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Monday, 3 August 2015 14:34![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lea_hazelYou know, I haven't used this icon in a long while. I used to blog pretty frequently about LGBTQ issues, but these days most of what I post is reblogs on Tumblr. But I made this icon after, I think, the 2007 parade, when the Jerusalem municipality for the first time hanged pride flags along major streets, in preparation for the annual pride parade. I remember my friends inviting me to join the end-tail of the parade in 2003, on a Friday afternoon when I had only just returned from the base. I remember attending, the next year, both the Jerusalem and the Tel Aviv parades, concurrently with my process of coming out of the closet as bisexual. I remember the first time since coming out that I missed the parade, and how guilty I felt. I even remember the parade two years ago, which happened to be the day I receiving the final failing grade in my incomplete BSc.
And I remember the stabbing in 2005. I was there that year too, with several of my closest friends (some of whom have drifted apart over the years). At that time my sexual identity was a huge part of my identity, it was a thing that I clung to fiercely throughout turbulent waters of unstable self-image and flaring depression. The Open House for Pride and Tolerance, Jerusalem's first and foremost pride organization, was a huge part of my social life, and I relied on its youth group meetings for support. It's hard to dredge up my feelings in the immediate aftermath of the stabbing. I do remember being scared, and (somewhat later) angry. What I don't remember feeling is shock. I suppose I probably wasn't. The experience of the parade itself, as well as the furor preceding it, precluded me from being too shocked.
Some people get jaded as they get older. They feel world-weary or they feel they've seen it all and nothing surprises them anymore. Emotional reactions are dulled and delayed, giving place to analysis or indifference. I seem to have gone the opposite direction, because I am turning 31 this month and I spent most of my weekend crying. Or, at least, that's how it felt. As though any news story, any blog post, any photo or Facebook status could set me off and I would start tearing up again. As though the tears can't possibly dry up. Am I less angry than I was as a recently-out youth? I don't think so. I can still summon up the righteous indignation when I need it, which at this time I definitely do. I'm going to need a lot of that anger over the next few months, as the aftermath of the second Jerusalem pride stabbing winds down and the challenge remains for activists and citizens to maintain momentum on the process of change, even when the spontaneous memorials come down.
I wasn't sure I would be able to write a blog post on this subject. I didn't know what I could possibly say that hasn't been said a hundred times, and I didn't know whether my strength would hold. Turns out both concerns were unnecessary. I have plenty to say on the death of a teenage girl (a student at my alma mater, I recently learned), stabbed at a social event, a political rally, a community outreach program, all wrapped into one. I feel pretty good about this post. Maybe it will even allow me to take the next step; from crying-- to anger-- to action.
And I remember the stabbing in 2005. I was there that year too, with several of my closest friends (some of whom have drifted apart over the years). At that time my sexual identity was a huge part of my identity, it was a thing that I clung to fiercely throughout turbulent waters of unstable self-image and flaring depression. The Open House for Pride and Tolerance, Jerusalem's first and foremost pride organization, was a huge part of my social life, and I relied on its youth group meetings for support. It's hard to dredge up my feelings in the immediate aftermath of the stabbing. I do remember being scared, and (somewhat later) angry. What I don't remember feeling is shock. I suppose I probably wasn't. The experience of the parade itself, as well as the furor preceding it, precluded me from being too shocked.
Some people get jaded as they get older. They feel world-weary or they feel they've seen it all and nothing surprises them anymore. Emotional reactions are dulled and delayed, giving place to analysis or indifference. I seem to have gone the opposite direction, because I am turning 31 this month and I spent most of my weekend crying. Or, at least, that's how it felt. As though any news story, any blog post, any photo or Facebook status could set me off and I would start tearing up again. As though the tears can't possibly dry up. Am I less angry than I was as a recently-out youth? I don't think so. I can still summon up the righteous indignation when I need it, which at this time I definitely do. I'm going to need a lot of that anger over the next few months, as the aftermath of the second Jerusalem pride stabbing winds down and the challenge remains for activists and citizens to maintain momentum on the process of change, even when the spontaneous memorials come down.
I wasn't sure I would be able to write a blog post on this subject. I didn't know what I could possibly say that hasn't been said a hundred times, and I didn't know whether my strength would hold. Turns out both concerns were unnecessary. I have plenty to say on the death of a teenage girl (a student at my alma mater, I recently learned), stabbed at a social event, a political rally, a community outreach program, all wrapped into one. I feel pretty good about this post. Maybe it will even allow me to take the next step; from crying-- to anger-- to action.
