I need to apologize. I've been quiet. I've been in my isolated bubble of white-straight-privilege and been perfectly fine in there. Don't get me wrong, I was outraged, but I was also paralyzed by inaction and quiet about it. I told myself I was doing really great work by helping people turned away from Jewish communities because of their spouse's religion. I thought that was all I could do, or at least that's how I justified my silence (or maybe even apathy). But mass shooting after mass shooting, I've gotten outraged for a few days and then gone on with my life. I've called my representatives and written letters once or twice, and then I've gotten busy and stopped.
I am sorry. I have sinned against my fellow humans by complacency.
I have sinned against God by failing to act to save God's creations.
I am sorry.
When I woke up early last Sunday morning to the news that 20 people had been killed at a nightclub in Orlando, I was outraged. I shook my husband awake saying, "there's been another shooting; it's just awful." And then I went out in the living room to care for my young children who have no capacity for this kind of news, but while we played with blocks I couldn't shake the pit in my stomach or stop the tears from welling in my eyes.
As the number of murdered humans rose to 49, my sadness grew. As detailed started emerging about the location and circumstances, the anger grew. All day as I fed my kids and entertained them along with my sister who was in town, I tried to sort through my feelings.
The same thoughts kept flooding my mind:
100 people were shot. By 1 man.
A gay nightclub.
How is this possible?
Do I know anyone there?
Does anyone I know, know anyone there?
100 people shot by 1 man.
How could this be possible?
And then I thought about it - of course it's possible. It's possible because of people like me who go through their day sipping on cold brew, and checking Facebook, and watching Netflix, and potty-training kids, and being busy at work, and having family problems, and, and, and, and...
Don't get me wrong, I've called my state representatives and written letters. Could I have called more and written more? Yes. Can I do more? Absolutely.
The violent act of murder and hate in Orlando on Sunday was the sound of the shofar I needed to hear to wake up and stand up. But to do what, I had no idea. I spent the evening and following day signing petitions, calling my friends, especially checking in with my LGBTQ friends whose trauma was only something I could begin to understand.
I attended a vigil on Monday evening at the LA city Hall. I stood there, a straight, white, Jewish, upper middle-class woman in a crowd of thousands of LGBTQ people and allies. I heard speech after speech exclaiming the personal trauma that people were feeling in the aftermath of the shooting, and I started to get it. I heard things like, "we've fought for our lives before and we'll do it again," and "we are singing for our lives."
Since last Sunday I've wanted to scream from the rooftops, "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore," but there's so much to do that I don't know where to start.
On Monday I started with mourning. Mourning the 49 victims and 53 injured bodies and millions of souls. Mourning the end of the privileged life I've led in Scottsdale and Portland and Pasadena where I never sat in a school lockdown or knew someone killed by a hate crime. I mourned the ideal future I had thought of for my children, a future free from hate and violence.
I took Rabbi Denise Eger's mourning prayer to heart as I listened to people speak the names of the 49 people murdered in Orlando on Sunday at the Pulse nightclub.
And now what? What do I do? What can I say? I know now I do not have the privilege of keeping silent. I have a voice and I need to use it, but who am I to stand up?
I am Moses saying, "Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh and free the Israelites from Egypt?" I am Moses saying, "the Israelites would not listen to me, a man of impeded speech, why should Pharaoh listen to me?"
I have let my privilege and excuses be my impediment. But now I am here.
Hineini. Here I am.
I am here, screaming from the rooftops - ENOUGH.
I am standing up as an ally to all of my LGBTQ friends.
I am standing up as a clergy person who has a voice to comfort but also to empower.
I am standing up as a mom who wants a better safer future for her children.
I am standing up as the director at an organization that helps people who have been marginalized.
I am standing up as a person who lost a friend to suicide by a gun he had easy access to.
I am standing up as a human being.
Who's with me? Who will walk with me through the wilderness of gun control legislation, and LGBTQ rights, and human rights, and freedom of religion, and freedom to marry, and, and, and, and?
I have been quiet. But I'm not quiet anymore. There's so much we can do. What will you do?