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Rabbi Amalia shares a Purim message, reflecting on the arc of her own personal relationship with the holiday, recent rollbacks of LGBTQ+ rights, the “topsy-turvy” nature of Purim, and how she’s internalizing the story of Esther this year.
I have a confession: even though I love costumes, glitter, and a good party, it took me a long time to find my love for the holiday of Purim. The rabbinic edict to lean into joy in Adar has never resonated with me. My inner teenager erupts: shouting: “Don’t tell me how to feel!”
Growing up, everything about Purim felt like too much. Too much noise, too high of an expectation to have fun, too much stress over having a clever costume (this still plagues me today), and too little structure. Purim was a holiday to patiently get through, in order to arrive at Passover, where the order and structure felt safe and welcome post-Purim pandemonium.
I never felt like I could share this feeling with my friends. Purim would roll around, and I would paste a big smile on and nod enthusiastically when someone would gush: “You must love Purim SO much!” It was easier to just be quiet.
Even as an adult, I spend a lot of time trying not to “rock the boat”. I want people to think the best of me, and to smooth ruffled feathers of others. I hesitate to speak out, afraid of what others may think and the impact my words may have, personally and professionally.
The past few months in the DMV have felt topsy-turvy for so many reasons. Uncertainty reigns as king, and accessing joy has felt distant. Purim comes just in time to remind us that we have the power to show up for one another and enact change for the better.
As transgender rights are rolled back and LGBTQ+ communities face increasing challenges and threats, Esther’s story takes on a more urgent significance. While I spent my childhood dressing up as Queen Esther, covering myself in the most amount of sparkly costume jewelry physically possible to put on one’s body, this year I truly feel kinship with her.
When we are introduced to the character of Esther in Megillat Esther (the Book of Esther), we are told she is taken to the king’s harem but,
א־הִגִּידָה אֶסְתֵּר אֶת־עַמָּהּ וְאֶת־מוֹלַדְתָּהּ כִּי מרְדֳּכַי צִוָּה עָלֶיהָ אֲשֶׁר לֹא־תַגִּיד׃
Esther did not reveal her people or her kindred, for Mordecai had told her not to reveal it. (Esther 2:10)
Esther has to hide her identity in order to survive, choosing to remain quiet. She chooses silence over sharing her true self, afraid of the ramifications for her safety. It is not until her life and the lives of all of her people are on the line that she starts to speak out.
And even then, she is pushed by Mordechai to go before the king.
וּמִי יוֹדֵעַ אִם־לְעֵת כָּזֹאת הִגַּעַתְּ לַמַּלְכוּת׃
And who knows, perhaps it is for this moment that you have come into royal power. (Esther 4:14)
So, Esther does the thing.
תִּנָּתֶן־לִי נַפְשִׁי בִּשְׁאֵלָתִי וְעַמִּי בְּבַקָּשָׁתִי׃
let my life be granted me as my wish, and my people as my request.
כִּי נִמְכַּרְנוּ אֲנִי וְעַמִּי לְהַשְׁמִיד לַהֲרוֹג וּלְאַבֵּד
For we have been sold, my people and I, to be destroyed, massacred, and exterminated (Esther 7: 3-4)
I imagine the fear running through Esther’s body when she has to reveal her identity, heart-pounding, mouth-bone-dry, knowing she may be killed in the process of outing her identity and pleading for her people’s lives. In her moment of greatest vulnerability, Esther reveals her true self, knowing that her very survival—and the survival of her people—depends on it. This act of courage becomes the means by which Esther not only saves herself, but the entire Jewish people.
This Purim, I want to embody the courage of Esther, who set aside her own fear, her own safety, and put herself on the line for her people. In a world when trans rights have come under constant threat, and executive orders seek to erase the existence of transgender people and deny their health, safety, and dignity, Esther’s courage speaks louder than ever before.
In this light, Purim becomes a celebration of the dignity and joy of living openly as who we are. It is a reminder that the right to exist, to live fully as ourselves is not just a political issue—it is a deeply personal and sacred one. For every transgender and LGBTQ+ individual, the ability to live in one’s truth is an act of courage, and, like Esther, it can also be an act of liberation and rescue for an entire community.
This Purim, I feel beckoned towards the words of another Queen, Marsha P. Johnson (an American gay liberation activist and self-identified drag queen): “No pride for some of us, without liberation for all of us.”
I am still afraid. Afraid that my words will cause inadvertent harm, that I will misstep and of the ramifications on my livelihood and my personal life.
But I am more afraid that I have become a rabbi who will not say anything of substance at all or who hesitates to go before those in power and call out in the name of those who are being targeted, all for the sake of my own fear.
This Purim, I bless us all (and myself too), to “speak the truth, even if our voices shake” (Maggie Kuhn). May we see that our liberation is bound up in one another, knowing that the safety and sanctity of the LGBTQ+ community is the safety and sanctity of all of us.
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