Posted by: bibliogato on 8 September 2015

tl;dr: I regret ever bringing my Judaism online, because I’ve lost my safest space and I don’t know if I’ll ever get it back. This is long, but *shrug* I found it helpful to spell out.

The Internet was the first place where I came out.

The first place where I shared my fiction.

The first place where I felt a part of something bigger than myself.

The first place where I felt activism could be meaningful.

The first place where I wanted to connect with other people.

The first place where I felt safe talking about mental illness.

The first place where I felt safe talking about survivorship.

The first place where I felt safe talking about Judaism.

I’ve started and stopped this post many times over the last six weeks. I wanted to write a “where do we go from here?” post after the Kate Breslin and Nazi Romance issue in August.

But that dragged on, and then there was the concentration camp diet suggested, and then there was Gawker, and then there was a diversity advocate in the YA community last night who flat-out said the only reason that his problematic comments on Judaism/Jewish people were getting attention was “Things that trigger Western ppl are attcked. Things offensive to non-W are not as much.” I’m not linking because he gave a public, heartfelt apology and genuinely listened. He does not deserve to be attacked.

Here’s the rub: it’s a constant build-up of microaggressions and microassaults. It is having to say, “Please do not tweet the Nazi flag into my timeline” when you’re pretty sure that should be a given. It is having to say, “Please stop emailing stories about your Good German Relatives.” It is having to say, “No, I do not want to watch your documentary on whether or not gas chambers were actually used.”

Every. Single. Week. after a lifetime of hearing, “But you don’t look Jewish!” and “At least you’d have survived the Holocaust!” and “yeah, I guess your nose is kind of Jewish.” “Are you cheap because you’re Jewish?” “Your parents only did that because you’re Jewish.” “Well, you’re only half Jewish so I guess it’s okay.” “Wow, your mom must really feel like she failed you if she’s Christian and you guys all grew up to be Jewish.” “You’re not Jewish because your mom isn’t Jewish.” “Oh Jews are okay with queer people?” “Wow, are you scared to fly into Germany?” “Do you like killing Palestinian children?” “Wow you must hate Arabs.” “I bet you laughed when we invaded Iraq.” “Why are you against the war? Don’t you Jews all hate Arabs?” “Why don’t you live in Israel?” “At least you know a lot of lawyers if you get in trouble.” “You’re such a JAP.” “You’re going to be a good Jewish mother because you’re so pushy.” “So you like effeminate guys then?” “You Jews control the media. Just call up your friends.” “Why did your people let the stock market crash?” “Why did you guys kill Jesus?” “Do you talk about killing Jesus at Passover?” “You’re trying to Jew me down.”

It’s traveling in Europe and telling your classmates that they can’t tell anyone you are Jewish. It’s one of them forgetting and shouting about your Judaism in a restaurant in Croatia. It’s the entire restaurant going quiet. It’s you wondering if you will be safe to walk to the bathroom right then. It’s you wondering if you’re safe to travel to a certain country in Europe. It’s you wondering if it’s safe to go to a Kosher market. It’s you walking past police to get into your place of worship. It’s the swastika on your locker. It’s it’s it’s

It’s the bus driver asking you where your horns are.

It’s a tour guide looking at you and saying “Well, we don’t really have a problem with Jews now,” when you’re standing in a genocide site.

It’s someone you consider a friend sending you a link because ‘there’s a debate about whether gas chambers were actually used.’ And his shock when you are horrified.

It is someone capitalizing off the deaths of your relatives, and reveling in it as they publish and refuse to change the racial slur in the first line of their book.

It’s running a diversity campaign and refusing to talk about, support, RT, or address Jewish issues.

It’s running a diversity campaign and failing to protect a dedicated chat space. So much that the contributors go into another, locked and private space, to have the chat and then to post the results when completed.

It’s running a diversity campaign, and then using racially charged language against people in your community.

I try to live my life without regrets. I don’t like them. They sit wrong with me. As a result, yes, I am not a risktaker. I play it safe. And I regret that too. It’s a vicious cycle. I can tell you this:

I have no regret in 2015 bigger than my decision to bring my Judaism into the public sphere. That is, Twitter, Tumblr, and my online spaces.

In doing so, I have destroyed in six months what took me sixteen years to build: a safe place where I can be my most genuine self. Because the constant barrage of anti-Semitism aimed at me, inside my communities, or brought to my attention (intentionally or unintentionally, and I say this without judgment to those involved) is unbearable. It has made me dread every notification, every mention, every email, every vibration and light of my phone.

I am lucky. In general, I can ‘hide’ my Jewishness in public. With blonde hair and blue eyes, I am not your average American’s racial (racist?) stereotype of what a Jew looks like. If I mention it, there’s inevitably, without fail, a microaggression that follows. I know I am lucky to pass. I know I am lucky that the online spaces are where I feel most at risk for my Jewishness.

I do not pass as a non-disabled person, a non-mentally ill person, or a heterosexual person. In the real world, I do not pass for these things, and for these, I fear for my safety, my job, and my privacy. The online world accepts these, but not my Judaism. Or at least, not me being loud about my Judaism. It’s fine if you aren’t loud. It’s fine if you’re not mentally ill, as long as you’re normal at a party. It’s fine if you are queer, as long as you don’t hold hands with your girlfriend in public. It’s fine if

If you do not hold up a mirror to our own faults.

If you don’t make me look at me.

I’ve had more kind comments than cruel ones, it’s true. More people saying I’ve opened their eyes to issues of anti-Semitism in the United States than people who have emailed me Holocaust denial, Holocaust jokes, tweeted swastikas at me, etc. But the cruel ones, the offensive ones, the hate…it sticks to your mind. It bends your back. It sinks into your bones. It exhausts you. It drains you. It destroys.

I don’t know how to make my online spaces safe again. I don’t know how to rebuild what I once had. I don’t know how to ignore things, now that I’ve spoken out about them. What I once emailed a friend about so we could rant in private, I’ve now spoken publicly about. And it now feels like a responsibility, for those who can’t. Both those living, and those killed in the genocide that is being used daily to manipulate, coerce, twist, and generate money.

I’ve thought a lot about how to be better at allying. Ally as a verb, not as a noun. I think and I hope I’ve gotten better at listening and following other discussions and signal boosting. I’ve put my money where my mouth is. I am trying to do better, for my own part. Possibly out of guilt, and maybe that’s not the best reason, but also because I want to do better. I was lucky: for years online, I just hid my Jewishness. And it was possible to hide my Jewishness with my last name and my appearance. But many others can’t do that. And their last ten years online are my last six months. How some of you have survived, I don’t know.

Every time I think my community and world will settle down again, it doesn’t. It might not. Twitter is no longer a place where I find my people and dread strangers. It’s where I dread my own. Holocaust denial from strangers? Sure. Whatever. Delete, block, move on. I’m never going to engage with a Holocaust denier. That’s a fruitless exercise and I have better things to do with my time.

But when anti-Semitism—intentional or unintentional, it honestly doesn’t matter to me right now, even if that’s wrong—comes from friends or from diversity advocates within the literary community, that’s where my heart’s hurt. That’s where I find that I no longer want to be a part of this. I no longer find this something enjoyable. I no longer enjoy getting to know new people in the community.

Because I no longer trust that they’re not one of these writers who wants to spend their afternoon telling me about their Good German family. Or how they’d love to support me but because of Israel killing Palestinian children (“here’s a photo, for example”), they won’t. Or how it’s sad that someone can’t put a swastika on their house. Almost as sad as 11 million people murdered by Nazis.

I wish my “this is what happened in the Summer of Anti-Semitic Bullshit” walkaway post was “And here are the good things that came of it.” Good things? I made a few new friends. And I’m grateful for those friendships. I am! I feel like a negative Nellie.

But right now, my takeaway is: I wish I hadn’t written that blog post about Kate Breslin’s terrible book. I wish I hadn’t seen it, or heard of it, or read about it. I wish it had stayed an obscure hit amongst evangelical readers. I wish I hadn’t supported someone who a week later tweeted a Nazi flag and then said exactly what was said during the Nazi Romance drama: that Jewish issues only get attention because we’re a “Western” religion.

I’ve learned over the last six months in the literary community is:

1. It is more important to the community if you are kind, than if you are heard and respected.

2. Your experiences are ignored or invalid if they are not endorsed by an organization

3. People do not perceive or believe anti-semitism to be damaging, hurtful, or violent because it happens to a majority white or passing white people.

4. Invisible marginalized identities are considered less valid, less truthful, and less important than visible ones.

5. I sacrificed a safe space in order to defend myself against racial stereotypes and erasure. And there was no other way to do it.

Jewish issues don’t often get addressed in literature. There are few YA books about Judaism or Jewish characters that aren’t related to the Holocaust. Your Holocaust bestsellers are written by non-Jewish people and/or centered around non-Jewish characters. Number the Stars. The Boy in the Striped Pajamas. The Book Thief.

Don’t google. Name me a YA fiction bestseller about a Jewish character written by a Jewish author. Name me a YA fiction bestseller about a Jewish character written by anyone. Tell me you haven’t made a joke about a Jewish lawyer, Jewish doctor, Jewish nose.

Maybe I should have been nicer. Maybe I should have been kinder. Maybe I shouldn’t get angry when people use racial slurs against me and my people. Maybe I shouldn’t—

I have regrets.