In 2015, YA writer Corinne Duyvis started the #ownvoices movement on Twitter, saying we should celebrate and publish “diverse characters written by authors from that same diverse group.”
That includes authors who are BIPOC and/or are members of a marginalized community. It has always been true, in my opinion, that marginalized authors represent their communities, experiences, and perspectives better than those who don’t share their marginalization. When a white author, for example, writes Black characters, they often misrepresent the Black community and reinforce negative stereotypes. Furthermore, they rob Black authors of the opportunity to write and share their own stories.
The publishing industry is still waking up to this truth. There’s growing awareness that when authors co-opt stories from marginalized groups, or write characters from diverse backgrounds not their own, they commit egregious harm to those communities. We’ve made strides with movements like Beth Phelan’s #DVPit event on Twitter where diverse writers pitch their stories to literary agents. But we still have a long way to go.
In that vein, it infuriates me when writers decide to write Jewish characters without a second thought. Don’t even get me started on Nazi romance books. Can those go away forever, please? Meanwhile, I’m over here sweating about whether or not I’m accurately representing my own community.
I’m Jewish. I had a bat mitzvah. I lit menorahs instead of Christmas trees. I freaked out the first time I heard Adam Sandler’s Hanukkah Song on the radio, practically screaming, “I didn’t know all those people were Jewish like me!” Even as an adult, I celebrate seeing Jewish characters in pop culture (i.e. The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel) But...I’m not really religiously observant, not anymore. Sure, I celebrate the major holidays (I have noodle kugel in the fridge for Rosh Hashanah as I type this!) But I haven’t stepped foot inside a synagogue in a long time. And even growing up, my family didn’t partake in certain traditions. We didn’t keep kosher. We didn’t conduct full seders. We had a mezuzah but never touched it upon entering our house.
The book I’m currently querying is about a young girl who’s about to become a bat mitzvah. I had my bat mitzvah when I was thirteen. Guess what? I still had to do tons of research to write my book. Cause here’s the thing—I know a lot about my own religion, but I don’t know everything. There was a lot I’d forgotten, like the names of certain prayers, and a lot I had never learned, like the rules of keeping kosher.
I had so many questions when I stated writing: Was my bat mitzvah experience the same as other Jewish girls’? How do other synagogues handle mitzvah projects? What is the significance of becoming a bat mitzvah in different sects? What’s the name of the table people read the Torah from? (It’s called a bimah, PS). Does every Jewish child go to Hebrew school? For how long? How are Torah portions chosen? The list goes on.
I could’ve written my book without doing any research and called it #ownvoices. But that choice would’ve potentially caused a lot of harm. Because it doesn’t matter how I grew up. If I misrepresent or present falsities of what it means to be Jewish, I’m harming my community. With that said, my experience won’t resonant with or be familiar to all Jewish readers. There are many differences between Reform, Conservative, Orthodox, and Hasidic Jews. And that’s okay! But if I’m going to write about any of it, whatever I choose to write better be done well. And that’s where the anxiety comes in.
What if I get it wrong?
I went to Hebrew school and learned to read Hebrew (I still remember practicing writing letters in thick workbooks with my mom’s help). I attended Friday night services, celebrated holidays in my home, sang songs and chanted prayers in temple, enjoyed my mom’s brisket and my dad’s famous potato latkes (I’m sorry, but they’re the best. It’s just a fact). Obviously, I know a lot about Judaism because it’s how I grew up. But…is that enough? Sometimes I watch TV shows or movies with Jewish characters and go, “Oh, I don’t do that,” or, “Hmm…I didn’t realize that was a thing.” I didn’t even learn about Golems until I was in my twenties and visited the oldest synagogue in Prague. I watch Jewish people on Twitter post in Yiddish and go, “I have zero idea what that means.”
So I ask myself: Am I “Jewish enough?”
As I type that question, I know, rationally, it’s a silly thing to ask. No one can ever tell me I’m not Jewish. But look at the above paragraph! Look at me trying to justify my own Jewishness to myself! I know it’s ridiculous, but I’m still posting it because I know I’m not alone. I know other people from marginalized communities who stress about claiming that marginalization as their own, too.
But the fact that we’re stressing proves we care. It proves we love our communities so much we want to make absolutely sure we don’t let them down.
And I say this to myself and anyone who’s in the same boat as me: We are enough. We are who we are. And we need to keep writing.
L’Shanah Tovah, friends.