The aftermath of Thanksgiving dinner 2012 will remain etched in my memory forever. Our son, Asher, asked my husband and I to join him at the resolute dining room table under the crystal chandelier, the designated spot for all “important conversations.” We were expecting this sit-down, anticipating the exciting news that Asher and his girlfriend were ready to be engaged. To our surprise, there was no girlfriend in sight. Our youngest son, Yitzi, was sitting at the table solemnly awaiting our arrival.
Asher opened the conversation: “Eema, Abba — Yitz has something important to tell you.” Silence. And then with all the bravery a 15-year-old can muster, Yitzi said “I’m gay.” All I felt in that moment was shock. My brain scrolled through hundreds of questions and responses in rapid fire. In less than a minute, I thought to myself, “Is this a prank? Is the girlfriend hiding behind the curtains? Where the heck is this coming from?” Fortunately, God guided my reaction. I got up, walked over to Yitzi, hugged him tightly and said, “You are exactly the same person today that you were yesterday.”
While I managed to hold it together in the moment, I spent the next few days sobbing. I cried on and off for weeks afterwards for so many reasons, especially when we sang zemirot at the Shabbat table. What made me cry the most, and continues to sadden me today, is that I could no longer envision his future and his place in the Orthodox community.
Until that moment, I had dreamt of a bright and soaring future for Yitzi; he would excel in his career path, participate in communal learning and activities, and inspire any kehilla with his heartfelt songs of prayer. But I knew that being gay would brand him as “other,” and that he would never be seen as a full member of his community. Yitzi was a smart and mature person, who made (and continues to make) good choices. Knowing that about him affirmed to me that his being gay was a fact and not a choice. I wondered if he would be able to withstand the challenges of remaining part of the Orthodox community or if he would drift — or be pushed — away. My dreams were shattered like a glass at a chuppah, deflated like a bouncy house at the end of a party.
Our loneliness pulled us deeper into quicksand. Worry and concern accompanied us wherever we were. While we were completely embracing and accepting of our son, it felt as if there was no friend, relative or community leader who would do the same. Other than our beloved Rabbi Yosef Blau, a personal therapist and one of my (gay) chaplain school buddies, we told no one. During Yitzi’s valedictory speech at his high school graduation, I wanted to jump up and reveal this truth to everyone, to wag a finger at them all for how they would discard him in the future.
Post graduation, Yitzi began a gap year of Torah learning at a yeshiva in Israel. One year became two, which morphed into his decision to make aliyah and join his chevra for army/hesder service. We followed Yitzi’s lead as he figured out when it was time to crack open the closet door, when it was time to step out of the closet, and when it was time to stand in the sunshine and stop hiding. After five years of secrets and silence, we began to be more open and honest with ourselves and those closest to us. We were aware of Eshel (an organization that supports LGBTQ people and their Orthodox families) and gathered the courage to attend its annual weekend parent retreat in May. It felt like the right moment when we saw that Rabbi Shlomo Riskin was to be the scholar in residence.
As a former talmid, Nathan, my husband, was hoping that his rebbe’s thoughts and wisdom could help lift us out of our murky confusion. We were nervous and unsure about attending, but what we found were compassionate comrades; new friends who were ready to listen without judgment (even when we vehemently disagreed on some issues). They showed understanding and open hearts and minds. We were all grappling with religion and the reality of our children’s sexuality. This was a place where we could voice our own confusion, disappointment and anger unfettered. These new friends became old friends in a weekend.
When we arrived at the retreat center, I exhaled in what felt like a beginning cleansing breath. As we were welcomed, we carried our suitcases to our room, but the heavy burden we had been shouldering alone and in silence for six years remained in the parking lot. For the next three days, we could be whole. We could voice our own fears and feelings without the exhausting mental gymnastics of editing every sentence uttered. The burden waited for us at the entrance, and when we metaphorically lifted our metaphorical burden, we wondered if the burden had gotten lighter, or if we had grown stronger.
Yocheved Lindenbaum taught Tanach and Ivrit in Bergen County for 20 years and lived in Teaneck for 30. She and her husband live in Jerusalem as well as Riverdale and are both active members of Eshel parents and Eshel Israel.
