"Growing Up with Two Mothers and One Father: A Rabbi's Perspective." An autobiographical piece explaining how my rabbinate has been shaped by my unique childhood. Given at Temple Beth David in Westminster on June 21, 2024 for Pride Shabbat.
Growing Up with Two Mothers and One Father: A Rabbi's Perspective
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Last year, my kids became addicted to this show called The Owl House. Has anyone heard of it? It was on Disney. It’s a cartoon, about this girl who travels through a portal to a world where demons and magic are real. It’s dark and angsty, made for pre-teens and teens. I watched most of the series with them, and I was struck by something. Each and every character has a sexual identity and orientation. Now, don’t get me wrong, this is a kid’s show, there was nothing graphic. But the main character, Luz, is bisexual, and she dates another girl who is a lesbian, Amity. Luz’s best friend Willow is pansexual and is being raised by her two fathers, Gilbert and Mr. Park. Luz’ mentor, Eda, is dating a nonbinary character called Raine. Eda’s sister Lilith doesn’t want a relationship, and is openly aromantic and asexual.
I watched this TV show with my children, and my job dropped. I was proud of the way the world had changed and thrilled that my kids wanted to share it with me… and also, mostly – I was jealous. When I was a kid, I didn’t have any gay representation. No TV characters were gay or lesbian or trans or genderqueer – I didn’t know what those terms meant. The only terms I heard from larger society were ones that I can’t say from the bima. All I knew, growing up, was that I had two moms, and that made me a freak. “I love you, you love me, homosexuality” was the first line of the Barney theme song slur that middle school kids would chant at me, sending me crying into the bathroom hoping no teachers saw me. To have two gay moms meant that I was weird, that some kids weren’t allowed to come to my house to play, that I had to argue with my elementary school teacher to make two Mother’s Day cards. But, I digress. To tell the story chronologically: my Israeli father and my American mother married, and named me Michal, a beautiful Hebrew name no American can say, because they intended to move to Israel together. Instead, my mother came out as a lesbian when I was two. My parents divorced, and my father moved back to Israel alone, promptly remarrying and having two more children, my half-siblings. My mother married another woman a few years later. Some of my earliest memories are seeing a court psychiatrist; which stick figure looked like my father, and which like my stepmother? I saw my maternal aunt only when my father visited, and it took me years to realize that during their custody battle, my mother’s siblings took my father’s side; she was a lesbian, and so was an unfit mother, they said of their sister. There went a warm and fuzzy relationship with my cousins. Children, and even adults in my childhood, were fascinated by my home life. At least once a week someone asked me which mom was like my actual, real mom, and which was like my dad. When I said they both were like my mom and my dad, they were confused. They’d ask more specific questions to figure it out. Who took out the trash in my house, who made cookies? Who helped me with homework, and who paid the bills? Gender stereotypes were rife in the early 80s, and my family’s identity threw people for a loop. Living with two women, was unheard of. Living with two women, PLUS an Israeli father who I saw in summers and on holidays? That was just too much to comprehend. Except. Except. At temple, I got asked almost none of these questions. People didn’t care who was my real mom and who was like my dad… my moms were just Jan, who taught Hebrew, and Gwen, who made hamantaschen. Jan played guitar. Gwen made the Hanukkah songsheets. My dad was my Abba who took me to places my Hebrew school teachers and classmates envied, who showed me where David had let fly his slingshot at Goliath, and where our people had held fast against the Romans at Masada, who walked with me all over the shuk to eat real shwarma and baklava and falafel with authentic tehina sauce. I was too young to know why I didn’t feel weird or out of place at temple, when I did in the rest of the world. All I knew was that I did. At the hospital when I had my tonsils out at the age of seven, I overheard the word “medical power of attorney” as Gwen, my non-biological mother, visited me in my scratchy hospital gown. But at the Long Beach JCC, there was no jargon. My moms and I just walked in to register for summer camp, with one of them scratching out the word “father” on the form and putting in “parent” instead, next to her name. Years later it turned out my family’s membership application had made its way to the JCC Board, as the bylaws said that a family could only be comprised of a man and woman with children. “But it’s Jan,” they said. “So what if she’s with a woman? We can’t turn down Jan for membership.” I was lucky and privileged in that my mother was a big macher and I lived in one of the most liberal havens in the country. Inclusivity was in the very air I breathed in the Jewish community. Every other Bar and Bat Mitzvah my year had the mom give the candle blessing on Friday night, and the dad say the blessing over Kiddush. At my Bat Mitzvah, my moms did both. With no questioning, no posturing. No bullies asking me why. It just was. In Judaism in Long Beach, I could just be. I was the child of parents, not the child of gay parents. So, slowly, slowly, I grew up. I got straight A’s in school because I poured myself into academics instead of a social life. I was a madricha, a teacher’s aide, I went to national Jewish youth leadership conferences and kallahs. I got my Bachelor’s degree from Whittier College in English and Philosophy, with a minor in Women’s Studies. I thought I wanted to be a professor, so next I went to Cal State Long Beach, and received a Master’s in Philosophy. My thesis was “Kantian Autonomy and Same-Sex Adoption,” about why gays and lesbians should be legally allowed to adopt children - which they couldn't at the time - using Immanuel Kant’s definition of personhood. Then I met my future husband, and we married. And he helped me realize that as much as I loved teaching, I loved teaching Hebrew school at Temple Israel much more so than I loved teaching undergraduate discussion sections at Cal State Long Beach. My background in Philosophy and love of Judaism came together. I applied to rabbinical school. And in my rabbinical school interview, you guessed it, they asked it. “Now that all the formal questions are over... what was it like growing up with two gay moms?” I laughed in incredulity. And I answered, “Just like growing up with any other two parents, but with a lot more prejudice.” And I was accepted. After the required year in Jerusalem, we landed in Cincinnati. Taking advantage of the wealth of scholarship at the American Jewish Archives, I wrote a paper on how the CCAR decided to ordain gay and lesbian rabbis, that later turned into an article in the book “The Sacred Encounter: Jewish Perspectives on Sexuality.” As an ordained rabbi, I teach classes on how the Talmud lists six genders – SIX! Two thousand years ago! That's pretty progressive! - I’ve explained to countless congregants that the phrase b’tzelem Elohim, made in the image of God, means that all parts of us are a reflection of the divine, that Reform Judaism affirms our humanity, including a range of expression of gender and sexual orientation. I officiate at LGBTQIA+ weddings, and adult naming ceremonies for those who have transitioned, and b’nai mitzvah, in the plural, for kids who don’t want a bar or a bat. Now hindsight is always 20/20. Looking back on my life, it’s easy to see that the trajectory of my career is a tapestry woven through with religion, gender and sexuality. It doesn’t take a psychologist to realize that the feelings of rejection and lack of belonging I experienced in the secular world in my youth, and the feeling of relieved inclusivity I experienced within the Jewish community, transformed itself into a love of the Jewish religion, and a deep need to help others on the margins feel included today. Which is why, while watching The Owl House, I felt so grateful. Kids who are gay or trans or asexual or, well, anything but cisgender straight, have role models to look up to. They might get bullied at school, but they can also go on Reddit and even Disney and see characters who look and feel and act as they do. Shortly after I watched that show with my kids, and also the new She-Ra, Princesses of Power (who is a lesbian by the way! How times have changed) my eldest child sat me down on the couch to discuss something. “I don’t feel like a boy or a girl,” they said, their voice shaking. “I’m neither. I don’t have a gender.” Their hands were clammy when I reached for them to give them a hug. Now to be honest, I wasn’t particularly surprised. At age five, this child had worn sparkly pink nail polish while singing along to Thomas the Train. They liked construction vehicles and princess dresses, and since the age of ten had donned a near-uniform of jeans and baggy t-shirts. Their expression of gender had been simultaneously all-encompassing, and non-existent, for years. Their realization that they were nonbinary was by means out of the blue. For me at least. But I was surprised that they were so nervous to tell me. And, if I’m being fully honest, I was a little hurt. My initial reaction was, “It’s scary coming out to me, of all people? How much more of an ally could I be?” And then one quick intake of breath later, I realized. It wasn’t that it was scary for my child to come out to me. It was that it was scary to them, to come out. I could easily envision who they were and who they would become as a nonbinary person; they were only beginning to, for it effected every aspect of their life. For all of my claim to allyship, for all of my life experience as the child of two lesbians, I am not queer myself. I can easily choose not to tell people about my family life. I can pass, so to speak, for living a fully cisgender, heteronormative lifestyle. My child in 2023, in the world of The Owl House and lesbian She-Ra Princess of Power, was scared that people would judge them. I can’t even imagine the bravery my mother possessed when she came out in 1983. Because to acknowledge truth to ourselves is risky. It involves an alteration of our very identity. But to acknowledge it to others, with all the possible extreme ramifications under the sun, can be terrifying. This is why it’s so important to be welcoming to everyone, to live our lives through the values of b’tzelem elohim and tikkun olam. We don’t know everyone’s story. We don’t know the influence that one stray comment might make on someone who is questioning. It is imperative that we make our communities an inclusive space for all, for those who are firm in who they are, and for those who are still discovering. How can we do this? We can educate ourselves on terminology, the words that are used to differentiate sex and gender and orientation. We can add our pronouns to our email signature lines, and meet someone new at oneg and not assume their gender identity or sexual orientation. If we hear someone using derogatory language, like “that’s so gay” in a negative connotation, we can not ignore it, but lean in with curiosity and avoid judgement, and use it as an educational moment. The more we take such small actions, the grander our cultural change will be. For we must remember, coming out as anything but heteronormative in society is difficult, even if we think we’re doing all the right things, like I thought I was with my own child. We must make space for everyone to be who they are, and do our best to let them know they are valued no matter how they identify. This Pride month, I wish for all of us that we may acknowledge our own individual truths. That we may realize that whoever we are, is beautiful in its own way. And that we may know that there is room in this world, and in Judaism, for each of us. I close with a prayer from Siddur Sha’ar Zahav, entitled “I Am Unique”: “My God, I thank You for my life, my soul and my body; for my name, for my sexual and affectionate nature, for my way of thinking and talking. Help me realize that in my qualities I am unique in the world, and that no one like me has ever lived; for if there had ever before been someone like me, I would not have needed to exist. Help me make perfect my own ways of love and caring, that by becoming perfect in my own way, I can honor Your Name, and help bring about the coming of the Messianic age.” And to this, let us all say, Amen. Shabbat shalom. |