A Case for Envy
Many of us are taught to believe that envy is an ugly thing, that we
should suppress feelings of envy because they are rooted in a kind of
competitive, covetous ugliness. What if, however, there were an envy
rooted in something good, something nearly pure, something
truly worthy of admiration, even if it were not without complexity.
Would that kind of envy be ok? For a whole host of reasons, I’ve
convinced myself that the answer can — and for me at least,
needs to be — yes.
The world these last couple of years has been brutal. From October 7th
onward, being a Jew in America has become an increasingly perilous
thing. Folks have been loud and proud with their vocal and physical
Jew hatred, hiding behind “it’s only Zionists we hate” when called out.
That lie has been repeated so often that some folks actually believe it.
And that’s a very dangerous thing.
My worst moments have not been ones of physical fear. I’ve been
living under the threat of Jew hatred for so long that it’s like breathing.
Extra security at Jewish institutions has been a thing for decades, not
for years, so nothing new under the sun there. The only change might
be the frequency of seeing the anti-terrorism cops and their huge guns
outside those institutions more often. No, my worst moments
are the tiny personal ones related to my kids. When I told my son to
consider tucking in the Magen David necklace I’d only recently bought
for him in Israel. Or when I try to get my daughter not to talk about
Middle East or even domestic politics in public. Those moments of
censoring feel gut wrenching to me, a failure on my part to give my children a world of safety, of security, of being able to embrace who
they are wherever they happen to be.
What has surprised me has been the one space in my life where the
hesitations of being a public Jew don’t hit me at all. And that space is
anywhere I find myself with my autistic son.
Noah will periodically and for no apparent reason declare, “We’re
Jewish.” More recently I heard, “We’re not Christian.” “Why, Noah?”
“Because we don’t celebrate Christmas.” On the subway, which I ride
regularly with Noah to and from his program in Brooklyn, he will repeat
these things at times, but more often he’ll engage me with, “On
Chanukah, blow!” Which is his way of talking about blowing out the
candles. To which I always reply, “Don’t blow!” And then I prompt him
with, “Why shouldn’t you blow out the candles?” “Because it’s blowing
out the blessings.” “And we don’t blow out blessings because blessings
are good things,” I remind him.
That interchange happens often. What changes is the holiday.
It’s usually Chanukah, but it can also be Passover, Rosh Hashanah, or
just “the Jewish holidays.” And this is not a whispered interchange.
Noah is not a whisperer. He’s not a shouter either, but sometimes his
voice can be a bit loud. Still, I never feel hesitant to engage with him
this way, whether on a subway, a bus, or just out on the street. I never
feel unsafe being Jewish with Noah. In fact, I feel somehow enveloped
in something sacredly safe, like we are in a secure bubble that others
cannot penetrate, even if they can hear us.
Noah’s public Jewishness is both a joy and a rebuke, though he intends
it to be neither, I’m sure. He’s just being Noah. The joy is in having
interchanges with him that while endlessly repetitive, are rooted in a happy and utterly unselfconscious embrace of identity. The rebuke is
knowing how self-conscious I have become about being publicly Jewish,
worrying quietly that people might be judging me just for wearing my
Chai and/or Star of David necklaces, even though I’m sure many people
have no idea what they are.
With Noah, my significantly disabled son, the man child for whom the
world is in so many ways an impenetrable mystery, I feel secure, free to
be Jewish me, a Jewish mom with my Jewish son. I envy his ease at
being himself, though I know he experiences frustration and anger
about a number of things, so I’m not papering over his challenges.
I’m just looking out at and living in a world full of staggering, soul-
crushing Jew hatred, and feeling incalculable gratitude at having a child
who feels none of those slings and arrows, who sees none, who hears
none, who feels no compunction to respond to any that might even be
sent his way. It is impossible not to envy someone who walks through a
world of minefields and finds, everywhere he goes, an excuse to talk
with his mom about not blowing out Jewish blessings.
