reflections on anti-Jewish terrorism, fear, joy, and so much crying

I’m at the Scott Carpenter pool in a damp bikini with our daughters and their friends when we hear sirens in the distance. My husband and I look at each other and agree it sounds bad and then return to our conversation.

The kids don’t even need us. Why are we even here? We’re just their Uber and their Doordash.

We never thought this day would come. The day we could relax and read books and have an uninterrupted chat in the shade, or in the sun, or anywhere other than the edge of the pool watching them in a sea of kids because water safety, you can never be too safe, and now here we are.

We’re celebrating our younger daughter’s 11th birthday and the girls are jumping off the high platform, shrieking with what sounds like a mixture of joy and fear as they freefall into the deep end. Her friends are trying to convince me to do it, too. I’m flattered that they think I possess such boldness and I want to but I’m afraid of a labia wedgie or worse, waiting my turn only to get to the edge and chicken out.

I finally finish the novel I’ve been reading for weeks (Nightbitch). Then I read every interview the author has ever given about this book on my phone. I don’t know where the kids are and this concerns me not even a little bit. I know they’re on the premises somewhere. They’re fine. They’re safe.

And then I see a text from a friend on the way home from the pool telling me what those sirens were for.

I’m googling “Boulder molotov cocktail” and I’m wondering if I really have enough time to shower and change and plate some appetizers before my in-laws arrive to celebrate our daughter’s birthday.

I’m hitting the button on the roof of what I like to call the party van, our dented silver 2014 Toyota Sienna so the door opens to let our kids’ friends exit the car. As they bid each other farewell I’m silently showing Dan my phone and mouthing “What the fuck.”

I’m standing in the kitchen with wet hair putting olives into ramekins and arranging clementines on the square platter Dan’s parents gave us as an engagement gift and hoping it doesn’t look like I just slapped this “charcuterie board” together while trying not to cry.

I read more news reports and I learn that the victims were part of Run for Their Lives, a group that walks every Sunday to honor and raise awareness of the Israeli hostages Hamas took on October 7th.

I have walked with this group several times. We are peaceful. One person carries an Israeli flag. Others hold signs bearing the names and faces of the hostages who have been kept in tunnels for over 18 months. We are given strict instructions not to engage with unsupportive bystanders. This was not a “pro-Israel demonstration” as some of the news reports have mentioned.

They were standing in front of the courthouse on the Pearl St. Mall when a man threw an explosive at them while yelling “Free Palestine.”

People were literally on fire. Several were airlifted to the hospital. Among the elderly victims was a Holocaust survivor. How is this freeing anyone?

Dan’s sister and brother-in-law heard the news on the drive up from Denver. They ask how I’m doing and I’m not great but I’m also trying to make pesto pasta and trying to keep my kids in the dark at least for now so I thank them for their concern and we share what details we know.

I pour myself a glass of the red wine they brought even though I (pretty much) stopped drinking two years ago. I could take a gummy but I’m not patient enough to wait an hour to numb.

I wake up from a nightmare hysterically crying sometime in the middle of the night. I wake up in the morning as the orange light pours in through the cracks between the blinds crying. This is the third time in my life I’ve wondered if I’m just going to cry all day or get anything done. The other two times were when my hormones were out of whack when I started to wean my babies.

I force myself out of bed and I brush my teeth and I wonder, is there some “part” of me that needs some healing? Can I Internally Family Systems my way out of this sense of dread and powerlessness? But no, I don’t think I can because healing my inner child is the right move when I notice my reaction to a situation is overblown.

And I don’t think this is overblown at all. The Jew hate I’ve seen steadily spiking over the last 10 or so years and then exploding since October 7th, coming largely from the progressive, liberal crowd where I used to feel like I belonged, is terrifying and I think my reaction is just, well, blown. Is that what you say when the intensity of your reaction meets the intensity of the situation?

I just want to cry and also I have deadlines. I want to cry and I have lunches and dinners to make and carpools to organize and loads of laundry to do. I want to cry and I’m also hopeful that some of my neighbors will take some of the books and stuffies my daughters purged last week.

I ask my husband what we say if the kids ask what happened. He tells me our thirteen-year-old already figured it out herself. What is it like, I wonder, to grow up in this climate? I didn’t realize what a luxury it was to feel free to be my full self in nearly any setting when I was young and I weep because my girls don’t get to feel that safety.

I’m on the phone with a friend who called to check in on me when our 11-year-old comes to me holding a note. It says “What happened?” When I get off the phone I explain it to her in the simplest way I know how.

She says “Isn’t that the walk my friend and her mom go on?” I tell her yes. I do not tell her it’s the walk I’ve done several times. I don’t tell her how conflicted I feel about being loud and proud about my Jewishness and my wish for Hamas to release the hostages, my frustration and fear of rising anti-semitism worldwide, and my simultaneous wish to stay quiet, stay home, and stay safe. As if there were any guarantees. As if safety actually exists.

The safety I felt at the pool yesterday is gone, if it was ever really there.

I think about what if I’d been there and should I go to the Boulder Jewish Festival next weekend and a young Jewish couple was murdered in DC last weekend by another “Free Palestine” terrorist and what is next and I tell myself don’t think those things. Nothing and nowhere feels safe and thinking about it too much solves nothing.

I don’t know if there’s anything I can do to solve anything except keep writing my words and making my art and trying to live fully while I have the chance. (Maybe come see me at one of my upcoming comedy shows?)

I’m going to hug my kids tight and ride my bike and get off the bike when I feel like it to marvel at the rushing creek or the way the wildflowers put on a show at the side of the trail.

I’ll walk my dog and stop to smell my neighbor’s orange and pink roses. I’ll pick some of the poppies that sprung into bloom in our front yard a few days ago and arrange them in a vase.

I’ll go out to dinner with Dan to celebrate 15 years of marriage this week and I’ll probably cry again because he always sees the best in me, even when I say ridiculous things like “IF YOU REALLY WANTED TO SUPPORT ME RIGHT NOW YOU COULD DO SO BY BEING AS ANXIOUS AS I AM!!!” in regards to anti-semitism, even though I know his calm, steady energy is exactly what I need.

I’ll just keep putting one foot in front of the other and I’ll try not to cry most of the time, and when I need to fill my cup, I’ll watch Joni Mitchell sing Both Sides Now on YouTube at the 2022 Newport Folk Festival while lying on my bedroom floor or I’ll listen to the Being Jewish podcast while I lift weights or do dishes.

I’ll try to focus on love and joy instead of fear even though I know I’m going to fuck it up sometimes because what else can I do?