All vows I have made thoughtlessly,
all promises I have made carelessly,
all times I swore to God, up and down, on a stack of bibles,
all expectations I have set, knowing I would probably not be able to fulfill them,
all times I said “No problem” when I should have laid down a boundary,
all times I tried too hard to please others when I should have taken care of myself,
all times I swore without meaning it,
all oaths I took, using foul language when it was not warranted,
all times I poured out my wrath on undeserving people,
all times I exploded with rage and let innocent bystanders get hurt by the splash damage,
all times I spoke recklessly and without heed for the consequences of my words—
—may I be forgiven to You,
but even more, may I also be able to forgive myself.
All vows I have made thoughtlessly,
For Jews, the beginning of the New Year is the season of repentance and forgiveness. Judaism tends to make a big deal of teaching that forgiveness can only come once you have reconciled with the person who wronged you. I have seen this often translate into pressure on people who have been abused, in many different fashions, to forgive their abusers.
Let me make this clear: You absolutely do not need to forgive your abuser.
The rhetoric of forgiveness in this world today is such that it can be employed as a bludgeon against victims of abuse. “You need to forgive your abuser so you can both move on with your lives.” “You’ll feel better about yourself if you forgive them.” “You’re too invested in your victimhood to see the bigger picture.” “Your abuser is a human being too, with feelings.”
Otherwise well-meaning people easily fall into this “both sides” trap, which warps and inverts the actual nature of abuse and victimization. I’ve seen this happen more times than I can remember. It’s insidious, and abuse victims aren’t immune to it—or to pontificating about it to others: Charles Blow valorizes this attitude in an otherwise decent New York Times article in today’s Sunday review: “I had to stop hating Chester to start loving myself. Forgiveness was freedom. I simply had to let go of my past so that I could step into my future.” As a victim of abuse myself, these words are incredibly chilling to me.
If you achieve personal liberation or wholeness some clearer sense of being right with the world through forgiving your abuser, that’s fantastic, and I, honestly and sincerely, am really happy for you. However, I cannot get behind the ideology that says that this is the way you must be in order to be a good right-thinking human being. That perspective does victims of abuse a disservice: it tells us that our feelings are not real, that our abusers’ feelings are more important than the pain and destruction they caused. It tells us that we are without worth on our own, outside of reference to our abusers. It tells us that we will always be victims, and then berates us for “desiring victimhood”. It tells us that we are incomplete, that we are fundamentally broken people, that we deserved to be abused because we are not good enough to be the kind of person who would forgive their abuser!
This attitude subverts healing. It turns victimhood on its head. It is toxic, harmful, and destructive. Victims of abuse are valid, and their feelings and experiences are real. You are not required to forgive your abuser. Period. Full stop. End of story.
Judaism traditionally divides wrongdoings into two categories: bein adam la-makom “between a human being and God”, and bein adam le-ḥaveiro, “between a human being and their fellow”. The Mishnah famously states that Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, grants forgiveness for wrongdoings that are of the first category, but as for wrongdoings that are of the second category, you cannot be right with God until you are right with the other person.
On the face of it, this sounds good, because it seems to shift the responsibility to the person who has wronged another to make things right. But it is too often subverted to shift the responsibility the other way: it makes the wronged party responsible for absolving the person who wronged them. With abuse, when you shift responsibility for forgiveness to the abused person, you place them in an untenable situation, and you make an already bad situation worse.
Again, if this is your path to fulfillment, more power to you. But if you valorize it or exalt it or hold it up as an example to be followed or make it a mandatory requirement for people who have been abused to forgive their abusers, you might think you are doing good, but you are in fact doing harm.
May this season of repentance and forgiveness bring us closer to truth with ourselves. May those of us who have been abused find healing in whatever way is right for us, and may we all have the equanimity to not force our particular way upon others.
G’mar ḥatimah tovah—may we be inscribed and sealed for a good year.
When allistic (i.e. not autistic) people ask me to describe what it’s like to live in my brain, the brain of this one particular autistic person that I am, I often respond in the following way:
I didn’t get the owner’s manual, so I don’t have what to fall back on when I don’t know what to do.
Everyone else got the owner’s manual. Other people know how to look things up in it to discover things or check things or reassure themselves they’re doing things right. Other people know how to answer the persistent voices in the back of their mind that question their social interactions. “Did I shake that person’s hand too long?” “Did I say ‘hi’ when I should have said ‘hello’?” “Did I say ‘goodbye’ enough times before hanging up the phone?” They might not know the answers, but they know how to find out.
I don’t, by default, know how to find out. I haven’t got the owner’s manual. I have had to learn, by memorization and rote, what the answers are. And when I don’t know them, I have no backup plan. So I often shut down, because it’s the only option left to me.
If you had to learn social skills consciously, by memorization and rote, and are locked in constant battle with the voices in the back of your mind that question your every move, my heart goes out to you. I have been there; I am still there; I will always be there. Some days, things come more naturally. Some days, my fear gets the better of me, and I lose that battle.
I haven’t got an owner’s manual, and my brain is always in a constant low-level state of heightened anxiety over that fact. “Did I do that right just now?” it usually wonders. If I am functioning well at a given time, my brain will try to be a step ahead: “What do I want to do next? How do I do that right?” And I had to consciously memorize, often by trial and error, the answers to these questions. But if I’m not functioning as well, my brain will be reactive rather than proactive, and I will panic, I will become less verbal (this includes signing), I will start to shut down.
I am faking it. Some days I fake it better than others. We’re all like this, to some extent. But for me, when I can’t fake it, I don’t have the same recourse everyone else has got. I haven’t got the owner’s manual.
When you’re at a fireworks show, and it ends, do you immediately leave? No, you stare at the sky for a few more moments, watching the trailing ends of the pieces of the explosions dissipate and fall. When you’re at a sports game, and your team wins, at the end of the game, do you immediately turn around and leave (assuming you didn’t bug out early to beat the traffic)? No, you watch the field for a few more moments, and then you leave, hoping a player or two will come out and wave to the crowd. When you’re at a concert, and the music ends, do you pick up and walk away? No, you applaud, and you hope that the performer will come back for a curtain call, or maybe, if you’re lucky, a virtuoso encore.
Part of what your mind is doing in these situations is making sure that what you thought you saw is real. The reason we go to watch things like fireworks and sports and concerts is that they impress us with feats that are beyond the abilities of ordinary folks and ordinary events. They are experiences that transcends what is an ordinary part of our lives.
Turn back the clock thousands of years. The most important, most impressive fireworks display, sports match, concert in history is happening at Har Sinai: headlined by an appearance of none other than the one, the only God. Fire and thunder and the blast of trumpets and God speaking out of the clouds surrounding the mountain. Now, if you had been standing with Am Yisra’el—the Israelite people—there, when the spectacle was finally over, would you have ever wanted to leave?
Sefer Devarim, the book of Deuteronomy, which we start this Shabbat, begins with exactly this situation. The awe-inspiring theophany is over, and God finally calls it closing time: “God spoke to us at Ḥoreb, saying: Long enough you have been dwelling at this mountain. Turn away, and take your journey” (1:6–7), going through all these different places, until you finally get to the promised land.
We didn’t want to leave. Indeed, how could we have? What the Torah is saying here is: “You’ve been here long enough; it’s time to move on to what’s next.” Which means wandering through the desert for forty years, followed by entry into an uncertain land, war, and the establishment of a stable, society and government.
Rabbinic tradition refers to Sefer Devarim as mishneh Torah, which means something like “the restatement of the Law” or “the recapitulation of the Torah”. The English name for Devarim, “Deuteronomy”, derives from the Greek version of this name as well: deutero- “second” + nomos “law”. Biblical scholarship has been fairly clear for several centuries that this book was not composed by the same minds that wrote the first four books of the Torah, but by a completely different person or school of people. We refer to the composer or composers of Deuteronomy as D. D is also almost certainly responsible for the composition and redaction of the Book of Joshua as well, making it common in scholarly circles to refer not to the Pentateuch but to the Tetrateuch (Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers) and the Hexateuch (the Tetrateuch but including Deuteronomy and Joshua).
Sefer Devarim is structured as Moshe’s farewell oration to Am Yisra’el: Moshe is nearing the end of his days, and he recapitulates the story of the people’s journeys through the wilderness. But this speech, somewhat remarkably, does not start with the story of the revelation at Sinai, but of what happens immediately after that. The first thing Moses says is “God says: You’ve been here long enough, now start going.” Then, for the rest of the parashah, this week’s Torah portion, we get the story of the spies sent to check out the land and long summaries of several battles and wars the Israelites fought against other tribes. This parashah has a military focus, plain and simple. We don’t even get to the recapitulation of the Aseret Ha-Dib’rot, the Ten Statements given during the theophany at Sinai, until next week’s parashah. What does this mean?
The Lubavitcher Rebbe answers this question by returning to the theme with which we began. He asks what the Torah means when God instructs the Israelites to leave the mountain which they have stayed “too long” at. “In our lives,” he says, “we also have moments, days or years of revelation, times when we learn and grow and are enriched. But the purpose must always be to move on, move away, and carry the enlightenment and enrichment to someplace else—some corner of creation that awaits redemption.”
The journey may not necessarily be the reward, but it can be as important as what came before it and what came after. Sefer Devarim is, at its core, about the transition of the Israelite people from a state of unreadiness to one of readiness: readiness to enter the land, to form a civilization, to behave in a way governed by law intended for goodness. Too long, God reminds us, have we lingered at the mountain; the time has come for us to take steps away from it and grow.
We are currently in the midst of the Nine Days before Tisha B’Av, the fast day when we commemorate the destruction of the Beit Ha-Mik’dash, the Temple in Jerusalem two and a half thousand years ago. Jewish tradition teaches us that the Beit Ha-Mik’dash was destroyed because of sin’at ḥinam, baseless hatred. Right now, with the war and destruction going on in Gaza and Israel, it seems especially appropriate to recall the seductive and destructive power of baseless hatred. Too long have we lingered at the mountain of complacency, in a state of spiritual and moral unreadiness. Let us take this lesson to heart and take a step away from that mountain, to renew our spiritual growth on the journey towards liberation and peace.
Wisdom from my brother Reuven.
Originally posted on eish zarah:
The first haftarah of Admonition
The haftarah of Mattot
I was at Shabbat morning services holding the torah during the reading of the haftarah and this is what formed in my mind.
O sovereign god!
I do not know how to speak,
For I am still a boy.
And The Name said to me:
Do not say “I am still a boy.”
The Name who formed me in the womb
Formed me anew,
The ה of the sacred name
Was added to me.
And I was no longer na’ar,
But a na’arah.
I could no longer say “I am still a boy,”
For I was a girl.
For my sister, Emily Aviva, because she is a prophetess and my Rabbah.
As I write this, another day is breaking in the Middle East. The conflict in between Israel and Hamas in Gaza is looking more and more like a full-fledged war with every passing hour. And I feel powerless.
Like many folks, I’m sure, I have had to avoid talking too much about what’s going on in Gaza because of an overwhelming sense of futility. Discussing it, by and large, seems to be a losing proposition.
Powerlessness in the face of destruction, in the face of death, in the face of a seemingly uncaring world that is too big for us to change, is not new; it has existed as long as there has been a world bigger than our own selves. Daniel, revered as a prophet by Jews, Christians, and Muslims, was carried into captivity in Babylonia by Nebuchadnezzar, and in 586 BCE Jerusalem was sacked and destroyed. In the Biblical book which bears his name, Daniel laments his own powerlessness, and that of humanity in general, and in the form of a prayer asks God to take action:
God, incline Your ear and hear, open Your eyes and see our anguish and the desolation of the city which You have called by Your name. For we do not make our supplication to You relying on our own merit, but on Your great mercy. God, hear! God, forgive! God, listen without delay! For Your sake, my God; for it is Your name by which Your people and Your city are known. (Daniel 9:18–19)
I think this is a fascinating theological conceit. I see it in a similar tradition to how Abraham and Moses talked to God, bargaining with God, appealing not to their own merit but to why God might want to act: because all of the horrible stuff going on down below on earth reflects poorly on God above. After all, it was God who caused God’s own name to be called in the same breath as God’s creation—God’s city, God’s world, and the inhabitants of that world who call upon God for their deliverance.
It is frustrating for people like me to be sitting where we are now: in privilege and comfort in our homes, with roofs over our heads and reliable supplies of water and electricity, the sounds of gunfire and bombs not keeping us awake at night, with our families not being threatened and injured and killed, seemingly for no reason, with no way to stop it, no recourse. For us, we feel powerless, and we feel impotent. We may not be able to affect change in the Middle East except very, very distantly and indirectly: does anyone really think that, say, if I refrain from buying a SodaStream it will save the life of people in Gaza, or if I write a postcard to Israeli soldiers it will help somehow, or if I stay up until four o’clock in the morning arguing on the Internet with friends and strangers I will actually convince anyone else? And if I did, what would it avail us?
Where I find hope is in our own lives, our own communities, our own souls. The best we can do, I feel, is to channel our frustration into something productive. We may not be able to do much about the world writ large, but we can do something about our world. Give homeless folks some money instead of storming past them and averting their eyes. Put in a few hours volunteering at the food bank. Pick up some trash from the street. Gather in community. Make some art, write a poem, sing a song. Turn off your mobile phone for a while and sit in silence.
The great rabbi and social activist Abraham Joshua Heschel says that Shabbat—the Sabbath—is an island in time. He doesn’t mean that it is isolated from time; it is not something you can step out of this world to go to. The temporal world still exists, and it still affects our lives. We still have to live in that world even as we try to take a step back from it on Shabbat. What Heschel means is that in the sacred space of Shabbat we can find each other and ourselves, and we can take the energy and the spirit and the beauty that we create by our presence together on Shabbat back out into the world after Shabbat.
That’s where I find hope for us: not in screaming matches on social media, not in guns or bombs, and not in wallowing in our own powerlessness. but in community, in the redemptive power of the self and the soul. We may not be able to change the world writ large, but we can do our best to change our world. It’s a thankless task, and the overwhelming chance is that we will only see small, incremental change—if any—in our own lifetimes. But it is holy work, sacred work. It is not our duty to finish the task, as the rabbinic ethical text Pirkei Avot says, but we are not free to refrain from trying. Doing that work, changing our world—that is how peace begins.
Originally posted on no power in the 'verse:
The oft-quoted Leviticus 19:18, “וְאָהַבְתָּ לְרֵעֲךָ כָּמוֹךָ– love thy neighbor as thyself,” literarily comes to summarize a list of how to set up your world to be a just one, where the vulnerable are protected and the powerful have their privilege checked.
One of the specifics in the section is לֹא-תְקַלֵּל חֵרֵשׁ–וְלִפְנֵי עִוֵּר, לֹא תִתֵּן מִכְשֹׁל, “Do not curse the deaf nor put a stumbling-block before the blind,” verse 14. This verse, especially the bit about the stumbling block and the blind, is quote frequently in halakhic literature as a shorthand for entrapment, luring someone into sin. For example, an adult is forbidden to hit their parent, that is a matter of law. The parent, though, should not hit their adult child lest the child be tempted to hit back — that is a matter of lifnei iver…
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Yesterday, the Huffington Post Gay Voices (HuffPostGay) approvingly posted a video “critiquing” the “language policing” of some transgender activists—particularly Parker Marie Molloy—in reference to us, you know, not wanting to be called slurs by the drag community, in particular RuPaul’s Drag Race.
The video in question, by drag “artist” Alaska Thunderfuck, “humorously” depicts trans women as men in bad wigs with mustaches. But the “parody” of the video consists in showing a drag queen shooting a trans woman. As “parody”. The trans woman in question is a really blatantly obvious parody of Parker (and denied to be so, which is laughable).
HuffPostGay did eventually take it down and issue a pretty standard nonpology. But the damage had been done—and exacerbated.
When HuffPostGay approvingly posted this video yesterday, a number of trans women and our allies, myself included, called out the editor, Noah Michelson, for not just allowing but celebrating this shit on the website. And he doubled down: “I stand by my convictions,” he said. “You can’t shame me with your Twitter games … we both know I’m not the enemy.”
No, Noah, you are the enemy. When trans women ask cis gay men to respect us and afford us just a little human fucking decency by not using slurs or portraying us as men in bad wigs, that’s “homophobic”. When you approvingly link to a video depicting a trans woman getting shot simply for the lulz, you are the enemy. When your convictions include being offended that trans women are daring to ask for a little respect, you’re the enemy. And when you double down and attack trans women for standing up to you, rather than listening and learning, you are the enemy.
Let’s be clear: the damage was done only partly by the video itself, and only partly by the initial refusal of HuffPostGay to do anything about it, and only partly by the flippancy with which Noah Michelson replied to the people who were actually hurt by it. The root of this damage isn’t even really in “drag culture” particularly and it can’t really be laid specifically at RuPaul’s feet. The root of this damage is transmisogyny: it is the assumption that trans women are deceptive, that we are subhuman, that we deserve to be treated with disrespect and harmed and killed. Transmisogyny means that when cis gay men punch down at us, we deserve what we get. Transmisogyny means that when trans women speak up and ask for a little consideration as human beings, it’s “edgy” and “funny” to show us getting shot. All this other shit is smoke. It’s a symptom of the place trans women are told we ought to be occupying in the “queer community”—how much the more so when being a trans woman intersects with other marginalized identities. We are targets, and being a target is funny.
Cis gays, this is why we mistrust you. It’s time for y’all to pick a side. Your silence, your complacency, is hurting us. It’s killing us. Wake the fuck up to your self-appointed leadership and actually be our allies. Speak up about this. Educate yourselves and learn. Spend some time listening to us and think before you use the t-word slur or link to a video like this. Silence is complicity. Don’t be like that. Please. We’re dying here. Really.
This is one of my favorite bits of Greek philosophical literature. I too wish to be purple.
Διὰ τί; ὅτι σὺ σεαυτὸν ἡγῇ μίαν τινὰ εἶναι κρόκην τῶν ἐκ τοῦ χιτῶνος. τί οὖν; σὲ ἔδει φροντίζειν πῶς ἀνόμοιος ᾖς τοῖς ἄλλοις ἀνθρώποις, ὥσπερ οὐδ᾽ ἡ κρόκη πρὸς τὰς ἄλλας κρόκας θέλει τι ἔχειν ἐξαίρετον. ἐγὼ δὲ πορφύρα εἶναι βούλομαι, τὸ ὀλίγον ἐκεῖνο καὶ στιλπνὸν καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις αἴτιον τοῦ εὐπρεπῆ φαίνεσθαι καὶ καλά. τί οὖν μοι λέγεις ὅτι Ἐξομοιώθητι τοῖς πολλοῖς; καὶ πῶς ἔτι πορφύρα ἔσομαι;
Think of yourself as one thread in the cloth of a toga. One white thread is not distinguished from any other. And just so, you could live your life and be indistinguishable from everybody else. But I wish to be purple, a small bright-colored thread, which makes all the rest appear graceful and beautiful. Why should I make myself like everybody else? If I did, how would I still be purple?
From Epictetus’ Discourses, 1.17–18, my translation.
Noted philosopher, cultural critic, and bestower of opinions about things he really doesn’t understand Slavoj Žižek wrote a piece in that bastion of people opining about things they don’t really understand, the Guardian‘s “Comment is Free” section, in which he waxes morally and intellectually superior about the fiasco surrounding the “sign language” “interpreter” at Nelson Mandela’s memorial service who was spouting repetitive nonsense. Žižek’s point is that sign language interpreters in general serve but one purpose: to make hearing people feel better about themselves by appearing inclusive. And furthermore, what this guy did doesn’t really matter anyway, because the service was just a bunch of bullshit anyway, so having a bullshit interpreter was completely appropriate! In this understanding, the message the event sent was this: We tried to appear inclusive of Deaf people, so you should be thanking us for that, but what was actually said was complete bullshit anyway so you didn’t actually miss anything!
How wrong Žižek is. How incredibly, damagingly wrong he is. He so casually dismisses the whole idea of having sign language interpreters at all, because it’s not like those Deaf and hard of hearing and hearing-impaired and other folks who depend on signing for their communication would actually like to, you know, participate in anything. Interpreters are there simply to make hearing people feel good about themselves. That’s all. What a cynical and terribly damaging way to look at things this is. In my own life, I need an interpreter to be able to understand and participate fully in events where there is a speaker speaking to a group of people. I am okay in one-on-one conversations, and if there’s some people gathered around a table or whatever, I can usually hold my own, but with varying degrees of success. Lipreading in any modality other than straight looking at someone’s face that’s not too far away is an incredible feat. (The movie 2001 makes a plot point out of HAL’s ability to read lips in profile, which—even though it’s science fiction—is nearly impossible.) But if it’s any larger than that—say, a memorial service—I need a sign language interpreter. It’s that simple.
I would bet Žižek didn’t think to check with any Deaf people or anyone who depends on sign language in order to communicate before writing this piece of shit assumption about our lives. Because to do so would have required him to step out of his customary intellectual arrogance and actually take other people’s lived experiences seriously, which is something that Academia™ sees itself as above. Žižek is simply the latest person to do this at the expense of marginalized people he knows nothing about. And the jab at the end (“you didn’t really miss much anyway because this was all just bullshit theatre”) just adds to the insult. Academia doesn’t give two shits about marginalized people except insofar as they can use us to promote their pet theories.
This is a much larger problem than this one article by this one intellectual. This is a problem with the epistemology of marginalization as envisioned in the academy in general. That last sentence is a fancy was of saying that privileged people, by and large cis, white, able-bodied, middle-class men, believe they already know everything about everyone else’s lives, so they can go off and work on their big, grand theories, and us marginalized people should just shut up and be grateful that we’re even being mentioned in the conversation at all. One sees this when we white people talk about race rather than listening to what people of color are telling us. One sees this in “gender studies” departments, where the identities of transgender people are discussed and poked and prodded and sliced apart without the participation or input of a single one of us. This is a problem with how academia looks at the lives and the experiences of marginalized people in general. Žižek’s piece is simply the latest incarnation of this problem.
The whole point of sign language interpreters is to include and enable the participation of more voices (note the audist assumptions behind that last word) than would otherwise be able to be included. I understand that interpreters are expensive and sometimes difficult to procure, but if your event doesn’t have an interpreter, I will not be able to participate as fully as I otherwise might be able to. And I’m pretty lucky: I will probably be able to participate somewhat. There are many of us out there who can’t. That’s what interpreters are there for, Slavoj. They—and we—are not there so that you can make your theoretical points while completely disregarding us and our actual lived experiences. They—and we—are not props for you to make rhetorical arguments out of while simultaneously dismissing the whole institution as the “pretense of meaning”.
Next time, ask some actual, factual Deaf people about our own goddamn lives. Then shut up and let us speak—or sign.