Seven years ago this Sunday, I gathered with the campers and staff at the URJ Kutz Camp (z"l) to hear that Obergefell v. Hodges had been decided and that queer marriage had been legalized on the national level. Though I myself was not yet aware that I was queer, I knew how impactful this was, and I joined the throng of shouting, crying, hugging young adults. It was one of the greatest moments of my whole summer in a summer that was, in many ways, one of the best I've had.
Today, seven years later, I am at another URJ camp as the news breaks that Roe has been overturned. We're still in staff orientation here, and everywhere I look, my coworkers and friends are trying desperately to go through the day as if things are okay. Seven years ago, teenagers hugged me out of pure joy; today, I'm holding them as they try to process what's happening and prepare for opening day, just two days away.
How do we cope?
In his concurrent statement, Clarence Thomas explictly mentioned Griswold, Lawrence, and Obergefell as the next steps - contraception, sodomy laws, and queer marriage. In one fell swoop, the bodily and sexual autonomy of millions of people have been dropped into a well of uncertainty.
How do we cope?
Joe Biden, in what may be the most extraordinarily tone-deaf statement in a long career of them, took advantage of this horrifying and heartbreaking moment to... tell us to vote in the midterms, still a number of months away, and to claim that Roe "will be on the ballot" as if he can singlehandedly undo the decision. Rather than make space for the mourning of millions, he chose to promote partisan politics - never mind the fact that the Democrats have held supermajorities repeatedly and never once took advantage to codify abortion rights.
How do we cope?
Voting didn't work, and not voting didn't work. Letter-writing didn't work, and protesting didn't work. And now it's too late; we're through the looking glass. Our representatives are not coming to save us; we have to save ourselves.
How do we cope?
I don't usually write on Shabbat, especially while I'm at camp. Shabbat is sacred to me, both religiously and personally. But how can I rest when the world is on fire?
How do we cope?
I don't know.
I don't know how we cope when everything is such a mess. I don't know how we cope when it feels like the entire world is actively trying to subjugate us. I don't know how we cope when the landmark case in bodily autonomy gets overturned and opens the door to complete losses of life and liberty. I don't know how we cope when there is so little we can do.
What I do know is this: I have a community. I have partners who love me, family who support me, friends who are here for me. My supervisors are largely people with uteruses; they gave me space and grace today. Today, a cishet man from another country sat in solidarity with me. Today, I watched people with uteruses hold each other up.
I don't know how we cope. But I do know it doesn't start with a ballot box, and it doesn't start with a protest sign, and it doesn't start with surrender. It starts with community. It starts with reaching out to one another and holding each other up.
Judaism teaches us that we are not obligated to complete the work, but that we are also not free to desist from it. The work isn't just changing our broken system; it's sharing resources and sharing comfort. Do not desist.
Take today. Take tomorrow. Cry, rant, dissociate, do whatever has to happen. But don't feel like you have to do it alone. You are not alone.
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