Tashlich: purity is fake

Hello! I decided to make up a tashlich service. Enjoy.

[gather queer people at a body of water]

A thing I know about the history of queerness is that they try to erase us. They forbid depictions of us, positively or at all; but we know it was there, because otherwise why would they be specifically trying to erase it? Similarly, for tashlich, we can trace its origins back to a rabbi trying to ban it.

Fuck that guy. Let’s throw some (biodegradable and/or natural) metaphorical sin in the water, and watch it float off, and say some blessings.

(Cast crumbs or etc; shake out clothing)
In addition to throwing crumbs out into the water, I want you to shake the crumbs out of [article of clothing or accessory that means a lot to you]. Traditionally the talit katan, but maybe it’s a scarf/hat/hankie. Kabbalistic traditions do this to rid ourselves of not just individual sins so much, but kelipot. Literally just found out about these today! Nothing like learning as you go.

Kelipot-the-word means shells/husks/peels, the outside that protects and also hides the tasty parts of a lotta plant foods. There’s four concentric ones, they’re negative attributes and sorta the opposite of sefirot. Kelipot-the-concept means, more broadly, either evil or spiritual obstacles. There’s four concentric layers. The innermost one touches the holiness of G?d and interacts with it; it exists, like humanity, of good and bad, according to some having an ability to transform one into the other. "Repentance out of love retrospectively turns sin into virtue, darkness into light." —R. Wikipedia

Leader chants Micha 7:18-20, available here: https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/text-of-tashlich/
Group sings Min Hametzar together (also at link)

There’s a lot more I don’t want to do let’s talk about divine sparks of light instead. In creation, G-d’s light overflowed our vessels, too holy for us, entirely outside our conception. But! After creation, sparks of holiness remained within us and among the rest of the world. It is our job as humans to uncover this holiness. The shaken-off pieces from our garments, the sand in our shoes and crumbs in our pockets—these are our sins and misbehaviors, and as we sift through and shake off the pieces we discover previously-hidden sparks of holiness, covered by the kelipot (demons? Evils?) of our lives, both the everyday and the exceptional. The kelipot trap these sparks and hide them; but through The Work, we rediscover them. Through art and through justice, mitzvot and tikkun olam.

We are destined to find sparks in ourselves and also, for each of us, particular ones in the outside world. This is our assignment and our destiny, such that one exists: shake off the kelipot, peel the fruit, and discover the divinity meant, specifically, for us. "When all the sparks have been reclaimed for the holy, the Messiah [alternately: revolution] will come". (From: https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/holy-sparks/2/)

Optional: close out by singing Ana B'Koach

9 Av

Tisha b’Av is a day for being in your feelings. Traditionally it's about feelings of despair over our people’s history of being persecuted, our holiest places set on fire and debased, then after rebuilding ruined again; our people (including some of my ancestors) taken as Roman slaves. The point of Tisha b’Av is to feel the thing. To sit in the sorrow and mourn what has been, and what could have been. To think of ourselves as a people and the tragedies we’ve faced. Tisha b’Av is the day we reserve for screaming into the wind and ham handed metaphors trying to explain our pain, it’s when we let go of embarrassment and stop trying to distract ourselves and feel the depths of it with the promise that tomorrow we will stretch to the bottom and be a fuller self able to attend to the rest of life.

It is a people’s, not an individual’s or even a family’s, mourning. It is the feeling queer people had after Pulse, each American city’s after their own mass shooting. it is seeing war and loss and climate change. It is about letting ourselves grieve the violent change that resulted in a beautiful Jewish diaspora. Some diasporists go so far as to be grateful for the exile, for us being kicked out of Yerushalayim back when it was holy, for the destruction(s) of the Temple(s). Without the exile, we wouldn’t have the talmud; the reinvention of judaism post-Temple destruction in babylonian exile is responsible for large parts of judaism as it exists now.

I am not there, and I do not see myself ever getting there. I can recognize what we have now and the geographic spread of Judaism as a positive, with its decentralization and diversity, held together with continued mourning of tragic events from thousands of years ago. These changes were fueled by a huge cultural trauma and loss. I am mourning exile and refugeehood even as we celebrate Jewish diaspora and work to enrich it. I mourn the Temple’s loss, I mourn a type of traditional Judaism I wouldn’t have had access to even if I lived then.

A few weeks back, I attended an art event on talmud and diaspora, connecting new works of art with some traditional old-school text study on how and where wisdom is centered, whether a people’s heart lives in its past or its present or its future or all of the above; the attendees spoke about justice struggles in their own lives, on the peoplehood-level about other groups and about Judaism and about specific sub-groups within; about personal experiences protesting injustices; about hope and futility both.

The destruction of each of the two Temples and resulting exile(s) from jerusalem caused a sea change in how judaism was practiced not just as a religion but in how our culture was structured; it was, literally, a breakdown of authority. The ability to have a priest-class or even a Jerusalem-centered high-authority sanhedrin (high court) changed; bavel (babylonia) became a center of the jewish world. The talmud works through these issues in between conversations about all kinds of other things around Jewish life. I mourn the unreachability of the before time, even though I do not want to reach for it directly.

I am an anti-zionist as well as a diasporist. I do not want the state of israel to exist in its current form, or in any form that overrides other rightful inhabitants of the land. My antizionism also works with, not against, mourning the destruction of the Temples. On Tisha b’Av, as with all holidays, I reject zionist connections between the eretz yisrael we had in the early days of Jewish peoplehood and the state of israel now. I believe there is potential for Jerusalem to once again be a holy city. I believe, right now, that it is not—that the way the israeli government holds it and behaves is itself a sin, desecrating the potential for holiness and moving us farther from the age of the moshiach.

Sitting with my feelings is not something I’m good at, regardless of scale. I can shove them down or hum them or turn them into words or blurt them out to the person they’re about, but how do you feelingsblurt to G*d, praying: I am so sorry for our sins, we have misbehaved and the world is ending, please allow us to correct ourselves at the last moment and stay our total destruction as you have before in times of crisis?

It’s uncomfortable to sit with a feeling and not do anything about it, not force it into a shape or process or do anything but feel and mourn in a group of people feeling and mourning. But sitting with your feelings is the most important piece of noting, consecrating, existing through the 9th of Av. It’s a day where it is ok to be selfishly sad about your and your people’s experiences, even though others have been treated as badly or worse.

Things are bad. Things been bad. Give yourself permission to feel the negative feelings around the edges and sit with them a little. This is not giving up; it is part of experiencing the world. It is ok to be sad.

I am glad there are people preaching hope. I am sometimes one of them. But sometimes we have to sit on the floor and be sad for a day before we can go back to work. Monday we’ll get up and push back on it but maybe today can be for sitting with it, grieving, processing.

We are at a time in the US where everyone is having a depth of sorrow and panic and mourning. We are facing two shootings in one day in the lead-up to 9 av, and an additional one since the fast of tammuz. We are in a time of change, where we are constantly facing questions: are mass gatherings, festivals, events safe?

Simultaneously, we are facing an era of Never Again, of "what if I were an average German citizen during the shoah". Jewish groups organize #NeverAgainIsNow protests days apart around the country, at regional ICE headquarters and detention centers, in partnership with immigrant rights groups. Saying the United States are a nation of immigrants undermines indigenous sovereignty and rights to the land we currently occupy, but we as Jews are truly a nation of immigrants, our forefathers (ideological or biological or both) traveling between lands in search of our own, then exiled from there repeatedly and perpetually, whether our "there" is Cordoba or Jerusalem or New York City or somewhere else entirely.

So, here we sit and lament. Digest feelings. Sometimes of fear or terror, sometimes of thought, sometimes of itching for action.

The next month in the Jewish calendar is Elul. We go from peoplehood-level experiences of mourning straight to personal recollections of sin and teshuvah (repentance). In the Jewish calendar as in the rest of the world, the difficult and important things cluster in time. If we act now, and act frequently—today or tomorrow or next week or next month—maybe true justice will be closer. If we feel and process today, maybe we will have better endurance for the work, whether that work is the internal reflections of Elul or external justice actions.

The point is the doing, but before that: here is our day for processing our very own large-scale intergenerational trauma. Sitting with it, and attending to our feelings, doing the uncomfortable bad self-care, dealing with the parts that don’t involve indulgence or responsibility, just digesting and collectively processing thousands of years of loss.

Tomorrow, more work. Today, I sit.

What is a need? What is an illness?

I never know what to think of Ivan Illich’s writing. He’s certainly intelligent and angry both. My brain is not cut out for reading this kind of academic writing and yet I’m probably going to keep doing it anyway. I recently read his essay Disabling Professions (PDF of whole book). I part ways with him when it comes to medicine's primary role, which is not exclusively social control. Healthcare as social control is neither entirely incorrect nor entirely correct, as some of us would suffer or die left to our own devices.

Not everyone has the same needs. Defining needs by general consensus will hurt sick and disabled people. Is a ramp, earplugs, antibiotics, antipsychotics, insulin, methotrexate, IUD, hormone gel, physical therapy, talk therapy, sharps disposal containers a need? a want? an accommodation? Do disabled people with persistent actual medical needs exist in Illich's schema? There is no point in discussing health needs without considering those of us outside "get better on your own, or die." The borders of what conditions are considered diseases shift over time and between societies, but this does not mean that the concept of disease, of a need for medical care, is irrelevant.

Who is the source of truth, the doctor or the patient? Medical tests or diagnostic flowcharts or reported symptoms? It’s subjective. We can point to a person near death and go: they are unhealthy. We can point to a person who is functioning well independently and go: they are healthy. But the rest of us are in between.

In denying the doctor as source-of-truth, Illich skips entirely the possibility that patients hold the truth about our own bodies. Scholars and philosophers point out the hidden cultural implications involved in who holds the truths of illness; they poke holes in medical providers as Truth Tellers; but in the process they wipe out the patient as truth-holder, implying or outright stating we’re all deluded customers contributing to cultural narratives of overmedicalization and false needs. Patients are more than mindless consumers of healthcare, that sometimes our bodies have problems that require more care than we can provide for ourselves; that some type of medical care system is necessary.

I am a chronically ill person who medical professionals see as a problem, or a faker, or a not-their-problem-ask-another-specialist. With this personal context, with these feelings, it is hard to read about purely-social disability, or the sick role, or patient-as-consumer. Illich is not entirely wrong: some things medical systems see as illnesses are nothing of the kind—prediabetes or obesity, for example. But seeing this, and knowing that, and experiencing my own consumer labeling as more of a problem child than a money source leads to a bizarre relationship with the text; a relationship paralleled by some negative experiences I’ve had with disability studies texts and communities.

In the social model of disability, impairment and disability are separated out: impairment as the personal, disability as the social effects of it. Disabilities and impairments require accessibility changes in society. This is held in direct competition with the medical model of disability: that the individual needs treatment for any- and everything that could be considered disabling.

In social/medical models of disability discussions, we focus on defining disability but relatively little energy on defining disease or illness. Certain disabilities are declared not a disease, certain conditions considered not an impairment or an illness; chronic illness and disability are seen as, and act as, two allied yet distinct communities.

There is a huge and ongoing schism in disability and chronic illness communities: that of cure. There are many condition- (or disability- or impairment-) -specific organizations that focus on a search for a cure for that given issue; often (but not always) they are led by relatives of those affected or other abled/healthy people with a charity mindset. The medical research system, it is said, is overly in favor of curing us, of making us seem normal, of eradicating our multitudes of experiences and lives and differences in favor of becoming Illich’s mindless consumers of healthcare instead, bowing to overmedicalization of things that don’t need to be actually treated, because they are not problems; an ableist society is the problem.

I have spent years of my life considering myself a "bad" disabled, never to be a disability activist, because I would love a cure for my chronic physical illness. What i wish for in a cure, or even a more ideal treatment, is not to seem non disabled but to not be in pain; to have more energy again; to have more freedom in my life. Since then, I have learned that many other chronic illness sufferers feel the same way; we want increased accessibility but also, at the same time, treatments and cures for our actual impairments and problems. Even with a cure available, there will be disabled people; the existence of a cure does not make its use compulsory (or even accessible—see how that turned out for Gilead Pharmaceuticals’ Hepatitis C cures).

I know today’s medical systems would absolutely see cure as compulsory. But it is awfully reactionary to say: therefore, we should not admit to desiring one at all. Why is the major narrative around cure "don’t" rather than "shouldn’t be obligatory"? Why "everything medicalized is overmedicalized" rather than "we should focus on patients’ needs as perceived by those patients, rather than as perceived by the medical system?"

Is it better to not exist, as in Illich’s schema, or to have the wrong feelings about an existing set of impairments? Is it worth arguing about a cure, knowing in your heart that your feelings are considered unethical by many?

There is another personal feelings angle: I did try to be a professional. I was almost a career disability advocate. Almost a public health policy worker. I went to school, first for one thing then another; I watched the healthism and gatekeeping aspects of public health as my politics shifted left of (most of) the field.

What is it like to have community around what you do? Each time I’ve begun to feel like i’m among colleagues, something changes and it doesn’t stick. I self-separate out, or the group falls apart, or I can’t bear to drag everyone else down any longer. I’m the kind of person who has a series of unconnected jobs and miscellaneous overeducations, trainings and skills in whatever flight of fancy appeals at the moment. In the dark corners of self-doubt, I wonder how much of my retroactive disapproval of public-health-the-entity, of academia, of disability nonprofits, of disaster planning and response, of—most relevantly here—critiques of medicalization, is because I failed to develop a career in any of them.

Illich himself was a Catholic priest as well as being a scholar. It seems likely that his work around professions and professionalization, of the production and spread of knowledge, are built from personal feelings; if he, too, felt betrayed by these systems and used that to fuel his tirades of legitimate critiques. If my feelings are caught up in my responses to his work, maybe that’s fine. If my experiences shape my reactions, maybe that’s even good: what better than personal experiences with the harsh edges of overarching social systems, as proof of either their necessity or their harm or both?

Somewhere in my brain, there’s a version of this essay that goes further. A version that directly discusses the changes occurring in medical authority at the time Illich was writing, and in the decades since. A version that brings together dry science facts and personal experience and Illich and Starr and others’ writings, about authority and medicine and the social construction of disease and the difficulty of having a nonconforming body in the trans way, tying in public health as an engine of social conformity, of wellness and illness and health. But for now, as I am a chronically ill/disabled person dealing with insufficient medical treatment, this is what we have: an incomplete version while I get my bodymind a little more on track, working on meeting those newly-created quasi-needs like chronic pain and depression and insomnia.

Ruth and Queer Family of Choice

I led a 50-or-so minute discussion session based on this at an inter-community tikkun leil shavuot June 9th in Seattle. Enjoy.

The book of Ruth is a story about a family of choice, and how it was formed; how a queer migrant became Jewish. After a loss, two women cleave to each other and work together to subvert social norms and expectations of family, as well as rules around property ownership, in order for them to stay together.

The specific concept and verbiage of family of choice was coined by Kath Weston in 1991 as "kinship practices and feelings that do not depend on biological filiations and are not based on reproduction". The concept of family being not-only-blood, not-only-marriage, has existed especially in queer circles for much longer. We exist often exist on the edges of society, and we support each other (hopefully) and tend to cluster, and as such we have always built families and social groups outside the norm.

Sometimes queer family ignores "official" family markers, but sometimes it directly subverts them. Before they could get married, gay men in the AIDS crisis sometimes adopted a younger partner so they’d have a legal family tie that overrode their family of origin. Queer family looks like Freddie Mercury declaring he’s his friend’s new mother after said friend’s birth mother passed away. Queer family is a couple’s additional partners coming together to celebrate and/or officiate their marriage. Queer family is taking in kids you’re not blood-related to who were kicked out of their homes for being gay. Queer family is buying a house so you have a rotating free guest room for whoever needs it this month, free of charge.

Queer readings of Ruth are classic, but tend to focus exclusively on the feelings and love between Ruth and Naomi. I prefer to focus on the next steps: what did they do with that love? What choices did they make when confronted with the oppressive social expectations of the time?

In the beginning of the story, Naomi is devastated. She just lost her family. She is in crisis. Ruth sees this and needs to communicate that she has not lost her entire family, and expresses her devotion in 1:16-17. This sometimes gets interpreted as romantic only, or out of love for the jewish people only; to me, it reads as both. No matter your view of the feelings between these two women, this pledge is an expression of love and of intention stay with Naomi for her life and beyond, to keep building the family as it stands rather than going home to start over.

Even with all that, Naomi’s sad and still wants to go home. She renames herself Mara, sees herself as a bitter old woman, and keeps going forward while trying to figure out how to keep everyone alive and happy as best she can.

There is a problem: women can’t own property. Naomi and Ruth, as women unattached to men, are in danger of losing everything they have. So Naomi plans for Ruth to hook up with and possibly marry Boaz, her relative who’s a pretty good dude. She sends her to him, they have sex, and also a conversation.

There’s a linguistic quirk in this conversation. Boaz says to Ruth: I was told everything you did for Naomi. But when he says that, the word told is repeated. The rabbis point this out and have a whole discussion about it, but my interpretation is a little different. Part of existing queerly is hearing unsaid implications and speaking a hidden language. I was told, and i was told: i heard the surface level, and also what was actually said. I understand you and Naomi are close. I understand you are dedicated to her, and to our ways.

We all have complicated methods of negotiating safety and unsafety. We say "are you family" instead of "are you gay." Sometimes we can’t hold hands in public with our loved ones. Sometimes we introduce partners as friends or friends as partners. Sometimes these categories themselves blur. Sometimes we imply as subtly as we can that we see each other’s truth, piece by piece: I like your hair. Nice (rainbow) pin. Dropping hints about girlfriends or a same-gender spouse to open the conversation and create an environment of safety. I was told—and I was told. I hear you—and I hear you.

Also during this conversation, Boaz points out there’s a closer relative, who’d be a more legally sound choice to marry and keep property in the family. Boaz has treated Ruth well; he treats his workers well; his workers treat Ruth well. We do not know if this other relative would do so, but Boaz is not vulnerable the way Ruth would be. He has the power to be seen as a person in ways they do not, and wants to participate in the group mission of keeping Naomi’s property in the family but in as above-board a way as possible.

So anyway, Boaz talks to the closer relative who is like "fuck that i’m not sleeping with HER" using language of impurity. The closer relative doesn’t want THAT woman, the one who’s foreign, the one who’s so close to Naomi. He doesn’t want the impropriety sullying his genetic line. Boaz at this point basically goes "well, your loss, my gain," and Bigot McRelativeSon is forgotten to the annals of history and doesn’t even get a name, just referred to as ploni almoni (hebrew for joe schmo).

Later, Ruth gets pregnant and gives birth. All the women are thrilled and say "Naomi your kallah (either daughter in law or young bride) loves you and is so good to you!" The baby gets passed to Naomi! Naomi nurses the baby! The women say "a son is born to Naomi!" Boaz is not mentioned, really, but in my mind he’s off minding his own business in the fields and threshing floor and nobody’s bugging him about getting married or producing heirs anymore.

They have, Ruth and Naomi and Boaz, built a family that fills everyone’s needs together. Ruth is married, so the property can stay in the family. Naomi raises the child birthed by Ruth, conceived by Boaz and Ruth’s marriage, or the three of them do as a family, maybe.

In a fuck-you to traditional bloodlines, and to the idea that they are all straight normal people all the way down, that child Obed was King David’s Grandfather. King David, whose love of his friend Jonathan was greater than his love for women. King David, whose line will bring about the Moshiach. We are here; we have always been here; we are important; we will always be important. Families that differ from the way families are expected to look have always been crucial in Judaism. We need to support and accept them not despite their differences, but because of them; both because it is the right thing to do and because queer families are crucial to our ancestral tradition and heritage.

Photos from the cat cafe

Hi everyone! Sorry for spamming y’all with photos; I’m not sure where to put them that I can easily link to other than here. Where do people do that besides instagram and facebook?

This calico was a little persnickety. She didn’t want pets but was very interested in playtime.

"I caught it. Now what? huh?"

Couldn’t resist a blep even if it’s not a very good picture.

glamour shots

This lovely mediumhair liked me (the feeling was mutual!) and tolerated both petting and close-up photos.

toe! floof!

All photos before this point are straight from the camera. The following two I cropped for better cat appreciation. Someday I’ll un-lazy enough to edit photos but today is not that day.

Counting the omer

When I was a kid, my dad and i would sit together every night before bed and count the omer. It was a special "us time", counting together, practicing the numbers in hebrew and doing quick math to turn the day-count into weeks.

Marking time is good for me. I get depressed, especially but not exclusively in winter, and I struggle with time slipping away from me since I exist in an relatively unstructured life. There’s bills that need paying, there’s laundry that needs done, there’s groceries and cat litter and medication refills, so I have to pay some attention and stay tethered to a linear timeline.

But there’s also the cherry trees blooming, including the one outside my kitchen window that tends to hit a little earlier than the rest. There’s traditional shabbat services I help lead the 2nd shabbat of each (gregorian calendar) month. There’s flipping the month over in each of the 4 calendars in my apartment. There's shabbat shalom texts in the family group chat. There’s looking at the Radical Jewish Calendar when I feel disconnected and unimportant, and seeing things that happened today in history connected to my political and philosophical and religious ancestors, seeing ActUp meetings and activist yahrzeits next to the week’s torah portion.

Judaism is not, broadly speaking, for people who feel like they have it all figured out. It is for people like me and people like you, people living a day at a time and trying to have that make sense in a context, in any context. It is a religion of people for whom counting each day, one by one, between the pilgrimage holidays of liberation and of receiving the torah, of planting and harvest, is an achievement. Of people who struggle with introspection and self-improvement, of people who have mental illnesses or trouble existing sometimes, who come from weird families and broken people and persistently forever trying to overcome intergenerational trauma and hereditary mental illnesses.

It is for us.

This is the second year of my adult life I’m counting the omer with the sefirot. For each day, we say the standard blessing, count the days in between, mark the time, and think on a combination of Gdly attributes. I use this guide, primarily, tweaking wording as occasionally my interpretations of the attributes differ from theirs (based on my surface level learnings from Rav Wikipedia, of course). There’s a bunch of similar guides on Ritualwell, including this list of shorter daily prompts. I am tracking my daily reactions to the prompts in this Mastodon thread if you’d like to read them.

The sun will set tonight, and rise tomorrow, and set again, and after each of these sunsets I am committing to (at least) saying a few sentences in hebrew with a blessing, and if I can manage it thinking about chesed/gevurah/tiferet/netzach/hod/yesod/malchut in pairwise combinations, reflecting on whether I am managing that particular combination (in that order) well or poorly, where to improve, what my goals are, and who I want to be.

Corpus thoughts and rec

First, a warning.

If you have medical trauma, this book will be hard to read. If you’ve had to face serious illness, it will be heard to read. If you’ve had to deal with chronic health problems, if your brain lies to you sometimes, if you are disabled: reading this anthology will be hard, because you will see yourself and your loved ones in it. Don’t feel obligated to read it, but it’s cathartic as fuck.

Corpus is a comics anthology divided into three sections: physical, mental, and medical. It’s abundantly clear from the stories that's not a neat or exact division. Many (most?) of us have experiences in more than one of the categories. Buy it here digitally: https://gumroad.com/nadiashammas

One nice part of anthologies is how diverse perspectives and experiences can be represented in the same book. There’s a huge variance of perspective in disability perspectives and art styles and writing styles and experiences and diagnoses.

I picked up my copy at Emerald City Comic-con, met a few of the contributors, asked them to sign their stories. Even without that experience, everything in here is so intensely personal that I feel like I already know these people. There’s trans mental illness stories and medical mistreatment stories and diabetes problems stories and other stories shared with people I love, and sometimes even with myself. Hereditary depression. Unsure self image. Asthma. Not knowing your own limits. Knowing them way too well because you can’t stop crashing into them. "Mental illness is something that happened to other people."

No other book I’ve read has reached so intensely into experiences of illness and messy embodiment, or represented them so well.

I don’t feel all of these ways all the time. But I feel many of them some of the time, and at least one of them most of the time. The core of the chronically ill experience resides somewhere in this book.

TransJewCon and an abundance of disability feelings

I’d heard of Rabbi Emet Tauber zt’’l before my New York trip, and very much wanted to meet him at the Trans Jews Are Here event (or elsewhere, I’m not picky). Because I didn’t know him, because our social connections remained indirect, maybe because he didn’t know either, I had no idea he was so close to death. Even though I don’t know him, R’ Emet’s death is fucking with me, emotionally. I forget sometimes that EDS is terminal, not just inconvenient and disabling. At least one of my favorite people has EDS, as does their kid; my old doctors thought i might too.

I know I’m not supposed to want a cure, or feel sad about disability, but the abundance of people like me in communities like mine is rough. How many people die young, and how many of us are suffering? The number of disabled folks at Trans Jews Are Here was both fulfilling and difficult for me. Disability and impairment rob us of productivity, not just in the shitty capitalistic way but creatively, spiritually, interpersonally, religiously. It’s at best a tax paid in money or time we could be spending elsewhere, whether due to demanding access in a world built for other people or pushing back against a body behaving poorly or both. How much time that could be spent creating trans jewish art and spaces and community is spent waiting at the pharmacy? We are suffering, and some of the best of us are dying young. How many Jewish trans folks are destined to become rabbis but can’t? How many trans disabled people are destined to become Jewish but can’t?

It’s frustrating existing in a world not built for you, and it’s lonely as hell having to build so many spaces, to put time into projects that might disappear, even just as an attendee to balance complaints and criticisms with worries about whether they'll be seen as an excuse to cancel the next one. Disability is alienating. Transness can be too, depending on where you are; same with Judaism. It is hard to be like this and find community, even temporary, even in miniature talmud retreats and friend of friend connections, in chavurahs that make a minyan maybe once a year, in I-see-you nods across a crowded shul to the other GNC mobility device user, in sitting on the sidelines with a nice lesbian couple at the yiddish socialist concert where your chevruta’s in the opening band and you were worried about there not being a place to sit but wanted so badly to go anyway.

It feels so good and beautiful and necessary to make these spaces, and it is so tiring, and much harder if you’re disabled. My favorite part of this weekend was that I didn’t have to plan it, that I was around so many trans jews and I didn’t have to pinch-hit read torah or set myself a reminder to ping the email list or see if my friend is out of the hospital or give people rides or check on the organizers. I’m burning out, and I don’t work, and I have a secure living situation, and I don’t do this full time or for a living, and if I stop, maybe the next Emet will die before he finds any of us, so I can’t stop.

I can’t stop thinking about how I don’t have the mental energy to lead two seders this year, so I won’t be doing another internet seder when the one last year made me friends and was the only one at least two people could attend and the only one more people wanted to go to.

I can’t stop thinking about the many, many, many trans jews by choice I know, so many also disabled, continuing to struggle to find a class and rabbi that doesn’t deny their existence, that doesn’t take transness or queerness or nonbinariness as a reason to reject someone, when they deserve a community that will truly bring them into the fold and love them fully as trans jews.
I can’t stop thinking about the Kaddish podcast episode about trans tahara. What happens when nonbinary Jews die? Who performs tahara? Do I need to up my observance levels and go birth stealth and be trained so there is somebody here? Can I even do that, physically? What if I die, what if my friends die, what happens?

I want the world to be better than it is, for us and for them and for future generations, and I constantly run into inaccessibility struggles for myself while trying to bring the world into a position closer to the next, tiny increments closer to wholeness, repair, moshiach. I’m holding fragments. We are all holding fragments. What now?