When I think back on mornings spent sitting on a stool in the kitchen before school, pouting as my mother detangled my thick hair, I’m glad she wrestled those knots for me. 

Every time she speaks, it’s as if my grandmother, my bubbe, is delivering an address.

Matriarchal leadership is often portrayed negatively, like in the story of Lilith. My moms have proven to me that we need more of it.

My sister went to seminary in Jerusalem after graduating high school, both geographically and symbolically far from her Charlotte roots.

My Aunt Tiki inspires my disability rights activism; yet sometimes, I fail to speak up.

My grandmother, Rebecca Lubetkin, has genuinely transformed society, giving young people opportunities that have revolutionized education and, as a result, the workplace.

Everything about me screamed American Ashkenazi Jew except the middle name on my passport.

The teacher told us to raise our hands if we were Jewish. I didn’t know what to do.

Inhaling the sweet scents of Nachalat Binyamin in Tel Aviv, I searched for the perfect new mezuzah. 

ENFP. Extraversion, intuition, feeling, perception. Four words that, according to the Myers-Briggs personality test, define me as a person.

I have spent the last year learning that we are all at different places in our Jewish education; we have all had different sets of experiences. And they are all valid.

While my brother’s intention was to help me better clarify my writing, that isn’t what my mind told me in the moment. During our conversation, I became resentful of him, and doubtful of myself. I started to question the value of the ideas I wrote about, the ones that he claimed were too big and detached.