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When it comes to the LGBTQ+ community, asexuality is often referred to as the “invisible orientation” for our lack of mainstream representation in media and film as opposed to other queer identities. And as a Jewish ace person, this intersectional identity feels even more invisible sometimes.
Walking throughout the world I’m used to being in Christian-normative spaces and allonormative spaces, meaning that I’m used to the majority of people around me not understanding the unique experiences of my existence. This pops up while reading fantasy, where more often than not I stumble across hooked-nose witches and vampires, written by authors who are unaware of the historical connotations of antisemitism permeating these depictions. Or when I reveal my asexuality casually to others (or at least try to, since “coming out” can never be casual in our label-oriented society) and have people question my identity, rudely implying or outright saying that my orientation is pathology, an error of hormonal balance or mental health. (The previous point is also exceedingly harmful for disabled aces, who often have complex relationships with their asexual identities intersecting with their physical and mental disabilities.)
Historically speaking, the queer community itself has often had a complicated relationship with the concept of religion, particularly organized religion. How could we not, when politicians and religious leaders (majority Christian) have actively tried to justify stripping away our rights using scripture, or we’ve experienced pressure from religious families to conform to heteronormative, nuclear family child-bearing ideals.
Jewish aces like myself are already familiar with the commandment to “be fruitful and multiply” that is often present in theological discourse, while pelted with the historical trauma of the Holocaust and the pressure placed on any Jew with a uterus to biologically make up for those losses.
So then why does being Jewish and asexual matter so much to me?
Because I would not be who I am without both those identities in my life.
When I was writing my first book, “Ace Notes: Tips and Tricks on Existing in an Allo World,” a nonfiction collection on asexuality, I was ruminating on what kind of topics I would discuss in the book that were relevant to ace identity. Through the drafting process, what started as one essay on religion and asexuality turned into a whole chapter, specifically delving into my understanding of being a Jewish ace.
While it had not originally been my intention to devote an entire section to this topic, I realized its relevance as more and more people responded to my book, noting how rare it is for people to talk about religion and asexuality, much less being a religious minority and asexual, and that they appreciated the intersectionality mentioned within my book. Various Jewish aces have also responded positively to my work, emailing me or coming up to me personally to thank me for highlighting our mutual experiences.
In a world that demonizes and pathologizes queer and Jewish existence, it has been humbling to know that my words have touched others, and lovely connecting with what is a very specific but very present segment of Jewish queer community.
Reading works by queer Jewish authors and creatives such as Joy Ladin, Chella Man, Abby Stein, Adam Eli, and many more have shown me there is academic and pragmatic value in our words, that there are multiple, varied and beautiful experiences of being queer and Jewish that live in theory and in practice. While for so many people, religion can be an obstacle to feeling comfortable with one’s queerness, intersectional feminist scholars and storytellers have shown me places of affirmation, such as queering the tale of Queen Esther or pointing to stories such as this that highlight the theme of authenticity to oneself:
The story is told of Reb Zusha, the great Hasidic Master, who lay crying on his deathbed. His students asked him, “Rebbe, why are you so sad? Why do you cry? After all the mitzvahs and good deeds you have done, you will surely get a great reward in heaven!”
“I’m afraid!” said Reb Zusha. “Because when I get to heaven, I know Gods’ not going to ask me, ‘Why weren’t you more like Moses?’ or ‘Why weren’t you more like King David?’ But I’m afraid that God will ask, ‘Zusha, why weren’t you more like Zusha?’ And then what will I say?!”
As a Jewish ace I am not alone in my experiences. From those such as Aubri Lancaster, a Jewish certified sexuality educator with a focus in asexuality, aromanticism and the mechanics of arousal who has held online retreats for Jewish asexuals to Jewish asexual writers like Talia BarNoy, I am inspired by other Jewish and ace voices who are doing the work to make sure that those like ourselves don’t have to feel so invisible anymore. And as a Jewish ace author, I only hope to continue talking about my experiences while also lifting other Jewish and queer writers and content creators.
When I asked BarNoy why it was relevant to them to showcase Jewish ace visibility, they replied: “It’s important to see the whole of the Jewish community, to love and acknowledge its every facet. Only then can we truly be a community and not just isolated factions.”
This not only makes sense to me, but is the reason I strive to commune with other Jewish and ace people in my work. In uplifting our representation and visibility, I no longer feel isolated in my identity, but connected in what feels like a larger web of creative inspiration and community.
When it comes to the LGBTQ+ community, asexuality is often referred to as the “invisible orientation” for our lack of mainstream representation in media and film as opposed to other queer identities. And as a Jewish ace person, this intersectional identity feels even more invisible sometimes.
Walking throughout the world I’m used to being in Christian-normative spaces and allonormative spaces, meaning that I’m used to the majority of people around me not understanding the unique experiences of my existence. This pops up while reading fantasy, where more often than not I stumble across hooked-nose witches and vampires, written by authors who are unaware of the historical connotations of antisemitism permeating these depictions. Or when I reveal my asexuality casually to others (or at least try to, since “coming out” can never be casual in our label-oriented society) and have people question my identity, rudely implying or outright saying that my orientation is pathology, an error of hormonal balance or mental health. (The previous point is also exceedingly harmful for disabled aces, who often have complex relationships with their asexual identities intersecting with their physical and mental disabilities.)
Historically speaking, the queer community itself has often had a complicated relationship with the concept of religion, particularly organized religion. How could we not, when politicians and religious leaders (majority Christian) have actively tried to justify stripping away our rights using scripture, or we’ve experienced pressure from religious families to conform to heteronormative, nuclear family child-bearing ideals.
Jewish aces like myself are already familiar with the commandment to “be fruitful and multiply” that is often present in theological discourse, while pelted with the historical trauma of the Holocaust and the pressure placed on any Jew with a uterus to biologically make up for those losses.
So then why does being Jewish and asexual matter so much to me?
Because I would not be who I am without both those identities in my life.
When I was writing my first book, “Ace Notes: Tips and Tricks on Existing in an Allo World,” a nonfiction collection on asexuality, I was ruminating on what kind of topics I would discuss in the book that were relevant to ace identity. Through the drafting process, what started as one essay on religion and asexuality turned into a whole chapter, specifically delving into my understanding of being a Jewish ace.
While it had not originally been my intention to devote an entire section to this topic, I realized its relevance as more and more people responded to my book, noting how rare it is for people to talk about religion and asexuality, much less being a religious minority and asexual, and that they appreciated the intersectionality mentioned within my book. Various Jewish aces have also responded positively to my work, emailing me or coming up to me personally to thank me for highlighting our mutual experiences.
In a world that demonizes and pathologizes queer and Jewish existence, it has been humbling to know that my words have touched others, and lovely connecting with what is a very specific but very present segment of Jewish queer community.
Reading works by queer Jewish authors and creatives such as Joy Ladin, Chella Man, Abby Stein, Adam Eli, and many more have shown me there is academic and pragmatic value in our words, that there are multiple, varied and beautiful experiences of being queer and Jewish that live in theory and in practice. While for so many people, religion can be an obstacle to feeling comfortable with one’s queerness, intersectional feminist scholars and storytellers have shown me places of affirmation, such as queering the tale of Queen Esther or pointing to stories such as this that highlight the theme of authenticity to oneself:
The story is told of Reb Zusha, the great Hasidic Master, who lay crying on his deathbed. His students asked him, “Rebbe, why are you so sad? Why do you cry? After all the mitzvahs and good deeds you have done, you will surely get a great reward in heaven!”
“I’m afraid!” said Reb Zusha. “Because when I get to heaven, I know Gods’ not going to ask me, ‘Why weren’t you more like Moses?’ or ‘Why weren’t you more like King David?’ But I’m afraid that God will ask, ‘Zusha, why weren’t you more like Zusha?’ And then what will I say?!”
As a Jewish ace I am not alone in my experiences. From those such as Aubri Lancaster, a Jewish certified sexuality educator with a focus in asexuality, aromanticism and the mechanics of arousal who has held online retreats for Jewish asexuals to Jewish asexual writers like Talia BarNoy, I am inspired by other Jewish and ace voices who are doing the work to make sure that those like ourselves don’t have to feel so invisible anymore. And as a Jewish ace author, I only hope to continue talking about my experiences while also lifting other Jewish and queer writers and content creators.
When I asked BarNoy why it was relevant to them to showcase Jewish ace visibility, they replied: “It’s important to see the whole of the Jewish community, to love and acknowledge its every facet. Only then can we truly be a community and not just isolated factions.”
This not only makes sense to me, but is the reason I strive to commune with other Jewish and ace people in my work. In uplifting our representation and visibility, I no longer feel isolated in my identity, but connected in what feels like a larger web of creative inspiration and community.
