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Rachel, Tamar, and I are feygele girlboys boygirling In birdy glory and flirt we enter my 3 stached tallitot katanot Smocking to the mess of chants through our unruly and threaded, draping lungs in the freaky heap of each other’s gravity, we are mundanely adorned, matching into men part follow part plea and to freedom. […]
“My beloved’s hair is the color of coffee /
And she drinks from the finest waters in Sefarad.”
“It can be hard to let go of the sense that camp is full of tradition and history… but change is ok. It’s inevitable.”
“He just has so many bangers!” said another Jewish friend begrudgingly the same week, dismayed that we weren’t putting Ye West on the playlist for the rager that night.
“This was the moment I realized that I, like everyone else in the world, was not exempt from imposter syndrome.”
“Zadie’s fork clatters on the table, startling me. So, he says, taking a breath to steady himself, I have been told that you are gay.”
“He died with chants surrounding him like wind.”
“I didn’t know what G-d looked like until I met Him this afternoon in the bathroom mirror.”
“The fact that every natural wonder, from the sight of a rainbow to the smell of a spice, is given a brachah – the fact we are commanded to notice the world for what it is and what it offers – is such an awesome thing.”
I could see it all through a foggy haze, Kit and I forming a new life built up from the rotten wood and busted stone, broken pieces melded together to be whole again.