Hakol Yiyeh Beseder

It’s the 6th anniversary of my decision to wear a kippah all the time, and reflecting on that today has gotten me thinking. Tonight, the night after yesterday's election, feels really different for me than it once might have because November 9, 2016 has become my baseline.

Tonight, I feel pretty grounded and okay enough. 
Better than I anticipated I might. 
You?

This morning, I got to lead Ikar’s morning minyan.
We started with a song by Cafe Shahor Hazak - Hakol Yiyeh Bseder.
It’s great being able to share music like that so easily because we are online. Also, we join from California, Pennsylvania, Minnesota, Japan, England, Ohio, Israel, Indiana, Washington - across the country and around the world.

Hakol Yiyeh Beseder basically means it'll all be okay, but not in the typical way we in the U.S. tend to hear a phrase like that. Here are some more of the lyrics:
“Think outside the box and beyond”
“I’ll spew truth until my dying day”
“I’m busy with myself, not drowning in schemes”
“My father always said it’s forbidden to give up”
“We’re not a generation that’s afraid to speak”

So, yeah. That’s how it’ll all be okay.
It’ll be “okay” because we’re going to keep on.
No silver lining.
No false hope.
No pretending everything is fine.

It’s not fine, actually, even while like me you might be thankful the red wave didn’t come overnight. One way I know it’s not fine is that so many of these races were so close. When a pile of candidates running on platforms overflowing with racism, misogyny, homophobia, Islamophobia, antisemitism, anti-human rights, anti-immigrant rights, anti-Native rights, and the like are hard to beat . . . it’s not fine. We don’t have to be fine. 

And in the not fine, we can also be okay.
We can think outside the box and beyond.
We can spew truth.
We can refuse to drown.
We can refuse to give up.
We can speak. 

I said this morning in minyan that it'll also be okay because we are in it together - and I meant it. Standing at the other side of the sea, no idea what's ahead of us . . . okay, some idea, a huge wilderness, but nothing concrete and there are a lot of ways this all could go . . . holding onto our instruments. Hallelujah. Mi Chamocha. Playing them because we know life depends on it.

Together. 

It has been a long time since I genuinely felt I had a community of people to be in it with and it feels really, really good. It feels like maybe it isn’t only because I have 2016 as my baseline, but also because I had these particular people to be with this particular morning that tonight I feel grounded and okay enough. Okay enough because it’s not just me keeping on over here isolated in my house. It’s us keeping on. And we are going to keep on while together we hold each other’s sick and struggling loved ones. And we are going to keep on together while we learn about and remember each other’s loved ones as we say and respond to the Mourner’s Kaddish. And we’re going to keep on together while we laugh because Kelev (a beloved canine member of our minyan community) dances while we sing. And we’re going to keep on together while we share our blessings and gratitudes in the chat from chick peas to time with family to the island of our home to electricity. And we are going to be grateful for one another. Not for what we do, but for our existence and our togetherness. 

After minyan, this memory popped up in my Facebook feed.

November 9, 2016. I’d reached out to the students in that discussion class earlier that day.
I’d pointed out that while it might have been challenging the week before for Muslim teens and their parents to feel safe coming into a synagogue, on that night it might feel even harder. I asked what we could do, what action we could take, to make it clear what we stand for.

That night, my Jewish students waited by the doors of the synagogue.
Every door on every side of the building.
Outside.
They greeted our guests with enthusiasm.
In every way we could think of we said, “We are so glad you are here.”

Why did I start wearing a kippah all the time after that class the night of November 9, 2016? Because when asked by a Jewish student how he would know if a Jewish person were a safe person to seek help and protection from, a Muslim teen pointed to my head and said, "If a Jewish woman were wearing one of those on her head, I could be pretty sure. I'd know she's already willing to take a risk, even though her skin means the risk is a choice." 

Okay then. 
I mean, I'd known some of ‘my kids' were Muslim. I just hadn't met them yet. 

A few weeks later when I met with staff at Ujamaa Place, a man I’d spoken with several times before told me he just hated going about his business in a world where so many people had just voted against his existence and safety. Not against his beliefs or values - against his life. I don't remember what I said, or if I said anything. I hope I already knew enough to just listen. Maybe I did. I do remember that at some point in the conversation, he gestured to my head. “That looks like a new choice,” he said. I nodded. He nodded and said, “I think it’s a good one.”  

This morning, November 9, 2022, I looked at a red/blue map of Minnesota and then of the country and turned to Liddy, my wife, and remarked that it’s hard to want to go places we can assume we aren’t wanted and where we . . . or, you know, people . . . would or could come to real harm by existing as themselves. I know that not everyone who votes for the DFL (Democrat in MN) candidate actively cares about my existence or better yet well-being as a queer person, as a Jewish person, or as a person living this the world as it is with disabilities - which is the only real word I have for my lived experience with my immune system. I also don't know if the Republican voters actively don't care or worse desire harm for me personally or for, you know, people.

People like my now-grown-up Muslim kid.
People like Liddy’s adult immigrant students.
People like my trans and nonbinary kids and loved ones. 
People like my friend’s 27-year-old recently diagnosed with leukemia. 
People like my Black and Brown kids and loved ones.  
People like any one of the elders whose lives were openly disregarded by Republican politicians throughout the pandemic.

There are a lot of things I don’t know.

I do know that wearing a kippah all the time when I was out in the world was in so many ways the very least I could do. I don’t know how much of a difference it has made for others, although I’ve collected more than a few stories over the past six years. I do know it changed me. It made me look harder for the kids I have out in the world who I just haven’t met yet and in doing that I saw other people I might have missed. 

I'm not out in the world much these days.

In my own house, I've taken to covering my head with a scarf or a band much of the time. But, when I do leave my house, I do my best to remember to put a kippah on. Covering my head is about the relationship between me and God. My kippah is about making the choice to take the risk, even when I don’t feel like it. Of course, God and I both know it’s all the same thing.

I think I’ll add Hakol Yiyeh Bseder to my life’s soundtrack. 
It’s not fine.
And tonight, I am definitely okay.