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| Photo by Jody Christopherson |
I didn’t want to wake up devastated a year ago today.
Not that I am unique in that respect.
Regardless of how many Americans felt about Hillary Clinton
and the Democratic Party, the election in 2017 represented an entry into a
strange and uncertain timeline very few could have anticipated.
But for me, November 9, 2016 was supposed to be a personal
as well as a political victory. I was
set to debut my very first solo show, The
Worst Zionist in The Room, in the Lounge Series at New York’s Dixon Place. Solo performing was something I had been
steadily pursuing at open-mic shows for a couple of years, and it was thrilling
to rediscover myself as a performer for the first time since college. This particular show was the culmination of
an angst-ridden journey through my relationship to Judaism and Israel over a
decade. I had struggled a bit to find my balance professionally after returning
from Israel in May 2015, and completing this show represented a victory in my
desire to become a person who makes things happen for myself as opposed to
waiting for permission or approval for my creative vision. Like anything worth
having in life, the journey was hard-fought, but no doubt such struggle had
fortified me and given me a deeper appreciation for all I would achieve.
I hadn’t really thought much when Dixon Place gave me the
date of November 9 for my show months earlier.
But as the date approached, adolescent terrors of not being cool enough
for people to hang out with me during what would likely be post-election
euphoria started to creep in. “There’s a
bar there!” I wrote desperately on the Facebook event. “If we’re happy, we’ll
need to drink to celebrate getting through this crazy election and primary
season. If we’re sad, we’ll drink
too!” That last part was meant to be a
joke, of course.
And then the results came in.
“I’m sorry I can’t make it tonight,” people started
messaging me on Facebook. “I can’t leave
my apartment. I just need to hug babies
and play with puppies.”
I was devastated, but envious I couldn’t join them. There was nothing more I wanted than to stay
in bed and listen to “It’s Quiet Uptown” on repeat. But I still had a show to do, regardless if
anyone showed up. At least this wouldn’t
be my first experience: a year earlier a festival show of mine about BDSM had a
show scheduled on Father’s Day, and not one person came. But in that case it
was a cast of incredibly gracious actors doing my work to an empty house, and
here it would just be me.
Still, somehow I managed to survive that experience, and I
would no doubt survive this one. And if
nothing else, I would have my awesome director Christine and photographer Jody
there that night, who were all fabulous, supportive, kickass ladies.
But to my surprise, people actually did come, many of whom I
never would have expected. This gave me
the confidence I needed to take a deep breath and feel at ease—at least if the
nation was about to fall apart, my own popularity would be in tact.
Performing that night was a cathartic, almost out of body
experience. I was reminded of September
11 2001, when I got to put aside the terror attacks for two hours during tech
week for Little Shop of Horrors at
the Youngstown Playhouse. There is
something really powerful about theatre in giving us a way to be physically
present with other people and channel our feelings into some sort of productive
action. When the world feels like it is
collapsing, it is heartening to feel like it is possible to create something.
What’s weird is that dealing with Israel that night felt
like almost a sense of relief in comparison to the uncertainty that was
gripping the U.S. While I was there in 2015 I had witnessed the disappointment
among liberals over their most recent election, when the left-wing government
miserably failed to mount a challenge to Benjamin Netanyahu’s government. The heaviness in the air that hung over Tel
Aviv the day after that election felt very similar to what many of us were
feeling here. It was almost comforting to feel like I had experienced a sort of
trial run for our current moment.
What inspired me being in Israel were the activists and
educators I met. But despite the
constant disappointment over any sort of major developments in the status quo,
I had met scores of Jewish and Palestinian leaders that were working tirelessly
to fight for their own pockets of justice and equity in the face of
despair. Their counterfactual belief
that the world they saw was worth fighting for gave me hope.
And seeing the sheer diversity of people who showed up to my
show that night gave me a glimpse of the kind of community I want my work to
create. So often liberals have our
angsty conversations about Israel in an echo chamber, and I was heartened to
see Jewish people from many different backgrounds and denominations, including
both Conservative and Orthodox rabbinical students, people who are deeply
secular, as well as Jews of color. There
were non-Jews there as well of various ethnicities and religious affiliations,
including my hijab-wearing videographer Ramah.
If this comes across as bragging, I apologize. The point is that this audience represented
everything Donald Trump campaigned against, and this is the world I wanted to
fight for. I was moved by the awareness
that typically these groups would not be in the same room together to take in
politically charged information about Israel if they didn’t know me, and that I
could be a person who served as a connector during a time of divisiveness.
There is more I can say, and more I surely will. Like many
others, I am aware there is more I should do.
I have made some calls to legislators, but not nearly enough. I have given money, but not nearly enough. I know it may be incredibly privileged that
only now I am beginning to feel exhausted by the myriad obstacles facing
justice in this country. It’s exhausting
to ponder how much work has been left undone and how much there is to do. But what gives me strength is my community,
and over the past year I have been seeking experiences that fortify that
foundation, whether that is creating storytelling dinner parties, studying
ancient Jewish texts in groups, or baking cookies on Sunday mornings for my
coworkers at Trader Joe’s.
I love you all.
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