The White Space Between
What Next?
I stared up at the ceiling, tucked under my Power Rangers duvet, and clenched my pillow tightly to my chest, hoping its embrace would somehow align my breathing with the rhythmic clicks of my bedside clock. My mind could wander in all sorts of directions those days. But, it usually ended in the same place: the big white space of
What next?
I probably had my first thought that I could be gay when, well, I guess whenever most people realize they’re straight; 12, maybe 13. Had the reality of my sexuality not been so scary, I probably could’ve known I was gay at that time, but I wasn’t quite running towards that conclusion.
You see, I grew up in a very big and tight-knit family. Seven kids, all close in age. My mom, a therapist. My father, a rabbi. Within both our nuclear and extended family, it was clear to me that to live a life of happiness meant to live a life of family, filled with love and connections that could only come from within that unit.
I also was fortunate to have been raised and embraced within a loving Jewish community. The Rabbi’s son in a heimish and progressive Modern Orthodox shul, attending Jewish day school and summer camp, I was immersed in Jewish tradition and community that fueled my very being. So it was equally apparent that for me, a happy life and a rich Jewish life would be one and the same.
My favorite memories from childhood are ones that blended these two aspects of my identity. I can still picture myself as a first grader, standing on folding chairs next to my siblings as we chanted “Ivdu et Hashem b’simcha,” my grandparents clapping in unison from the side. I think back to Parents-Son learning night in high school, exchanging questions with my father and grandfather as we combed through the detailed source sheet. Moments of pure joy.
On the opposite end, it was moments that pitted these identities against one another that felt most painful.
I think back to our "Ask the Rabbi" sessions in middle school. Inevitably one of my classmates would raise their hand and ask the Rebbe’s opinion on homosexuality and Judaism. More often than not, the Rabbi’s response was predictable. Homosexuality was a sin—an abomination.
Perhaps, if the class was lucky enough, the Rabbi would even quote a piece of text to prove his point. Some Rabbis softened their responses with sympathetic coding. “This is incredibly difficult and challenging,” they’d say. “Hashem gives each of us tests. And though we can’t understand why Hashem gives certain people this test, it is nonetheless the test they must overcome. That is a conversation between them and Hashem." Other rabbis, the ones considered more progressive, moved the needle slightly further. “Listen,” they would contend. “We give an aliyah to individuals who commit murder, steal, or cheat in business. Who am I to deny an aliyah or to kick someone out of my community because they are gay?" While I appreciated their attempt at allyship, in some ways their responses were the most painful. Even among the most open- minded rabbis, my sexual orientation was a sin that could only be given room to exist when contextualized against murder. Whether intended or not, the message seemed clear.
You can be gay. You can be Orthodox. You can’t be both.
So, I lay in my twin bed, weighted by questions and unknowns too big for my small frame. In two to three-year intervals, I played through what my life would look like at each stage, grasping for models and roadmaps where a future me could exist. And some nights, with enough imagination, I could color in enough white space to permit my eye lids to close.
But when my squeezing yielded no answers and my wandering yielded no pathways I could access... well, that was enough to keep me awake.
What next?
What next?
