Saturday, June 25, 2016


Tonight I went to celebrate the Shabbat at Zahara’s house.   A group of 20 people crowded into the living room, in chairs, on the floor, perched on end tables covered in books.  A  Visit Palestine poster was framed next to texts about the Torah and the window was open letting in the smells of the Dominican Chicharones from Broadway. We talked about queer activism, and the Torah, and what we were most proud of.  This is New York Pride week after all.  We sang ningunim, wordless songs, that felt like they have been sitting in my throat all week waiting to be heard.

The candle lit the wall with shadows as the room grew dark and our singing came to an end.  And in the dark I realized, I had caught my breath.

Because I have been running through this city breathing in short little spurts until events like Orlando knocked what little breath I had right out of me.  Days follow days without singing, having a real conversation, without being in the dark, without breathing.

Last week a man shot and killed 49 people.  This week the Britain left the EU.  Yesterday, I signed up  to campaign for Hillary because I’m damn scared. 

I could run away to another country again.  Pretend the world is bigger than it is.

But I’m tired.  And my feet hurt.  And I want to sing not shout..

I took a deep breath tonight because things were good enough to slow down.  But I think I might be holding that breath.  Rationing it.  Waiting for the next Orlando, around the corner, to leave me breathless again.