Why I’m no longer compromising my Judaism for the comfort of men

Cover image by nadia_bormotova

TW: strong anti-Semitic rhetoric 

It’s taken me a really long time to write this blog. This is at least the fourth time I've tried to sit down and write it. (Edit: fifth) But I think I finally have the emotional energy to write about my experiences dating as a Jewish woman. I’d like to shoutout Hannah Cohen and her piece in Refinery29; “The ‘Cool Jew’ Act Isn’t Cutting it for Me Anymore”, for inspiring me to continue writing this piece, and knowing I’m not alone in how I feel. 

Over the past two years, I have become more in touch with my Jewish heritage. There is a multitude of factors that have led me to want to reconnect with and re-educate myself on the Jewish faith. At first, it was working 30 hours in a predominantly Jewish area (in which I served Troye Sivan and his family on four separate occasions, pretty gnarly). Then it was missing my family throughout lockdown and not being able to enjoy the shitshow that is Russian-Jewish culture.  But mainly, it was casual anti-semeitc rhetoric that would arise through COVID discourse. It was the false infographics regarding the Israel-Palestine conflict. It was the sudden influx of comparisons being made between the current political state of Australia and literal Nazi Germany. It made me realise that anti-semitism still runs rampant in 2021. This made me reflect on my past experiences, more so, navigating my culture within my relationships.

I don’t often shy away from telling partners that I’m Jewish. Most times the response is usually “I thought you were Russian?”, but other times it’s much worse than that.

In 2017 I dated a guy who related a bit too much to American History X, so much so he changed his profile picture to a photo of his freshly shaved head with said movie as the caption. Upon asking what film he’d like to see for one of our dates, he responded “is there anything about white supremacy showing?”. 

In 2019 I was watching Borat with the guy I was seeing (that should’ve been a red flag, regardless of how much of a great movie it is). There is a scene where Borat is hiding under the covers holding a crucifix because he realises he is staying in a bed and breakfast run by Jews. He turns to the camera and says “I am in a nest of Jews”. Said guy turned to me and whispered; “this is me when I come to your house”. 

Later that year I dated a guy who said he had waited 23 years to finally use his anti-Semitic comedic material. Weird how he decided to try it out on a Jewish woman he was courting. Some days it would be waking up to texts asking where my yellow Star of David was, other times it was bearing witness to jokes such as “didn’t the people at the concentration camps notice that no one was coming back from the showers?”. There were instances where he would say much worse, but I’d rather not air them here. What did I expect from a guy who referred to his exes as “crazy blue-haired feminists who don’t shave their armpits”? 

In 2021 I posted a photo of my family Passover to my Instagram story, to which the guy I was seeing at the time replied “I thought you were joking about being Jewish?”. He must have overlooked my devil horns, right? 

So you might be wondering. Why did I just sit there and cop it? Well, let me introduce you to the “cool girl trope”. The “cool girl” aesthetic was the zeitgeist of the late 2010’s, it was the girl we all wanted to be, and the girl we thought everyone wanted. As Hannah mentioned in her article, to be Jewish was a “fun quirk” that made us “different”. Years later and I’ve realised that to be the “cool girl” is to live a life of internalised misogyny and in my case, internalised anti-semitism. Gemma Hartley put it perfectly in her piece “‘One of the guys’: on cool girls and internalised misogyny’” when she said; “I was reinforcing stereotypes that I was trying to escape”. For years I put up with the idea that to like dark humour is to be “quirky” and “different”, and would therefore lead to male validation. I would stand idly by while anti-Semitic humour ran rampant in my relationships. I knew it was wrong, I knew the discourse in these relationships didn’t align with my morals, yet I was so insecure with who I was that I would sacrifice parts of myself in order to keep up the appearance of the aloof manic pixie dream girl. Nazi rhetoric diminishes the lived experiences of Jews, and our history needs to be remembered for what it was. 

I spoke to some of my Jewish friends and asked them about their experiences navigating their Judaism within romantic relationships. One friend’s experience were similar to mine, having her boyfriend say things like “I would sit down and have a beer with Hitler'' and “Why would anyone wanna go there?” referring to her trip to Israel. “Dating Jewish is not a huge deal for me, what matters is how much they respect it” she said. “There is a part of me that is hesitant to say I’m Jewish because I don’t want the same thing to happen''. 

There is however the other end of the spectrum, the fetishisation of Jewish culture. In her piece “The line between Jew-curious and antisemitism”, Tami Sussman talks about those gentile friends who find amusement in obscure Yiddish words and loves taking part in Shabbat dinners, this is not the type of fetishisation we are talking about. My friend Emily (you may know her from The Mamas or as Miss Emilia) talks about what it was like growing up with predominantly Jewish features. This didn’t pose as an issue at first, as she attended a primary school that was predominantly Jewish, so she never felt any different. However, moving onto tertiary education and building a successful name for herself within the music industry found herself being adored for the wrong reasons. Disclosing her Judaism to romantic partners, Emily was met with over-enthusiasm, with phrases such as “I personally only date black or Jewish women”. The term “Ashkenazi Jew” refers to those whose ancestors lived in central and eastern Europe. Both Emily and I’s parents migrated from the Soviet Union, which played an integral part in our Judaism. Our culture was made up of loud, exuberant women with curves up the wazoo. Emily often felt that her physical aspects such as her bushy red hair or her “quintessentially Jewish”  curves were often fetishised, with her personality being looked over.  

My dating life consisted of being told I was either too much or not enough,  and to tone down parts of ourselves that were so inherent in our culture. I didn’t realise the weight of what I subjected myself to until last year where my journey to reconnecting to Judaism began. It was challenging to unpack these unsolicited remarks, but I’ve been able to make peace with who I am and gain a stronger sense of self than what was present in these relationships. I still have a lot more to learn and re-learn about my culture, but I am now making active steps to preserve that piece of identity I have left.