I’ve never been afraid to be a Jew in America before.
Tonight isn’t the first time I’ve felt these fears during Donald Trump’s campaign. I’ve felt them ever since Trump told the Republican Jewish Congress they wouldn’t vote for him “because I don’t want your money.” I’ve felt them ever since he and his sons started retweeting posts and images from anti-Jew white supremacists. My fear has intensified, steadily, since Trump retweeted an image of a Star of David emblazoned over money, and reached a peak when Trump used his last campaign ad to decry “a global power structure” represented solely by Jews.
At least, I thought it was a peak. But I was wrong. Tonight, after it became clear Donald J. Trump would become the next President of the United States, I sat in my room and cried for more minutes than I can count. For the first time, I am truly afraid to live in my country.
I haven’t talked about these fears during this election cycle because, of all minority groups, I have the least to fear — and that’s saying something. My terror shouldn’t take away from the sheer dystopia facing all people of color, Muslims, immigrants, LGBTQ individuals, low-income people with government health care, sexual violence survivors, millions upon millions upon millions of people in our country who aren’t safe here anymore. I don’t expect government policy to adopt anti-Semitism, although I write that with some hesitation. But Trump has enabled anti-Semites, brought their bigotry back into the mainstream, and created a space for hating Jews that our country has not seen since World War II.
Again: I’m lucky. I’m white. I’m upper middle-class. But I am terrified for my friends, for my family, for the Jewish children I hope to bear one day. I’ve always known I would be an overprotective mother, that I would find plenty to worry about for my children: bullies, tough schoolwork, heartache. Never before have I worried that my children might be called kikes. Never before have I had reason to fear for their wellbeing because of their ethnicity and religion. Never before have I felt my family would be unsafe not just while living in America, but because we live in America.
I’ve always said with pride before that I look Jewish, and that my dad does, too. I’ve loved that with one look, maybe two, people can recognize the identity I love so deeply. Now I’m terrified. I’m terrified that with one look, a stranger will decide I am less than human. I’m terrified that they will decide the same about other people I love, too.
To my friends of color: I don’t know how you’ve made it this long, with this much fear. I’m so sorry for any way I’ve contributed to that. To however small an extent, I know your fear now. I don’t know if I have your strength to bear it.
All my life, Jewish elders have told me anti-Semitism is a cycle. You don’t know what it’s like, they said, but it’ll come back. It always does. I shrugged it off.
They were right.
I don’t want the Trump voters reading this to unfriend me or distance themselves from me personally. That’s not our way forward as a nation. But I want you to know that you have plunged my life and the lives of millions of others into uncertainty and horror. I want you to know that when — not if — someone calls me a yid, you are to blame. I want you to know that you have wrenched America away from all its claims to democracy and equality. And if you are a Jew, and you voted for a man who exploited anti-Semitism in order to gain votes, you should hang your head in shame. I pray for you, because you need it.
For that matter, we all do.