I wake up with a heavy heart as I bear witness to my country in a continuous cycle of violence and racism. Growing up black and Jewish in America, I am always asked, “You’re Jewish, but how?” Without hesitation I respond, “The same as you.” Often, that response is met with blank stares and silence. I internally roll my eyes and try to move the conversation along. I have yet to know why it matters how I am Jewish rather than my understood devotion.
Over the years, I have strived to find my place in both communities. I have fought for acceptance and a place to claim as my own. Now I am a mother of two beautiful black Jewish children and fully immersed in both communities. However, I still feel that I have to defend my blackness and Jewish identity. “Where does my loyalty lie?” I was once asked. “What side do you choose?” Questions such as these have traveled with me throughout my life. Now, as I sit and watch my city burn and my people suffocating, I cannot help but wonder, “Where do I stand?”
Before the protest, we were all faced with the uncertainty of what the future held. No one was safe from this super virus, and just for a minute, it felt like we were in this together. We encouraged each other to stay in and stay healthy, to help those in need. Like most things, this unity was short-lived, and the harsh truth of our country’s realities was broadcast for all to bear witness. This was yet another breaking point for America.
I cannot help but feel numb to this harsh reality. I cannot help but feel like I am moving effortlessly through this chaos. I am black, Jewish and American and have had to endure racial profiling and discrimination, not only in society but also in my own communities.
I cannot help but feel numb to this harsh reality. I cannot help but feel like I am moving effortlessly through this chaos. I am black, Jewish and American and have had to endure racial profiling and discrimination, not only in society but also in my own communities. When after telling my employers that I am Jewish too, and still being asked to work on the High Holy Days. When receiving less pay for the same work and being told it is because I am less qualified, yet knowing I meet all qualifications, if not more. Or being told I do not fit the direction they are moving in. This is the reality that I have been faced with, and that haunts me.
Blind discrimination is what fuels the outrage that we now witness. Aware or not, you become part of the problem when you sit and watch or do not speak up for your fellow Americans. This is not a time for silence. We have entered into a time where we need to speak up and speak loudly. I have been asked, “Well, what can you do to help?”
Be silent no more. I, myself, will be silent no more.
Here’s what you can do: Speak up for your minority counterparts. Demand diversity and equality. Open your eyes and ears to the concerns of those around you. Be silent no more. I, myself, will be silent no more.
So, where do I stand?
I stand alongside those that are fighting for a chance to breathe; fighting for their voices to be heard; fighting for equality and a better future for their children. I stand to fight to replace the hundreds of millions of black lives lost. I stand by my faith and identity. I am a black Jewish American, and I matter.
Christina Benson- Wilson is a teacher at a Jewish Day School in Los Angeles, and a voice for social change.
