How My “Wild Feminist” T-Shirt Made Me Rethink My Position in the Jewish Community

In the middle of my very first year at a Jewish middle school, my humanities teacher instructed my class to write anonymous little notes to one another. Many of my classmates had known each other since elementary school, and I, as the new girl, was desperate to be liked. As I wrote, I looked around to see who was hovering. Ms. Harriet rang the bell signaling the end of writing time. As I looked through the notes my classmates had written for me, my heart rose into my throat. In messy sixth-grade-boy handwriting, somebody had written “wild feminist.” My face heated. I wanted the floor to swallow me up. It wasn’t an insult, but coming from a preteen boy, it wasn’t a compliment. He was just stating a fact about me, and something that was literally written on my shirt in big block letters at the time. So why did I feel so angry? I understood that putting the word “wild” on a t-shirt was a way for feminists to intentionally reclaim an insult, but nobody in my life had ever told me that feminism was “wild.” Why was I so uncomfortable with being labeled with the very term I called myself? What was it? Was it “wild” or was it “feminist?”

Growing up in my Reconstructionist synagogue, being a feminist was a fact of life. As far as I knew, every congregation included Zilpah and Bilhah in the Amidah. As the only Jewish kid in my elementary school, my temple’s “Shabbat School” was my only opportunity to talk about social justice issues with a community that wouldn’t eventually stop listening. As we read our way through Jewish texts, my mom and other parents facilitated discussions about the silencing of women in the Torah. Feminism was what we did in Temple.

Even in middle school, Ms. Harriet covered her walls in social justice posters, and our curriculum was based on a quote by Rabbi Hillel: “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And if I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?” Feminism seemed like a natural part of Jewish life. Surrounded by Jewish advocates, my “Wild Feminist” shirt shouldn’t have raised any eyebrows—not that the comment was enough to warrant an eyebrow raise. It was just enough to make that twisty feeling return to my gut, and make me wonder if my feminism didn’t fit perfectly in Jewish spaces. 

When I was younger, I felt my most feminist in Jewish spaces. My mom bought me my “Wild Feminist” shirt and matching pink hats for the women’s march in 2018. We hand-made our signs and wrapped them in plastic bags to stop them from getting soaked by the rain. We walked from my Temple to Pioneer Courthouse Square with a giant gaggle of congregants to begin our march. I prided myself on the fact that in my religion, women were considered equal to men. 

As I got older, the stereotypically “Jewish” qualities of being outspoken and an intellectual matched my image of a feminist. Despite my mom’s best efforts, outspokenness slid to bossiness, and being an intellectual transitioned into being a know-it-all. If I wanted to be liked at school, I couldn’t be bossy or a know-it-all. I made it my mission to prove that I wasn’t another annoying, stereotypical feminist. I never consciously decided that being a “traditional” feminist was annoying, yet when I heard somebody rant about the pay gap for a little too long, the twisty feeling in my gut returned. Similarly, the “Wild Feminist” note made me question the ways I expressed my feminism. 

I tried becoming friends with guys and super “girly” girls to prove my allegiance, but I stuck out like a sore thumb. In middle school, it wasn’t cool to care, but I’d never been particularly nonchalant about my interests. Inevitably, I would babble about feminism, and my male classmates would either feign interest or tune me out completely. This dynamic was familiar. I didn’t think this would change in a Jewish space. I guess I just thought their reactions would be unwelcome. Still, if I forced Judaism and feminism together hard enough and pretended that it was normal, they could co-exist. 

As I read my classmate’s "Wild Feminist" message, I was reminded of the same debate that I had been having in my head about what feminism should or shouldn’t look like. Being called “wild” suggests that I am departing from some pre-established norm. I was raised by a Jewish feminist, my mom was raised by a Jewish feminist, my grandma was raised by a Jewish feminist, and on and on and on. “Feminism” wasn’t the dirty word; “wild” was. My “Wild Feminist” t-shirt is crumpled up in the back corner of my closet after years of being convinced that feminism was cringy by the internet and random boys. I won’t wear it again, but I can’t bring myself to throw it away.