ohio) University.