I used to be embarrassed.

I used to be nervous.

I used to hide, bury the lead, stay quiet.

I used to laugh along, sneak off to cry, whisper my concerns.

With time, I got braver.

I remember a time when a friend splashed me with dirty water that had pooled in a fountain in front of a city church.

“The power of Christ compels you, Jew!” they said, a very poor attempt at a joke.

I don’t know if it was knowing the water was gross, the built up frustration of a lifetime of microaggressions, or something else, but I turned to them and said clearly “That isn’t funny. Don’t do it again.”

I remember being anxious about speaking so directly, it was different for me. It was a secure friendship, someone I trusted and felt I could be honest with. I had spent most of my life trying to go along with the “joke”, afraid of being called too sensitive or hurting the vibe of the moment. I wanted people to think I was cool, laidback, someone who could take the heat.

The truth is, I am sensitive. And I have the right to be.

I don’t owe anyone my trauma, and truthfully, a lot of it is buried down deep. The aforementioned need to be seen as a fun girl forced me into a lot of compartmentalization. I can’t be mad, it’s a party. I can’t cry, it’ll make people uncomfortable. Memories of being othered, hurt, made fun of, or straight up harassed pop up like sporadic weeds. I’ll be reminiscing on something completely different, like talking with friends about sweet high school romances, and then remember that a crush once made a “joke” about how to fit 6 million Jews in an ashtray.

I used to excuse it. Maybe they forgot I’m Jewish. Maybe they don’t know. Maybe I’m being too much, I need to just relax.

Part of the healing that has come with Ashkelachian is knowing that I don’t have to make excuses for people anymore, even my loved ones. I deserve to be seen, to tell my stories, to share my table. I shouldn’t have to be on high alert, constantly listening and unpacking the cruel things people say so casually.

Healing also has meant forgiveness, which I’ve done and happily, but I can’t truly forget. It’s part of my story, that resilience that leads to a dedication to do better, to be more inclusive.

Last month, one of my best friends and faithful documentarian, Ariah of Forest Photo, took photos of me making latkes. When she delivered the gallery, it was one of the most affirming moments I’ve experienced in my life. To be captured doing what I love, and honoring my culture, was incredibly powerful.

I’m not hiding. I’m not nervous. I’m joyful, free, moving seamlessly around my kitchen, laughing and tasting and plating.

It’s becoming a bit of a trope, but if I could show my younger self anything, first it would be a picture of my husband to let her know how hot the guy we end up with is.

And then, once she recovered from that, I would show her these photos.

She probably wouldn’t believe it, that the same person who used to cry by the lockers when her classmates yelled slurs at her, who used to change topics when folks learned she was Jewish, who laughed nervously to go with the flow, is documented in these photos.

I’m myself. I’m unbothered. I’m Ashkelachian and proud.

Thank you all for being here. I promise to honor this space and keep giving you all stories, recipes, and a whole lot of heart. Mazel, bbs. 💋