On Monday, Nov. 4, I thought to myself: Whatever happens tomorrow, we will figure out a way to get through it. My people always find a way to survive. Cut to Tuesday night when I was hyperventilating at a friend’s house, anxious if I’d still be able to have top surgery I have planned for February. Then on Wednesday, somehow, I woke up with a clear vision of hope.
We still get to imagine and build the world we want to live in. No one can take that from us.
I cannot tell you everything is going to be okay. The truth is, it won’t be, and for many it already isn’t and hasn’t been for a long time. Marginalized communities have been increasingly under attack. Racism, transphobia, antisemitism, islamophobia, ableism and other forms of baseless hatred have been ever present — and so has the fight against them. Black, trans and disabled people have been leading the fight against these oppressions longer than we have been alive. There have been wins and setbacks. The good news is this means we have the tactics to learn from while we continue working towards collective liberation.
Will it be challenging and at times even scary? Yes. Will there be more obstacles than we had hoped for? Certainly, yes — but we cannot lose all hope. Through rage and fear, we must fuel our hope, love and will to act. Just as our ancestors did.
As a trans queer Jew this moment has me feeling the legacy of resilience deep in my bones.
I’m thinking about Jewish ancestors. Miriam who, while under Pharaoh’s rule, held onto hope, planning for liberation by crafting instruments she would eventually use to dance out of Mitzrayim. Emma Goldman and Hannah Arendt, who remind me of the importance of action even when circumstances look bleak. These ancestors remind me that hope is not false optimism — it’s the desperate and powerful force that lives in our guts, the feeling that can move us to fight to repair a broken world.
I’m holding onto queer and trans ancestors and changemakers, especially trans women of color, drag queens and butches, who laid the groundwork for the queer liberation movement. The ones who became leaders because they had to. It is because of their work that I can shout: I am here and I’m not going anywhere no matter how hard you try! I think of Miss Major Griffin-Gracy saying: “I don’t need their permission to exist; I exist in spite of them…we have a history, we have a reason to be here. We have a purpose.” And I think: Yes.
Another quote that has been ringing in my ears comes from Harvey Milk: “Hope will never be silent.” Hope is not passive. Hope is loud and messy. It can be full of rage. Sometimes hope looks like screaming that a better world is possible and we will create it ourselves; sometimes it’s just screaming, and that’s OK too.
Right wing leaders want us to lose hope and stay so far in the pit of despair that it leads to inaction. But that is not the way of my people.
Hope is a Jewish value and action for us to take. Psalm 27, that we read daily before the high holy days, closes with, “Look to Adonai, be strong and of good courage! Look to Adonai.” Rashi explains this line to mean that we are sending our hope to Adonai, and if that prayer is not accepted we should reinforce our hope. His point is emphasized in tractate Berakhot where it says one should turn with hope, and if necessary, turn with hope again. Regardless of your feelings around God, these words can be interpreted that we are to look beyond the current moment towards a better future.
Hope is not an esoteric idea that we need to be given permission to access. Lo bashamyim hi, it is not in the heavens! Hope is a verb. It is the first action one must take if we are to bend the arc of the world towards justice. Hope is a noun. It is a place where we can all live. This is how we will care for ourselves and for those around us in the years to come.
I am inspired by how the LGBTQ+ community has shown up with support fueled by hope in the past, from the responses at the height of the AIDS crisis that devastated the LGBTQ+ community in the 80s and 90s to the parallels we’ve seen in the responses to the COVID pandemic. Cleve Jones, a fierce gay rights activist who contributed to enhancing LGBTQ+ protections and worked with Harvey Milk, founded the NAMES Project and conceived the AIDS Memorial Quilt as a way to honor those who died of AIDS-related causes when they were not able to have proper funerals due to homophobic stigma or outright refusal. At the start of the COVID pandemic when there was a shortage of personal protective equipment, leftover fabric from the quilt was pulled out of storage and used to make masks for houseless neighbors and frontline workers.
My friend Rabbi Dr. Sue Reinhold said about these cyclical acts of community care: “You pray with your sewing machine to get through one plague, and if you are lucky you have a chance to learn and do it again when the next plague comes around. In both cases taking an act that is holy, to be of use, to be of service, that is like a prayer.”
Community building and solidarity work will be what gets us through whatever comes next. The wisdom of the past can show us how to act and be of service to each other now with the tools we have. This will be the holy work of our time.
Everyone has a role to play and innately has something to contribute. Get to know your neighbors. If you have a skill, teach others how to do it. Get involved in political and social education and organizing. Check in with friends who will be more directly in harm’s way. Give someone a ride. Make art. Grow food. Hold ritual. Whatever you have capacity and ability to do, do it. And also remember to pace and nourish yourself. Tell others what you need. This is a marathon not a sprint.
The Jewish community and the LGBTQ+ community, along with many other historically marginalized peoples, know what it means to struggle. As communities, we have survived. This time is no different. We don’t give up. We’d do a disservice to those who fought before us if we did. We will fight those who try to erase us, with our ancestors beside us. We will win.
You might be feeling overwhelmed by the uncertainty of what’s to come. That is understandable and I’m there with you. There is grief and fear to move through. Just know this: You are not alone. There are so many people ready to fight for and with you. You are valuable. Your hope is a tool. You do not need to take on fixing the world alone, but there is a place for you in building the world we dream of. We take care of us.
