At the Intersection of Queer and Jewish by Chris Harrison

הנומאב רוביצ יכרצב

May this zine – and the joy and hope within it – and all those who contributed to it, who edited it, who dreamt of it, and who helped bring it to life so you can read it today, be bricks in building toward queer and trans liberation for us all. May that liberation come ונימיב הרהמב, speedily in our days.

םלשי אוה ךורב

“And for all those who faithfully occupy themselves with the needs of the community: May the Holy Blessed One grant them their full recognition” (Shabbat morning service, introduced c.12th Century CE, France)

In particular, we want to thank Is Perlman and Marissa Aaronson for their work on collecting and formatting the zine you are now reading. Sawyer Goldsmith ensured that all of the pieces were categorized and made their way into this zine. This zine would not have happened without your artistic vision and love of queer and trans art. Finally, we want to recognize and share immense gratitude for Issac Young, Keshet’s Midwest Youth Engagement Manager, who first brought this idea to life on a windy day in October 2021; now, almost a full year later, we are seeing the fruits of that first conversation and all of the hard work that has happened over the last year. This zine would not have been possible without Issac’s incredible vision and commitment to empowering LGBTQ+ youth, his clear attention to every detail of this project, and the incredible heart he brings to his work.

Acknowledgements

םרכש שודקה : םיקסועש ימ לכו

We are proud to offer this to our community, to empower LGBTQ+ Jewish teens and young adults to share their voices and perspectives, art, videos, prose, and poetry. The contributors to this zine span all walks of the Jewish and LGBTQ+ communities, and we hope that they reach those who come from all walks of life in both of these communities that we hold dear. Zines have been used by generations of queer and trans people to share artwork and ideas with each other over the course of the twentieth century and we hope that this will be part of the collection of wisdom that queer and trans people have to offer each other and the wider world. We have so much gratitude for our queer and trans ancestors who helped bring us to this moment so that we can share this addition to that tradition with you.

Jaimie Krass and Amram Altzman • youth@keshetonline.org

These

This zine was created with the intention of elevating the experiences of LGBTQ+ and Jewish youth and young adults. Some of the pieces cover topics related to homophobia, transphobia, historical homophobia and transphobia, and religious trauma. That is not to say that LGBTQ+ Jewish experiences are only those things, as a lot of the pieces also feature moments where there is euphoria in our experiences and show how intertwined, inseparable, and beautiful LGBTQ+ and Jewish identities are.

26Example:

We have made the decision to include a red heart on pages that may contain upsetting or potentially triggering content, as a reminder to take care as you read. hearts will be behind the page numbers at the top.

We’re so excited to present this zine, which only came together with all of your incredible help. There were 42 individuals who submitted over 60 pieces, some art, some written, and some videos! There were multiple workshops over the summer where folks dropped in between summer camp, vacation, and various other activities. It was wonderful to see the Keshet community coming together during those months.

Dear Reader,

Letter from the editors

It was a great opportunity to work on a project that would not only allow us to use our voices, but also to amplify the voices of others. We are grateful to work with the other editors and to share our vision with everyone. We found it healing to create both physical and digital artwork, and we hope that it was healing for the other creators and will be healing for you, dear reader, as well. Guiding this project encouraged us to experiment with new techniques and pushed our art in new directions and boundaries and was an experience we’ll remember forever. Thank you all so much for your support of the zine; we hope you'll enjoy reading as much as we did making it.

Our work as the editorial board did include a lot of zoom calls, but more importantly, we have really enjoyed brainstorming together to shape the overall zine and the final project. It was always obvious that the theme would have something to do with being queer and Jewish, but with our additional focus on the intersection of those two, we were really excited to see what people would submit. Each individual holds unique identities, which is why we presented the opportunity to creatively express what these identities mean. One of the most impactful moments as editors was seeing all the submissions come in and the fruits of our labor pay off with such powerful and moving pieces of art, writing, and video!

With love and care, Shalom, Avi Noah B Eden Fayvel

3 4

june 25

we say happy pride but our siblings are being slaughtered like cattle in a farm their dignity stripped from them their identity cut off their lives ended seventeen lives in six months following the deadliest year in trans history we are not moving forward we are stuck. Avi Noah (they/he/fae)

Rivka (they/them)

The Struggle of Love

Dads

Floyd (he/him)

i know that things don’t actually grow like that because i grafted 2 trees together late one night in the corner of a field there was a tree already growing the tree of life Torah the branches reaching upwards towards the heavens while seedlings of queerness live in my mason jar nourished by my tears, joyful and devastated

Artwork by Noah (they/them)

i don’t want to age out of closeness to God so i balance tentatively on the edge of your couch looking around at your perfectly curated world

i guess you only have 5.5 species left not quite the garden of eden other things that cannot mix include wool and linen dogs and wolves old trees and new trees women and other women in your house there are no forbidden mixtures only rigorous adherence to your idea of God’s will which you cut off parts of yourself to fit when you stopped laying tefillin once you had a child because Jewish women are not supposed to be close to God they are supposed to be close to their children

Kilayim cont.

b ild

CrochetFlowersby Marsha Rose (they/them)

devastated from the time when you told me i was a mamzer to hide the wheat and barley growing entwined underneath ki or else be cast out b joyful for when i cas thinking i would be a for 40 years but i found a new co where everyone was kind or another and they were beau loved themselves an my tree is more of a still growing i carve a space out o scraps of old branch ground like puzzle pieces i s Torah i tie them like a bandage over like a bow over a gif allowing them to gro this mixture is utter it’s the only path for because in my comm species and some n my friends wear bea of wool and linen an we sow and we reap which i am named it is never spring in t plants need rain to g but

We count them differently here, weigh our time to sunlight instead of standard, wax and wane with the moon

You are only ever mine in the evening hours

James (he/him)

From the time at which the priests begin to eat their portion.

From when can one begin to recite the evening Shema?

Brachot 1a

Hashem Elokeinu, Hashem Echad. please keep away the monsters, please keep away my pain Hashem Elokeinu, Hashem Echad. i know i’m not perfect but look how far i’ve come.

when i was seven my teacher told me to wake up every morning and say modeh ani she said it was so so important to thank Hashem for letting me wake up again. she called this emunah. and when i was nine all the tears that i cried didn’t matter cause God would protect me as long as i said shema every night Hashem would make sure everything was all right so when i was eleven and couldn’t fall asleep because all i could think of were ways i could perish, i looked up at the sky and i closed my eyes and i prayed.

Hashem Elokeinu, Hashem Echad thank You for making me gay Hashem Elokeinu, Hashem Echad. why do Your people push me away?

i lose my community only because i might marry another girl? i lose my community only because they’re uncomfortable with the real world?

internal crisis type vibes

don’t tell me to grow. don’t tell me you know what it’s like to be a broken doll. you can’t know how this feels cause to you i’m not real; just an abstract ideal that you’ll never face. but i am right here and i hear every word that you say. every which one builds walls to push me away and those walls build gates i cannot climb; they make such a clear divide these people seem so sure that they’re right. these people don’t expect me to fight.

now i’m seventeen and i struggle to breath in the stifling air of my sin; prayers no longer pass through my lips. i’ve forgotten the words which i once loved, emunah flew away like noach’s white dove. now faith in Hashem, that still rings true, but my faith in my people is gone. cause they keep telling me that i’m wrong they say they don’t care but actions speak louder than words and theirs are screaming at me. their actions, they tell me to leave. every look that i get, every whisper i hear, is one more tear that i cry every side eye and glance, every judgment they pass, is one more time i ask “why?”

Talia (she/her)

Hashem Elokeinu, Hashem Echad thank you for making me gay but Hashem Elokeinu, Hashem Echad. how can you ask me to stay? they want me so badly to leave. but they don’t give me time to grieve.

they tell me i’m wrong, they say i don’t belong, they tell me to find somewhere else then they tell me to grow and they tell me to own my differences as long as they cannot see. or they tell me to lie or they tell me to hide, all in the name of Hashem i don’t know what God they’re listening to but it sounds to me like they forget. my torah says to embarrass; that is just as bad as murder. my torah says treat your neighbor better than you treat yourself my torah says not to lie. my torah says not to hide. my torah says not to push someone out because you are uncomfortable with their truth.

Hashem Elokeinu, Hashem Echad. please keep away the monsters, please keep away my pain. Hashem Elokeinu, Hashem Echad. i know i’m not perfect but look at how far i’ve come. Hashem Elokeinu, Hashem Echad thank You for making me gay Hashem Elokeinu, Hashem Echad. why do Your people push me away? Hashem Elokeinu, Hashem Echad. thank You for making me gay. but Hashem Elokeinu, Hashem Echad how can You ask me to stay? Hashem Elokeinu, Hashem Echad. please find me a place i can stay where they’ll never push me away. i won’t sit on the side and i’ll feel so much pride to be part of a people so open to love. and one day Your people will open their eyes to be part of the pride and joy that is, to me, true Judaism. that is where i find my emunah.

Biana (any/all) 10

Masks allow us to hide Masks come in all colors Not so many would have died If people wore their face cover

Masks

Ilya (he/him)

Emet

They laugh, smile, scoff, and cough While I can’t figure out How to take mine off

Masks to prevent disease Masks to protect others Many follow this with ease To save our grandmothers

Kendal (she/they)

Sometimes I wonder Of those who treat it like a chore How many understand what it’s like To wear a mask, even before

Masks disguise our smile Masks show others that we care We get to choose from many styles Our faces never bare

Whenever anyone asks me why I donate blood, whether it be my parents, classmates, or friends, I always say that I donate for the folks that can’t. A lot of people know that their blood goes to others who desperately need blood transfusions to continue living but I want to shed a light on the many folks who want to do good by donating but are prevented. I am Jewish and was always raised with this concept of the mitzvah of tzedakah, which loosely translates to the commandment to do good deeds. I was always taught that all good deeds are equally good but the ones that go above and beyond are the ones where the person benefiting doesn’t know who helped them and the person doing the mitzvah does it without any expectations for rewards or gratitude. That’s why donating blood is an exceptionally good deed.

Hayden (they/them)

I donate to honor the legacy of the Blood Sisters who set up blood drives to help gay men in the 1980s; I donate for the countless men who cannot donate purely because of who they choose to be intimate with. I donate because I know that I'm fortunate enough to be eligible and have access to donate my blood. It’s a small amount of my time (and a pint of blood) to pay honor to those who can’t donate and to help those who need blood.

Blood Donation

I’ve encountered many people who can’t donate for a multitude of reasons however, being a part of the LGBT+ community, people with HIV and sexually active gay and bisexual men that can’t donate have always been at the top of my mind. During the AIDS crisis in the 1980s, millions of men died alone on AIDS wards with very little support from anyone due to the stigma and fear. Lesbians, however, were not afraid of men who had AIDS and they tried to help in any way possible. Many of these lesbians worked as volunteers and nurses on the AIDS wards. In 1983, a private San Diego blood bank was set up so that people could donate directly to others and in this case, it went to people suffering from HIV/AIDS. All the lesbian volunteers who had been helping the men, gathered together to hold a blood drive for the gay men. Over 200 women showed up to the first blood drive to donate. After that, slowly across the country, communities of lesbians started holding blood drives to donate to gay men. They were widely known as the Blood Sisters. Many of these men didn’t have supportive families that could donate to help them and their partners most likely had HIV too so these women helped tremendously until the 90’s when treatments started becoming available.

Scan the QR code below to watch the full film! 14

Artwork by Is (they/them)

When tragedy strikes I gaze at the sky and trust the judgment I believe is wise, But it doesn’t change regardless of my prayers, tears, and cries.

If deaths are in vain, with no reason for pain, then there is no meaning for life.

I can’t return to my naivete no matter how hard I try. I want to think luck and coincidence are all god’s plan in disguise, But I think that I was satisfied behind a mountain made of lies.

If God lives above, life’s purpose is clear If not, life is chaos, and strife

I lay down to sleep as darkness steals the sun from day. Some questions swirl inside my mind under the covers where I lay. As my eyes drift to the windows and I look up at the stars, I question the world behind my glass and window bars. I want to think that stars have meaning but I just see small dots in the sky

I want to think the bad are punished and that good will win, But I’m scared there’s no redemption for those damaged souls within. If science and logic is all that matters, then matter has no meaning. If matter has no meaning, no words can match what I am feeling.

I am content when life is up to God but if it’s up to me, Who am I if God’s rules don’t apply? Who's the person I’m supposed to be?

All of these doubts have arisen, And I’m scared of what I may feel. I ask with all of my hope, and all of my faith: Please God, I need you to be real

Artist’s Statement: I am an Orthodox Jew but I have always struggled with trying to understand God, and trying to find a place for Him in my life. I feel very conflicted about my Judaism, as while some of it is really meaningful, I find some parts of it extremely problematic. I wrote this poem one night as I was questioning my beliefs, and in the end I realized that I believed in God not because I was sure He existed, but because I want to believe that everything happens for a reason. I need someone to pray to when times are rough so I don’t feel hopeless. In the end, I believe in God not because He is real, but because I need Him to be.

Please God, I Need You to be Real

Rivka (they/them)

Mackenzie (she/they)

It felt like something was in me. Something needed to get out. Was it bad or good? Would it hurt me? The unanswered questions made me think if it was worth it. To be myself. To be me. Do I need to be me or the version everyone wants me to be. Showing my real self could put me in danger. What would happen? I need to say it. I need to come out. I want to. Bisexual. I am finally me. The wight is off my chest. My friends expect me. I am myself. I am still hiding. My friends know. My parents don't. What would my mom and dad do? I would be ignored? Unanswered? Unloved? Unimportant? I am free to my friends, just not my family. The weight of my family is here and killing me.

Artwork by Is (they/them)

OS (she/her)

Floyd (he/him) 20

Eden (They/Xe) 21

I’m made of a thousand shakes and shivers of all causes

And I’m made from inevitability.

I’m made of lake sand becoming pink at dawn

I’m made of an unseeable fear that lingers in the pit of my stomach

I’m made of crying into a pillow when I can’t sleep

I’m made of impatience

Jesse (they/them)

I’m made of petting my friend’s hair after my hands turn numb with cold, And refusing to wear gloves

I’m made of fidgeting under stares

I’m made of blood that tastes like metal

I’m made of being enamored by trees layered in ice, but the tips being melted into tiny water droplet diamonds by the sun

I’m made of determination

I’m made of being unable to choose

I’m made of listening to crickets talking too loud while I walk a gravel road

I’m made of copying until I can learn to be a person on my own

I’m made of two people in love who never stop arguing

I’m made of seeing trees making the night darker

I’m made of watching the sun turn the grass golden green

I’m made of laughter

I’m made of wind tickling my legs on a warm night

I’m made of sticking my head out the window of a moving car, But barely being able to keep open my eyes

I’m made from flesh and bone

I'm Made Of

I am all of these things and so much more beyond. I am a mosaic of cracked tiles and precious gems, each piece of my identity a small fragment of a beautiful whole But most of all, today, I am tired of being invisible. (she/her)

Excerpt from Invisible 23 Adira

I don’t want to have to declare my identity in order for it to count. I don’t want my queerness to be invisible, I want it to be seen, to be celebrated the way I choose to celebrate it as one more beautiful puzzle piece in the mosaic of my self. But If I want to be known, I have to come out. I don’t want to have to come out I wish I could wear my heart on my sleeve and on my skin, to emerge from my cocoon and let the world in to be visible, for once To own my identity To stand proud in the sun and raise my voice to the sky, to let my flag fly unhindered, to let the whole world know that I am bi. Invisibility is my blessing and my curse. It is both the safety I was granted at birth and the smothering hurt of being forever passed over. I know the dangers of being visible. I know that people can be cruel. I know that my desire to be seen for who I am comes from a place of incredible privilege, a place of safety that so many others will never be able to enjoy, and I am aware that I may sound as if I don’t care, but here’s the thing: Sometimes being invisible is stifling, and something as trifling as being heard without ever raising my voice, or being seen without first having to make that conscious choice, never having to actually explain in order for my pain to be understood… it would mean the world. For just a little while I would like to be visible. I would like to strip my safety away and take the risk of being recognized, of being seen and loved for everything I am, even in my silence.

I am a Disabled, Jewish, Queer, Woman.

Scan below for full video:

But then you get to sexuality. And you can’t take that one apart because that one is made from sensitive souls. You can’t take that one apart because if you take that one apart too much you may take yourself apart. You can’t take that one apart because at the end of the day there’s only one answer that would work for the question and you’re terrified it’s the answer you’ve always thought it’s been and you’re terrified to change the shape of your past.

You hide the question in plain sight because you keep asking others the question and you know it's a question but you pretend to yourself that it's not a question that applies to you. You hide the question through avid discussion of the question and you can pretend all you want that you’re discussing with an open mind but your mind was closed to this matter a long long time ago.

Until suddenly you see the proof that the answer to the question may not be what you feared. You see another possibility open up, one where only one part of your past must be reconstructed but the entire shape of who you are remains whole, unsplit. You see another possibility open up and then you take a chainsaw to the jungle in your mind and find your treasure trove and a seemingly innocuous clump of dirt and you brush it off and start cleaning it ever so slowly, bringing it further and further to the front of your mind and suddenly you trip on a branch and tumble and there, shining among the brambles of your mind, a bright new question.

The ultimate question for only a certain type of person, that question that makes you reconsider everything you’ve taken for granted I read somewhere that you don’t question the conditionality of others’ love for you until you first question your sexuality. And the thing is, even when it turns out the answer is what you initially thought it to be, the very existence of the question will linger in the air, never really dissipating, the smell of mold on laundry you forgot to hang out to dry.

And now you must think of it with a new sensitivity because the thing so closed and guarded before is now pointy and new. This thing can sever lines inside your heart and brain, this thing can stand in the way of your other brand new questions, it’s exciting and scary and fuel for a new shape of being

And let’s say you’re religious. And let us say that you have an answer for each religious question life has thrown at you because you’ve examined the question, taken it deep inside your head, taken it apart, turned it inside out and looked from all angles and plucked that gem of an answer from its depths.

So you hide the question You hide it in the treasure trove of other questions that have been hidden over years, questions of holocausts and Amalek and the many many unjust things that seem to pass.

But not only that It’s fuel for a new past

SEXUALITY

24 Anonymous (she/her)

Eitan Runyan (he/him)

On The Cairo Geniza James (he/him)

All who are hungry let them come and eat

If I pray in Aramaic will the angels still eavesdrop

You I remember Your fingertips

Just how will they weigh my tongue

We make light work of living in a dead language

I hold you where only God can see us and I wonder

I remind those listening We are two And you are one

All who are abandoned let them come and be free We stand on rooftops

2 The needle bites on an exhale, butterfly wings flutter gently and relax on my arm as I think of whatever book I read the night before, machines beeping, clenching and flexing my fist, pint-sized bag rocking like an infant below the hospital cot.

Nurses chattering like so many squirrels, and me, eyes half-closed and daydreaming until the beeping stops.

Donation secured, the needle retracts with a pen’s spring click, and under gauze, the crook of my elbow blooms indigo Like the marks he left on my collarbone and hips, scattered like wildflowers

(after Hickey by Rhiannon McGavin) James (he/him)

Ilya (he/him) 26

3. As I lift my head to the sudden absence of sound, the medical student who has been tasked with tending to my donation approaches the cot, fingers unsure and unpracticed, clamping the tubing closed with the clattering thud of a staple gun. (Elastic tourniquet marks criss crossing my arm like the aftermath of wrapping tefillin)

1. I check “no” on the intake form that asks if I, a man, have had sex with another man within the last year, joking that I wish I had. In the past, I have answered no on any number of technicalities. Define “man”. Define “sex”. Define “with”. Always, I find myself and the quiet fumbling I do in the darkness of lovers’ bedrooms falling short. And I weigh a sense of moral obligation with the feeling of my palm pressed to the small of his back, or curled around his hip, thumb finding the dip of bone, idly tracing the bruise, jagged edges with a break in the border from the chip on my front tooth

Blood Donation

Just try to take a deep breath “Tekiah gedolah” I never want to go through this experience again

Some people recognized me and said hi and had quick small talk

Am I on the right page?

I knew I didn’t want to wear a skirt, I wanted to wear pants and a shirt so I did. I added extra eyeliner and a pair of earrings for some flair and I was ready to go I looked like the definition of gender confusion and envy mixed into a queer Jew I got into shul and couldn’t figure out what I had done was wrong

“Tekiah”

“Shevarim”

The sound of the shofar bounced of every wall and out of the doorway where I stood

BitterSweet New Year

Yom Kippur and not by my fellow Jew.

“Tekiah”

“Shevarim” I know my dad just looked back at me wondering why I haven’t walked to the women’s side yet “Teruah” My heart is pounding faster than the staccato blows on this horn

shouldn’t have been this difficult It should not

Hayden (they/them)

I should’ve gone to the women’s side when I had the chance “Teruah”

Do I go the men’s side? Of course not I was paralyzed with fear outside of the doors of the shul, unable to decide where to go from here I stood there as they blew the shofar because it was a way I could listen to it but I wasn’t on one side or the other

The greeting “chag sameach” spoken from the mouth of other men no longer meant “happy holidays”. “Shana Tova” no longer meant “have a sweet new year”. It now all meant “I perceive you as a man”. The mothers chatting to me no longer meant they were being friendly and nice. It now meant “I perceive you as a woman”. But I was there to listen to the Shofar I stood outside the doors of the sanctuary frozen.

And it’s over I run

Some new people thought I was a man or just couldn’t figure it out Some people who had known me since I was 2, wearing a dress in a stroller didn’t recognize me at all.

Well I guess I am stood here

I knew my way to the women’s side but what about all the people who thought I was a man.

I don’t want to be there anymore The role of judgment should be reserved for

Fulfilling this mitzvah to listen to the shofar

Lately I take comfort in the critical approach my Jewish teachers and peers take to a text Surely with such an approach, I can find A way to make space for all of me

Growing Room

"They/he, actually Let me explain it though, and if I can't do it in a way she understands you can tell GiGi what's going on." "Noted, and that's probably for the better," Hannah responded before getting off her cousin and leading him to where her guardians was sitting and chatting with some friends "Eliakim! Today is so strange, I thought your sister was going to have her Bat Mitzvah!" GiGi exclaimed when she saw her grandchildren. "Then again, I didn't know you existed. You'd think that would be something your parents would tell someone."

"Your heavy hints weren't heavy enough apparently. GiGi looked so confused. I'll explain it to her, she'll get it quick, I promise. She took my friend Beth coming out amazingly, she just needs it spelled out. Also, what pronouns? I assume he/him?"

There were seven aliyah before the cantor called, "Arise, Eliakim ben Dror v'Atara." Eliakim could feel the confusion of the congregants as he went to the bimah and their sister began passing out candies. He tried to ignore it while he said the blessings, just to get this over with. Eliakim seemed to do that pretty good, as they hardly stumbled as they read the last three parts of the day's Torah portion. The rest of the service went off without a hitch as well. After it ended, Eliakim's cousin Hannah came up to them, throwing her arm over his shoulder. "Hey El, nice haircut. So are you having a Bar Mitzvah instead of a Bat Mitzvah?" Eliakim laughed. "You're giving me a nickname already?" "It's not that hard, you just have to chop off all the syllables but one, and bam! Instant nickname." "Han' wouldn't work as a nickname." "Whatever. So did your parents really give you a Bar Mitzvah without telling anyone so all your gifts would misgender you? Sorry in advance, by the way."

Eliakim had been planning their Bar Mitzvah celebration for years, but it was only recently that he was sure it would be for a Bar Mitzvah, and most of the attendees didn't know yet. But that was fine. Eliakim had decided with their parents that it would be easiest to come out to the congregation by being called to the bimah by his name and as the son of their parents. They were expecting questions, and had prepared for them. Although it was a Reform congregation, many of the members were rather old. Eliakim had to take a deep breath, in and out, in attempt to calm his rushing heart. They adjusted his clip on tie before going downstairs where his family was waiting to go to the Synagogue for service.

Eliakim shrugged. "It was my idea, I don't care that much about getting misgendered with cards. I just figured it would be easier to come out to everyone all at once. Or at least lay heavy hints."

Ronen (any except she) A Special Shabbat

Eliakim laughed. "No, GiGi, I am my sister. My parents only have two children. So I'm not my sister Is a haircut that transforming?" The elderly woman squinted in confusion, but before Hannah could explain her eyes widened back up. "Oh, so you're Gilda? That's why your names are so similar!" She shook her head. "I never understood people who gave twins similar names." "Yes, except I'm not Gilda anymore. I don't use that name." "Oh, ok, I get it, Eliakim." GiGi nodded. "Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, Melech haolam, shehecheyanu, v'kiy'manu, v'higiyanu laz'man hazeh."Eliakim leaned over to give GiGi a hug, trying not to cry. They were very pleasantly surprised. "Thank you, GiGi."

Ezra (they/them)

Anonymous (any pronouns)

You have glitter in your hair

Your heels rocked easily, finding home in every beat you knew What you were doing Your friends said they loved me, Your mother asked about the nature of our friendship, Your father blessed your strength in Jesus’ name.

I can taste sweet sixteen cake on your tongue, Our well worn skin glistening through the blur of doubt. Can I miss our hands and hiding in practice, not just theory? Can I love you when I don’t know if I will reach your sixteen? What is love if I can’t see it clearly in the mist of this century?

Getting deja vu from daydreams of our future

I want to touch you like we have time Hold your hand over the table, over our heads Miss you for an endless meaning Love you like we were never a secret This fog reminds me I can never feel you precisely But from the distance a lavender beacon shines through, Flashing a message I must decode.

When you spin, your lavender dress

Floats around you, double helix Claire’s earrings twist around themselves Bracelets jingle a bell adjacent melody

Sweet Sixteen

Frances (he/they)

Have you ever had the chance before, To love without the strife?

Dream by Rose (all pronouns)

Have you ever had a dream before, Of hands that traced your face?

Have you ever had a dream before, Where life is nothingness?

Eden Davis (they/xe)

Have you ever had a dream before, Where you're just floating in an abyss?

Have you ever had a dream before, To demonstrate yourself?

Have you ever had a dream before, To put your rainbow on the shelf?

Have you ever had the chance before, To sing a song of life?

Have you ever had a dream before, Of a comforting embrace?

Samuel (he/him)

Floyd (he/him) 35

Who hold hands under the table during the Shabbat meal God of March, of November, of June thunderstorms and all of my missed opportunities

God of May, of August, and all of my Aprils God of boys who kiss each other on the mouth by the lockers in yeshiva until something in them tightens

Oh God of thunderstorms Oh God of earthquakes Oh God of earthquakes! Oh. God of silence. God of silence, too.

Elokei Avraham, Elokei Yitzchak, VeElokei Yaakov James (he/him)

Of lazy Shabbat afternoons, him in my bed, beautiful, and all my stuttering, God of my good, clever hands, God of his mouth, God of bedsheets, of my youth, God of feathered things, God of his fingers God of my fingers, oh, God of heat, oh, God of lightning

you are poetry in the form of a human being i see stanzas when i look into your eyes lyrics written on your skin meter bouncing off your tongue when you speak when i see you i hear whispers sappho reciting from her grave emily dickinson screaming out i listen to your stories your face glowing as you excitedly tell me everything the kindest person ive ever known if only you were gay

Lance (he/him)

Avi Noah (they/he/fae)

Lance (he/him)

‘ you don’t need to know’

1:16 by Julia

‘Your People shall be my People, and your God my God’ Two girls, sharing themselves, still, in a field with their chins tilted towards the heavens Souls met in prayer, in perfect stillness beneath the rest of the world, in love Like the trees around them, they look beyond the sky with frank simplicity, bright and pure I believe in everything because I believe in you

‘Where you go, I will go’ Two girls, sharing headphones, cords wound around each other like grape vines towards the sun Hands met in prayer, in friendship, in quiet corners of the room Eyes caught like sunlight in water, too bright and pure for comfort Avert your gaze, for what we see here is holy

‘Where you lodge, I shall lodge’ Two girls, sharing a bunk, staring through springs and blankets to imagine what the other is dreaming Lips met in prayer, in hesitance, in busy moments behind sheets of rain Thoughts are fodder for the other, dreams laid plans and futures made hastily No place could be more holy than the one we make together

Ronen (any but she)

I have always felt different from other people.

As a kid I was the only Jewish person in my class different. I was autistic-different. I was always anxious-different. Later, I liked girlsdifferent.

Roxanne (she/her)

I have learned that I, too, am made in G-d’s image: queer, autistic, and unabashedly me.

And when you’re a kid, different is bad. In fact, different is special, and special is even worse than different. Much of the time, I was lost and so, so, lonely. I was floundering in the dark, looking for a light that wasn’t there. There were things about myself that I took pride in, though. I loved to explain to the other kids why I was eating matzah or why I missed school for Yom Kippur. I took pride in that part of being different. I liked how I knew a lot about a lot of things, like Abraham Lincoln or dog breeds. I liked how I was always the fastest to answer a question in Hebrew, liked how I was usually the best reader in the class in elementary school. These little points of pride were like candles on the first night of Hanukkah-not quite enough light to break through the darkness, but a start and a promise of something more. I wasn’t proud of how I would have meltdowns over math tests, wasn’t proud of how I could never do the monkey bars or hit a ball or make a basket. I wasn’t proud that I thought girls were pretty in a different way than other kids thought girls were pretty. I wasn’t proud that I didn’t have any friends. I was still stuck in the darkness. Eventually, I began to make my way towards the light. I have learned overtime that different is necessarily bad, that it is: just different. With each passing year, I have added a to candle to my proverbial menorah, until it has become ablaze with glowing, golden light. I have become proud of neurodivergence and learned to advocate for myself and my needs. I have put myself out there. I have come out, then come out again. I have grown. I have learned from my mistakes. Don’t get me wrong, though, I do still feel different in lot of ways, and sometimes the candles flicker in a stiff breeze. But I don’t let anyone or anything put them out.

On Being Different

Ollie (they/he)

On June 16th, Netflix released the animated series “Dead End: Paranormal Park”, which is an adaptation of Hamish Steele’s Deadendia comics, starring two security guards at a haunted theme park: Barney Guttman, a Fat gay Jewish trans man and his coworker Norma Khan, who is a Southeast Asian woman with anxiety. The two don’t become friends immediately Barney wants the job because it offers independence from his parents, who seem to only accept him for who he is when it’s easy, while Norma says that the park and it’s infamous owner Pauline Phoenix is her hyperfixation, a term used often by neurodivergent folks to refer to a topic they’re intensely interested in, usually for long periods of time The two grow closer through supernatural park hijinks and Barney helping Norma realize that Pauline’s sinister actions are putting the park and everyone in it in danger. Norma even sings a song about it later in the show, relating that she would watch Pauline’s movies because “the world can feel like a storm and my bedroom is the eye” referencing how as a person with anxiety she often isolates in her room but then singing “OMG Pauline, you know that moment in that scene well, you made me feel so seen ” (Scene and seen. I know. The pun solidifies it for me, honestly.)

On first glance, the show’s mix of comedic horror and vulnerably honest conversations about identity feels like a loveable quirk that softens the blow of how downright scary the show’s premise can be. But as the series continues, Barney and Norma work to understand and love each other better, making Dead End the chaotic supernatural home that it’s easy to long for. We see this mashup of supernatural and sincere with Barney in particular all the time, from the first episode where Barney comfortably spends the night sleeping in a vampire coffin, excited at building a safe home for himself no matter what shape it’s in, to asking his crush out in the penultimate episode, right on the tail end of blurted revelations about Pauline’s supernatural abilities and the danger that the park is in and, and, “ALSO you’re really cute wanna go see a movie or something? Haha.”

Dead End weaves in representation thoughtfully and without compromise In an era when representation in children’s TV has been an uphill battle, just that the show names Norma’s neurodivergence and Barney’s transness pulls a feeling of relief off me. But Dead End goes beyond recognizing the character’s diversity in name though, which is obvious from Barney’s coming out scene in the second episode

Oakley (they/them)

Dead End: Paranomal Park

Anyway, to me, Norma’s song feels like a mission statement By putting her on stage the creators are looking Dead End fans right in the eye and being honest about the power that they hold, and the ways they can bring this amazing feeling to fans that they are being seen, maybe for the first time ever. And as a trans, neurodivergent Jew, I saw so many parts of myself in this show that I never thought I would.

After a chaotic day of reigning in a crowd of abandoned park mascots wraps up, Norma confronts Barney about the fact that he’s started living in the basement of the haunted house where they work The park is a home to Norma, who delights in knowing the grounds inside and out, finding affirmation in her hyperfixation as a neurodivergent person So when Barney says that this is the first place where he’s ever felt like he could truly be himself, Norma questions him, saying “But that’s how I feel. I didn’t think you cared about the park.” “It’s not the park,” he replies. “It’s me. I’m trans, Norma, and everyone at home knows and everyone at school knows, and being here, it’s like a whole new place I can just be Barney, and I can choose if and when I tell people I’ve never been happier, and that’s saying something when I spent the day being chased by terrifying zombie mascots.”

Dead End’s mash up of spooky theme park hijinks and genuine love for queer found families says that nothing is ever simple that you can get the good with the bad, the weird and confusing with the euphoric. Coming out, even just to yourself is recognizing that the world is more lovely and complicated than most of us were taught it is Especially as trans people, when we say who we are it can break down our world around us and lead us to build unexpected new homes. That sort of dark uncanny humor feels very familiar to me as a Jewish and queer person. I know what it’s like to have family tell you they love you in the same breath that they say something antithetical to your existence To feel like when you walk into a room, people’s boxes spill open in front of you and you’re just wading around with them piecing it together. I know what it’s like to find new homes in the oddest and queerest of places, to carve out hope in places you didn’t think were possible. And now, because of Dead End, I know what it’s like to see a Fat, gay, Jewish trans teen dream about smashing a glass at his wedding with his coworker crush, with his friends cheering him on the whole way I know what it’s like to see him know that he deserves better than conditional acceptance and find a home for himself, and have those tough, necessary conversations with friends like Norma about how to best make them feel seen too.

So when Dead End creator Hamish Steele says that “the queer element of the show isn’t just meant to be the representation. It’s kind of meant to be in the structure and the bones of the show a little bit,” he means it.

Art by Fayvel

But see, it’s difficult to get children into gardening it’s a laborious task with no initial rewards. So, as my incentive, my parents would string a bead like charm on every new stem and branch that would extend its fingers to the sky a chinese letter, a glittery rainbow, the Star of David. Everyone was happy I got to obsess over the fruits of my labor, and my parents got to watch me bloom the buds of my identity.

It’s a subtle irony because we cannot rid ourselves of the trinkets we strung to ourselves as a child, only to be stuck listening to their clinging, like windchimes, evermore.

Because when the weeds take over, and bury these bead like charms in their wrath, and the roots of poppies and bells intermingle, and the only thing that people see is the muddled mess of my garden’s death, well safety scissors just don’t cut it anymore.

My identity grows on a plot of dirt in my childhood backyard.

Each blossom was a constellation, and each charm held my pride. Yes, it was wonderful, until it began to die.

There’s a rule, somewhere in the Jewish doctrine, about leaving the world as I entered. Tattoos are marks of transgression, a sin they tarnish us

I am Jewish at least in the places it counts. But diversity is an anomaly, and I’m the sore, green thumb

The Garden

Halle S. (she/her)

My Judaism’s muddled by the in between of other things Mom’s birthplace, romantic tastes, being a female in this rotten place It’s so jumbled that my Judaism’s another chain around my neck.

I am Askenazi. And a woman, Taiwanese, Queer. With the help of Holy Days, Chinese New Year Parades, I kept my plants contained. The flowers came as poppies and Canterbury bells.

It’s a choker, throttling me as another weed in my garden of identity. These growths sprout so high they spiral up and out of sight. I don’t know why but My Judaism became another dead thing that, in my panic, I cut from its stem Burying it in the weed infested mud.

As a kid, my parents stood, cloudlike, above me, helping me foster this garden, prompting the flowers to grow They bought me a watering can embellished with polka dots, red on blue, and safety scissors for the undergrowththere weren’t so many weeds, back then

No I’m not a master gardener Because my garden of flowers is mostly weeds for now. It’s unorganized and untamed and unorthodox and unnamed. And even if I can’t distinguish between the marigolds and dandelions, at least it’s, blissfully, my own.

In fact, the roots penetrate deeper than the tangled petals touching stems on the surface. And a denial of that part of me ingrained in me well, then it’s stopping me from making my garden complete.

See, I realized that flowers that share the same plot of land on my life’s territory will grow together, no matter what I do. I am not less Jewish because the flowers aren’t visible

Recently, I was weeding my plot of dirt when I uncovered the Star of David from its grave

...

But I’m in college now. And I bought myself some new tools, new seeds marigolds and begonias, the small wishes in dandelions. I’m trying to take better care of my garden

One of my new marigolds had begun peaking its head from the Earth, and I slid the sterling silver charm over the stem like a necklace

Looking at me, well, no one would be able to tell, anyway

It’s not a reparation, really, but a promise. Because no matter the cold winter, the brutality of the weeds, these new flowers are perennial.

Rivka (they/them) 44

And with the chains at their necks and their stems grown high, my garden will always come back.

45 First Week Halle S. (she/her)

Sharing poems like secrets, hug like peaches, sandy beaches These connections aren’t quite but transcending, past the cords of protectors, the static of pirated horror movies. My footing’s steady, ears pink fr The ice is thawing for this gliste spring, and this secret labyrinth grows known to me.

The ambiance of an ancient library, A school of secrets, wheels on concrete; Nothing more’s completing me than Anticipations of tailgates, midnight movies, The uncut tension of backpack s creasing shoulder skin We’re all special here. I’d like to spend my life here, in the in between, the raspberry of a new friend, the biting stare of another, I’m slipp the half-icy state, trembling on skates of the beginning of a chapter th want to end. We’re the strangers in this in be brushing limbs, not quite touch Scared of closing the space, for fear of clo the book of beginnings.

Aryeh (they/th

i am from the soot that sleeps in your fireplace, empty and useless during the summer. from the pictures that hang on your walls, reminiscent from when times weren't so rough. i am from the kiss you placed on that girl’s lips, giggling and murmuring to each other about your first kiss, your first love. i’m from that quaint space in the back of your mind, nagging at you that you aren’t like the others, and you never will be

i’m from the abundance of yard sales your family’s hosted, the long, jewish noses and olive skin that you’ve felt ashamed of having. i’m from the pennies and lint you’ve strained for in the cushions of the couch seat to hunt down the ice cream truck.

i’m from the burnt toast and twelve cent juice boxes that you downed those humid summers ago i’m from the depths of your swimming pool, watching as you toss pebbles down to me and hop in to retrieve them.

i’m from the dying dew of the grass in your aunt’s yard, and the plastic wrap blanketing your great uncle’s dining room chairs

from the dread that churs in your stomach as you watch your parents fret over the antisemitism that blemished your driveway, and the adrenaline that ignites a fire in the pit of your stomach as your sister murmurs to you about the presents she saw in your parents’ closet. i am from the unleavened bread your family consumes on the holidays, and the confections that you hurl towards your relatives as they finish their torah reading

i am from the wrestling event your father missed for your birth, and the corpses that lay still in concentration camps from the bare feet that scrambled through the mud and mumbled broken slavic and yiddish to one another as they traveled to america.

i’m also from outer space, because when people look at me, they act as though i’m an alien

from the eye your great grandfather lost in a plane crash, and the nick on the bridge of your father’s nose from that seatbelt many years ago, and the coincidence that you’d get the same scar decades later.

i am from the kid that wears the plaid jacket each day, and wore nothing but combat boots until their fifteenth birthday at school. i am from the kid that sits in their bed each night and wonders where it all went wrong.

you missed a few, by the way i’m from the bottom of the rubbish bin, along with the foiled hopes and dreams six year old you would’ve loved to accomplish.

Where I'm From Tsipporah (they/them)

i am from MIDNIGHT WALKS from Candid Polaroids and ill fitting clothing i am from the thread of that battered jacket your mother gave you; my plaid material soft, yet permeated with each windy morning and each frigid night.

i am from the space beneath your bubbe’s glass table, and the crevices of your childhood bedsheets. from the holes of where you stuck tacks in the wall, pinning in posters and calendars to the blue ish walls in your bedroom i am from the boxes jammed against one another on the shelf in your closet, and i’m from each and every memory inside those boxes.

When he finally reached the bathroom, all he could think about was why he was born the way he was, even if that wasn't who he wanted to be? As Caden stood in front of the mirror, he felt like he was looking at a completely different person. This was because Caden generally didn't feel comfortable with who he was looking at in the mirror, and couldn't do anything but judge himself. "Why do I have to be so...masculine? What is the point of my existence if I can never show who I truly am to everyone?..," Caden whispered with tiny droplets racing down his face. After he began to calm down, he slowly wiped the tears off his face, and exited the bathroom. Even though Caden was often sad, he was exceptionally great at pretending to be joyful/upbeat. As he walked down the hallway towards his classroom, he took time to notice how unsanitary the hallways were, with scattered papers, candy wrappers, trash that had fallen out of the trash cans, school supplies falling out of open lockers, etc., and he was beginning to think that the administration of the school should take it into consideration to hire a new (and possibly more experienced) janitor. After some very harsh criticism about the school health violations, he got to his classroom and sat next to his best friend whose name was Amy. Amy usually stuck up for Caden when he was mentally abused by the other students, which she has been doing since the start of kindergarten. She was very kind hearted and very pretty. Amy had hair the color of chocolate that was mainly worn in a ponytail, unless it was a special occasion. And that day, she was wearing her special lifeguard hoodie that she got for her birthday. After taking his seat, he looked up at the teacher to see what he had missed while he was in the bathroom. As he took notes on the science video about bees and pollination, he began to wonder, "Is there a way I could become a girl?..." The moment he got home, he began researching how you can change your gender. And the first thing that came up was a article about what it means to be transgender. After researching for a while, Caden had all of the information he needed, but then he got nervous about how his family and his school would feel. And that's when he started panicking, fearing what might happen if he opens up to his family, friends and teacher. So to be safe, he decided to to tell his family or school about what he was going through, to be on the safe side. But even though he thought this was what was best for him and the other people in his life, keeping his true feelings inside made him feel even worse than before, since all he wanted to do was cry for hours, knowing that as long as he doesn't share his secret, he will never be able to be himself.

What Lies Within Anonymous (she/her)

As tears took over Caden's life, there was one helping hand that would lift his spirit. And that was Amy. As he began to realize how Amy treated him despite the fact that he wasn't a true boy, he wanted to tell everyone how he felt, to be seen and heard. At home, Caden began to get anxious, thinking about all of the possible reactions that could come from his grandparents. "Grandma, grandpa, l need to tell you something. Caden muttered with butterflies in his stomach. "Of course, what is it?" his grandma said with softness and curiosity within her voice. And that's when Caden's biggest secret came out of his mouth in the snap of a finger. "I am a girl, and I can't go on living like a boy, I don't care if you accept me or not, I just need to tell you about my true feelings." After a moment of silence, Caden felt true defeat. Until, his grandparents silently hugged him, with joy filling the room. "We will always accept you, no matter who or what you are." Caden's grandparents softly replied with sincerity in their eyes. "What would you like to be named?" Caden's grandpa asked. After a bit of thought, he thought of something. "I think I have the perfect name." Kayla answered with a wide smile. After discussing Kayla's name, the beginning of Kayla's journey began, with new clothes, pronouns and overall identity. As Kayla announced to the class what this meant, all of her classmates accepted her for who she was, even if it meant they would have to say goodbye to Caden. "Mrs. Levre, may I use the bathroom, please?" Kayla asked. "Of course, just make sure to be quick." Mrs. Levre approved as Kayla exited the classroom. As Kayla entered the bathroom, the first thing she did was look in the mirror. And for the first time in her life, she actually cherished what she was looking at.

48 Sydney (she/her)

My queerness is in the skirt a roommate gave me in Israel coupled with a necklace of ruined words from a rabbanit, in the story of Zeitl and Rickel, in some painful lines highlighted in my Tanakh. My queerness is in my knowledge of the lines on the gemara daf.

Queerness and Jewishness is inextricably linked. My love for women is etched deep in my Shema. Shema Yisrael Listen, O Israel, to my love.

Queer Jews.

So. Inextricably linked. In what prayer can my queerness be found? In the Shemoneh Esrei, in that little space where my own tefillah can be inserted? In the way I stand, swaying to and fro where I had once swayed side to side as a little girl, because I had thought that a woman was supposed to sway side to side, that shokeling was for men, and we women had something different?

My queerness is in nothing if not in my Judaism. My queerness would not be without my Judaism. My queerness would be so much louder without my Judaism.

Jewish and Queer (Queer and Jewish)

Anonymous (she/her)

My queerness would have no voice without my Judaism.

That’s not right. I don’t connect the shema to my sexuality, any more than I connect any thing or word in my life to my sexuality. It is a part of me but not the whole of me.

My queerness is in my Torah learning. My queerness is in David and Yehonatan, not in them but in the centuries of queer Jews relating their queerness to these two men whose relationship perhaps existed beyond the English words we have today. My queerness is in Reish Lakish and Rav Yochanan, two married men. My queerness is in holding hands under the table in gemara class.

50 Lillian (they/she)

Of 12:00 AM secrets and 2:00 AM tears

B (they/them) 51

Asher Yatzar

Blessed is He who made this body and called it whole Who built it queer and trans and disabled and called it good Whose image is expansive enough to hold all of my contradictions All of my broken All of my bruised I daven the tefillah of childhood’s skinned knees And the crooked growing of queer adolescence Of a gender constructed on what was missing (only here it can be counted)

Of the slow assembly of a holy place In which all of me can dwell Blessed are you Hashem, who calls this hollow body holy

James (he/him)

Ilya (he/him) 52

“At the Intersection of Queer and Jewish” is Keshet’s first collaborative project in the form of a zine that features content created by and for LGBTQ+ Jewish youth and young adults. Over the course of two months, we received submissions from LGBTQ+ Jewish creators between the ages of 13 and 24. These creations are about their experiences being Jewish and LGBTQ+, as well as experiences of Jews of Color, Jews by choice, disabled Jews, and Jews from multifaith backgrounds. Our goal is to celebrate all of the creative youth in our Keshet community and to uplift their experiences by featuring them within this zine. www.keshetonline.org • info@keshetonline.org

Cover by B (they/them)