A Place to Call Home: Finding Peace in My Queer Jewish Identity

By Brittany Weinstein

When my family celebrates Hanukkah, I know two things to be true every year: I will eat entirely too much and I will be interrogated like a criminal suspect. I don’t have a single family member or Jewish friend who hasn’t been asked, “So when are you going to marry a nice Jewish boy?” What am I supposed to say to that? “Well bubbe, I actually have a live-in girlfriend. We’ve been together for five years. We sleep in the same bed. Oh yeah, and she’s Hispanic. Could you pass me the farfel, please?” Instead, every time, I grit my teeth and mention, “I’m just really focusing on my career right now.”

It’s not that the more reform sects of Judaism outright ban queerness. I mean, modernly speaking, Jews run pretty left. So why haven’t I been able to sit at a seder table and speak honestly about my life with my family? I’ve been out at work and to my friends and immediate family since I was about 16. Why has it taken an extra seven years to come out to my entire Jewish family?

I grew up in a pretty conservative suburb outside of Houston. There were churches seemingly at every intersection. Each house was identical and contained two kids, a mom, and a dad. I didn’t even realize I was Jewish until my parents’ divorce. I’d visit my dad’s family for Jewish holidays and temple, but celebrated Christian holidays at my mom’s. Before that, I thought every family just celebrated dozens of holidays every year—that everyone had a menorah and a Christmas tree. It wasn’t until I was about six or seven that I learned I had a Christian family and a Jewish family.

My high school had close to 5,000 students. I was one of just three Jewish students that I knew of, one of which was my brother. Being Jewish in a school full of mostly Christian teenagers already labels you as “different.” With a last name like Weinstein, I never stood a chance of flying under the radar. Strangers knew me as “the Jewish girl” before they knew me as Britt. How could I come out as a lesbian when I was already different? Being a  “k***” on top of a “dyke” would provide too much name-calling ammunition for any high school bully. This fear kept me in the closet, denying my identity, for years.

I suppose I always thought that being gay somehow made me less Jewish. I thought that by being one, intrinsically, I could not be the other. Identity issues plagued my sense of self, sexuality, and spirituality. I just wanted to know my labels and to stop questioning myself. “Am I really gay?” “Am I Jewish enough?” “Would I have to sacrifice one identity for the other?” As I got older, the answers to these questions evaded me more and more. I knew that I was gay, but I didn’t know what that really meant or what that entailed. Let’s face it, being queer can be tough. Being queer while trying to understand your place in the religious world is outright perplexing. I thought that maybe if I could find a sense of belonging within my Jewish community, it would somehow lead to a renewed sense of self worth. To do that, however, I assumed I’d have to abandon my sense of self to be “a good Jewish girl” and find my “nice Jewish boy.” It never occurred to me that the intersection of my sexuality and my spirituality could reinforce my identity and my agency. I’d always imagined the two as strings attached to either side of me, pulling me in opposing directions until I’d split down the middle.

Finally, at age 22, I took a trip to Israel. I figured, maybe if I were to dive head first into such a spiritual place, something would stick. The trip was led by a Hassidic rabbi—payot and all. I was nervous to introduce myself to such a traditional man. Being a woman, he couldn’t even shake my hand. Orthodox Judaism is old school like that, y’all.

I spent almost two weeks in Israel exploring, from Jerusalem to the Dead Sea. I have to say that, even though Tel Aviv is one of the most LGBTQ-friendly cities in the world, I felt most at home in the Negev Desert. The thought of my ancestors, also labeled as “different,” roaming and looking for a home was something I could easily relate to. Of course, I have my family, my partner, and our physical home. I’ve just never felt like I have a real home—you know, the cheesy kind where you feel at home with yourself.

We spent one day at the Sea of Galilee in a town called Tiberias. We had a short Shabbat session and afterwards, I asked the rabbi to stay behind and have a personal discussion with me. I needed to hear an “official” word regarding Judaism and queerness. He told me that Orthodox Jews like himself still hold the traditional opinion that being gay is “abhorrent.” While I never considered my spirituality even close to that of an Orthodox Jew,  this still did not sit well with me. I asked him “Well, how could I be born a Jew and gay? Do you think that this is a choice?” He told me, “You haven’t made a choice at all. Being gay does not mean that you’re not Jewish. Above all else, you are you, and you are a Jew. Nothing can take that identity from you.”

I’ve spent a great deal of time accepting that, for me, religion simply cannot be prescriptive. I have to accept the truths of my identity, all of them, and mold my spirituality around my reality. I can only feel a sense of wholeness and belonging when I couple my identity with my own morality. I don’t eat kosher. I still light the candles on occasion. I haven’t been to temple in years. I still believe in something more. I can’t read the Torah. I still sit at the seder table. I am gay. I am Jewish.