By Anonymous
I vividly remember the day I learned what homophobia was.
One afternoon in sixth grade, as my mother picked me up from school, I climbed into the passenger seat of her car, nervously chewing on the collar of my uniform shirt. After a moment of hesitation, I finally asked the question that would change everything: “Mom, is it normal for me to like girls the way I like boys?”
In true Jewish mother fashion, she yelled, she cried and she guilted me into taking it back.
Unfortunately, that was only the beginning. Throughout middle and high school, slurs and hateful words were hurled at me, each one a reminder that I was different and unwanted. Numerous incidents involving school administration, my peers and even my own family still haunt me to this day. There were moments I wanted to shrink, to disappear. But I refused. Pretending to be someone I wasn’t, someone who didn’t exist, would mean I didn’t exist.
Through all the hate crimes and self-doubt, I persevered until it was finally time for me to choose a college. A chance to leave home, to find an open, accepting place. A place where, yes, homophobia would still exist, but my chances of finding a real community would expand in ways my middle school self never thought possible.
And yet I chose Yeshiva University. Why did I do that? That’s the age-old question, isn’t it? Why do queer people go to YU?
When people ask that question I feel as if they forget one crucial word: “people.” Queer people are people, and as all human beings do, we have complex hopes, motivations and desires. So while I cannot speak for every queer person on this campus, I can speak for myself.
I came to YU to find my faith. Years of struggling with how others perceived my identity made it hard for me to connect with Judaism. How could I align myself with a faith so often used as an excuse to perpetuate hatred?
But in my heart, I knew that YU was the right choice for me. I knew that I needed to continue pursuing a Jewish education. Though I grew up traditional at best and am still not the most religious, I have always felt a deep connection with Hashem. I may not daven from a siddur, but I pray every single day, feeling that connection like a warm blanket being draped over my shoulders.
Choosing a secular college would have meant severing that connection and allowing hatred to win. But my love for Hashem is stronger than that. That’s why I chose YU.
Being queer at YU is not easy, as I’m sure most people are aware. Just a few weeks ago, a friend of mine was physically and verbally assaulted at the Wilf club fair just for existing as a queer student, for standing behind a table representing the YU Pride Alliance (YUPA). It was an abhorrent and saddening incident, and unfortunately, it’s not the only of its kind.
My personal experience with homophobia at YU has been comparatively tame, but still a constant underlying presence.
When I first came to Stern, I had a dyed blonde pixie cut and wore pants, which, at YU, might as well have been a neon sign flashing, “This one is gay!” That invisible sign drew not just the expected stares, but glares. I’d walk through the hallways, feeling eyes lingering on me, sensing the unspoken disapproval. The weight of that disdain settled on my shoulders, a reminder that to some, my very presence was an offense.
I would step into the famously overcrowded elevators, and suddenly, a space would open around me like I was Greg Heffley with the cheese touch from Diary of a Wimpy Kid. People went out of their way to avoid even accidentally brushing against me.
Since then, I’ve changed my appearance. I grew out my hair, and started wearing skirts more often, putting on my best cosplay of a “Stern girl.” That’s when I noticed the shift. The glares faded, the stares subsided and the gaps began to close in more ways than one.
Finally feeling like I belonged in the school I’d be attending for another three years should have felt like a relief. But instead, it felt like a burden.
As I made friends, a voice lingered in the back of my mind, “They only like you now because you’re more straight-passing.” Sure, I know that many people know and still assume I’m queer. But the fact that I had to tone it down for people to feel comfortable sharing a room with me; That truth is more painful than all the stares, all the whispers and all the glares combined.
Through it all, my fellow queer students have been my greatest source of support. Unlike so many others, they accepted me from the very beginning before my style changed, before I blended in. They were the first real friends I made here.
That’s why having a Pride Alliance is so important. Everyone deserves a space where they feel welcome and accepted. The unfortunate truth is that, for many queer students at YU, that sense of belonging is rare and often found only within YUPA, as it was for me.
At the end of the day, no one should have to choose between their identity and their faith. We all deserve to exist fully as Jews, as queer individuals and as both without fear or compromise. We deserve to feel safe, to be open in our communities, to take up space without apology. Queer Jews are Jews too, and we belong here just as much as anyone else.
For those who feel they can’t come out, who worry about safety, family or community rejection, you are not alone. Hareni exists for you, too.
There’s even a private chat for those who aren’t ready to be public but still need support. Please don’t hesitate to reach out to either of the presidents of Hareni, Hayley Goldberg or Schneur Friedman. You are seen. You are valued. You are loved.
Photo Caption: Pride flags on a beach in Tel Aviv
Photo Credit: Guy Tsror / Unsplash