“I don’t understand why you have to tell everybody about your
private life,” my dad said.
My dad and I weren’t arguing about my words. We were arguing about how I dressed. To be specific, we were arguing about a necklace I used to wear incessantly: rainbow-colored rings dangling from a silver chain. A symbol for the gay rights movement.
Each year, approaching Purim, I think about the conversations I’ve had with my dad since “coming out”—conversations about how and when I reveal this fact about myself. I think about why I wore the rainbow ring necklace: a symbol that I belonged in a certain community, a symbol of the struggle for visibility and acceptance. I think about why I wear a wedding ring: a symbol that reminds me of the love and commitment I renew each day. I think about why I wear a kippa: a symbol of my role and responsibility as a student rabbi. And I think about Queen Esther—no outward, visible symbol of her Judaism paraded before King Ahasueros. I think about Queen Esther, boldly approaching the king, demanding an audience rather than waiting to be invited. I think about Queen Esther, laying her life on the line to say: “Let my life be granted me as my wish, and my people as my request. For we have been sold, my people and I, to be destroyed, massacred, and exterminated” (Esther 7:3-4).
Influenced by my personal experience and by the work of one of my mentors, Professor Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick (may her memory be a blessing), I have often looked at
Megillat Esther as one long coming-out story: the tale of a woman who hid a part of her identity and, at great personal risk, revealed the truth to improve conditions for her entire community (For more on this idea, see Sedgwick’s
Epistemology of the Closet). The story of Esther certainly hinges on a dramatic moment of self-identification that Esther
chooses.
But I’ve also been thinking about the Book of Esther in terms of the symbols of our identities, the brands we display and the loyalties and values we communicate through our choice of wardrobe. It might be a rainbow necklace or a wedding ring or a Steelers jersey. It might be a discreet star of David pendant or a tall black hat. What do these markers of self-identification serve? What do the symbols we wear communicate?
When I eat my breakfast on Sunday mornings in the Hampton Inn dining room, I am usually wearing my kippa. People always stare at me, whisper to one another—last month two women laughed at me openly. I definitely heard the word “Jew.” Rarely does anyone smile at me, say hello, and ask me about my “strange” head covering. And, I admit, I’ve never initiated such a conversation myself. I usually sit there, stunned and a bit annoyed, eating my oatmeal. I sit there, displaying a symbol that does not communicate what I intend it to communicate.
Symbols inspire solidarity. Wearing a symbol can be a welcoming wink to those “in the know”—like the rainbow rings I wore, which often brought supportive comments from older gay and lesbian people on the street, and which certainly signaled to other gay students on my college campus that I was a safe person to approach to discuss coming out issues. But wearing a symbol can also be a brick wall blocking out those who are not “on the inside.” Symbols insulate and isolate. And symbols can backfire, as we know all too well when the Star of David was cruelly transformed into the yellow star of the ghetto and the camps.
Although they can be misused, symbols still hold power. Some people wear their Judaism all day, every day. Why does it seem that more and more people, not just in faraway places but in Pittsburgh and the surrounding area, display their Judaism by wearing a certain style of clothing? A member of this community recently spoke with me about this phenomenon, asking, “Does it matter a great deal” to the God of Israel whether Jews walk in public with our heads uncovered?
For some Jews, the kippa is a sign of piety and humility. One wears a kippa to remind oneself that God reigns above us, that we are small in a vast universe. In the Talmud, we read about Rabbi Huna, who would not walk even a short distance with his head uncovered because, as he explained, “The Shechina—the Presence of God—is above my head” (
Bavli Kiddushin 31a).
Over time, the custom of covering one’s head as a sign of piety or humility before God became Jewish law. No longer a symbol of personal faith or a physical reminder to the self, the kippa became the object of a law, formulated in cold, impersonal terms: “It is forbidden to walk four cubits with an uncovered head” (
Shulhan Arukh Orach Hayyim 2:6).
And not only that, but the kippa has become, for some communities, a way to identify insiders and outsiders. In Israel, one learns to label men by their kippa: Is he a Breslav Hasid? A Hareidi Jew? An ultra-conservative religious Zionist? An environmentalist? The color, shape, style, and even placement of a kippa often sends a message that has nothing to do with God or humility or faith. It is a message of belonging and not-belonging, inside and outside. A kippa can cut off communication. A kippa can become a symbol of insulation or fear as much as it can be a symbol of pride or humility.
Why wear our Judaism on our sleeve?
In Jerusalem, I once saw an ultra-Orthodox boy and his little brother, tousling over a book while they waited for their mother on a park bench. Another woman saw the older brother slap the younger brother’s hand and she shouted out, איך מתנהג ילד עם כיפה? –“Is this how a boy who wears a kippa behaves!?”
A kippa might be a personal reminder of our smallness before God’s vast power and love. A kippa might be a sign of humility and faith. A kippa might indicate our status in a certain community or political group. A kippa might indicate our unwillingness to connect with those who are different from us. Or a kippa might signify that we are modeling Jewish behavior.
Like the kippa of that little boy in Jerusalem, our symbols indicate that we represent our communities. Our behavior reflects on the entire community—whether we like it or not.
For many in the gay community, this sense that we are representing more than just ourselves is keenly felt. I am sure that many of you feel such a sense of responsibility toward other Jews, living in a majority-Christian region. I have heard many of you tell stories about being the only Jew—or one of a handful of Jews—in your graduating class. I have heard stories of suspicious neighbors who wondered whether your hair was hiding those infamous Jewish “horns.” I have heard about the judgments ignorant non-Jews have made against you. How do we respond to those stereotypes and fears? Do we seek solace in symbols? Do we fear labels will hem us in? Do we use outward markers of our identity to raise awareness?
Esther didn’t wear her Judaism on her sleeve. On the contrary, she hid her true identity. Like many of us, she had a second name—rather than the Persian “Esther,” her everyday name, she also had a Hebrew name, “Hadassah.” Modern Orthodox Rabbi Joseph Telushkin calls Queen Esther “highly assimilated” (
Jewish Literacy: The Most Important Things to Know about the Jewish Religion, Its People, and Its History, 103). Part of the surprise of the Book of Esther, Rabbi Telushkin suggests, is that this “unlikely” character would “risk her life on behalf of her people” (Ibid.). And yet this is precisely what Esther does: we read in the Megillah, ““I shall go to the king, though it is contrary to the law; and if I am to perish, I shall perish!” (Esther 4:16).
Esther lives out her Jewish values, risking her life to put a stop to Haman’s murderous plot to destroy the Jewish people. Esther doesn’t don a symbol. She stands up. She speaks out. She takes action.
Esther risks being judged based on stereotypes about the Jewish people. Many of us know what it feels like to be seen only as the member of a misunderstood or maligned group. Gays and lesbians in the 1970s and 80s faced stereotypes that painted us as degenerates. Gays and lesbians were judged to be sick and depraved. We could not be productive citizens. And so many groups sought to counter these stereotypes. One group of women sought to let their actions demonstrate their values, changing social perceptions about the gay community. These women, like any good citizens, would help strangers in need—assisting someone climbing up onto the bus, carrying heavy groceries out to the parking lot, signaling for traffic to stop to allow the person in the wheelchair to make it safely across the street. After offering their help as they would naturally do, these women took one more step—a risky step. They identified themselves as lesbians by handing out a small calling card before walking away. The card read: “You’ve just been helped by a lesbian.”
The “Lesbian Helpers,” as they called themselves, tried to challenge negative stereotypes by doing good deeds. Their actions were neither publicity stunts nor insincere “tricks.” Their actions were genuine. But they did take that extra step to self-identify as lesbians. Why? Doing so motivated the people they had helped to rethink their perceptions about the gay community. Someone who thought all gays and lesbians were anti-social, destructive, sick people now had to integrate into their definition of “gay” this story of a complete stranger who had helped them kindly. I am sure you have encountered the kind of non-Jew who says, “Well, you’re not like other Jews, you know how they are.” You represent the “exception,” the Jew who is different than other Jews. But hopefully, eventually, the “exception” becomes the rule, and people learn that hurtful stereotypes inaccurately describe a multifaceted Jewish community.
Esther didn’t need a kippa or a rainbow necklace. She needed her own powerful voice, the support of her family and community, her convictions, and her courage. And yet, even if Esther did not rely on symbols, she did identify her Jewishness. In a way, Esther handed out her own calling card. The favored queen, Esther could have asked King Ahasueros to spare the Jews without identifying herself as “one of them.” And yet she spoke to the king as part of a community, as part of a we. “Let my life be granted me as my wish, and my people as my request,” Queen Esther said. “For we have been sold, my people and I” (Esther 7:3-4). Esther cast her lot in with the entire people. Esther risked punishment for brazenly approaching the King this way. Esther risked death if Haman’s decree were carried out in the end. And Esther also risked ridicule and rejection at the hands of a man she called husband. What would he think when he learned that his beloved and beautiful Esther was … one of
them? Queen Esther of Shushan—a Jew! Queen Esther of Shushan, kin to that “certain people, scattered and dispersed among the other peoples in all the provinces of your realm, whose laws are different from those of any other people and who do not obey the king’s laws” (Esther 3:8)!
And yet, here stands Queen Esther, tall and proud and beautiful, saying four short but immeasurably brave words: “my people and I.” Esther’s revelation could have brought death and destruction. Instead, the King changed his mind about the Jews, letting their actions (and not Haman’s lies or stereotypes) speak to their values.
When I think about Queen Esther, I think about my old rainbow necklace. I think about how I hid behind that symbol, used it—more often than not—to push people away.
We can let symbols cover and hide us like masks, like walls to keep insiders in and outsiders out. Or we can use symbols to remind us that we belong to something larger than ourselves, a Jewish community that lives Jewish values.
Now, when I think about my rainbow necklace, I think about other models for living our values
and revealing our identities: Queen Esther pleading for the Jews not in the dispassionate voice of a humanitarian queen but with the very personal cry, “my people and I.”
[This post reflects my own views and does not necessarily represent the views of the congregation I am privileged to serve.]