Josh, 23 | New York
Four years ago on the subway,
I tucked my kippah into my pocket.
My parents called me crazy, said the fear was just a ghost
living in my own head.
Then came the internship.
I started sitting in the front of Schul at minyan,
and my friends looked at me like I was whacked
calling me paranoid for watching the doors while praying.
Then I saw the guy on the street.
A swastika inked right onto the back of his leg, clear as day.
I snapped a picture, sent it to the group chat.
"An exception," they texted back. "A one-off."
But then the lecture hall shifted.
My professor stood at the front and told us to go to the rally.
And the whole class cheered.
The room felt so loud, and I felt so small.
Funny how things flip.
Now, my kippah is even larger.
Men in my family don’t wear jewelry, never have,
but there’s a Magen David sitting heavy right over my sweatshirt.
Now, I don’t hide.
I walk right into the campus rallies, chin up, shoulders back.
You wanted me to disappear?
Look closer.
I am here.
We are here.
