My Jewish Skin
It's always with me, but it changes over time
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
Growing up, I didn’t think much about my Judaism. It was simply a part of me: a second skin, an indisputable fact, like being six years old or having hazel eyes and brown hair. My name was Rochel Leah, and I was Jewish. My parents were Jewish, and their parents were (mostly) Jewish, and so on. We went to synagogue, kept kosher and observed Shabbat, and that was that.
As I grew, my skin shifted. It didn’t quite grow with me. It warped and changed in ways that didn’t fit. After leaving home, I struggled to figure out how to wear my Judaism in a meaningful way. The year after I graduated high school, I stopped being religious.
And then one day, I found myself out in the world, skinless. Exposed. Without my Judaism, I was naked: organs and muscles and veins without a home. It was scary, but also exhilarating. I felt free.
Slowly, my skin began to grow back. I tried different synagogues. I experimented with what felt right and forged my own relationship with God. I did some things (lighting Shabbos candles) and not others (keeping kosher). I learned and changed and challenged myself. I took up space in the world. I was happy.
Then, October 7 happened.
Suddenly, my skin felt brittle. It felt ugly and unrecognisable. I was afraid to say my name, to show the world who I was. I cried as I watched my fellow Jews being slaughtered, while my “friends” posted their opinions on a place they knew nothing about. I shivered to think of my brother and his family, 25 miles from Gaza, while my queer and liberal “safe spaces” celebrated their downfall. I posted about the hostages while my friends from musical theatre and the book world tore down posters. I felt helpless and exposed. I unfollowed authors and actors and activists I had admired. I watched people move away from me on the subway when they saw my Magen David.
But my skin is resilient. My skin can take a barrage of paper cuts from a billion ignorant people. The scars will only make it stronger. It will be older. It will be wiser. It will not be as pretty or as trusting, but it will be my armor against the hate. And when my beautifully scarred and wrinkled skin meets yours, it will recognize a kindred spirit, a survivor, a fellow Jew.
I no longer think about my Judaism as a piece of me. It is all of me. As sure as my name is Rochel Leah. As sure as I am 38 years old. As sure as I have hazel eyes and brown hair.
Rochel Leah Goldblatt grew up Chabad in Las Vegas and now lives in Brooklyn. She works in communications for a housing group.
Instagram: @roxi_unlimited
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
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