Why I started wearing a kippah in public and in the workplace

The year was 2019. We had recently decided to raise our son in the Jewish community, and I was in the middle of a formal conversion process to Judaism. And that’s when it happened: an intruder with a large knife burst into the home of a Hasidic rabbi in Monsey, NY, stabbing and wounding five people just as they were gathering to light candles for Hanukkah.

While shocking on its own, this event had capped off a week of consecutive daily news reports of Jewish New Yorkers being victimized.

Generally speaking, most non-Orthodox Jewish men in the United States do not wear a kippah (a.k.a. yarmulke) in daily life. A head covering for Jewish males is not explicitly a matter of mitzvah (commandment), and the decision to wear one — and how — depends on personal and religious variables. People who are visibly Jewish may be at a higher risk of experiencing discrimination or abuse, and voluntarily wearing a kippah can feel like sporting an unnecessary target on one’s back. Similarly, being visibly Jewish can carry expectations which I may not always be able to meet, even at my best. As my family was joining a Reform congregation, I was under no obligation to wear a kippah in public or at work. But, in a sense, I did feel an obligation for myself, my family, and the Jewish community I was joining.

Visibility

For most of modern history, simply being LGBT was illegal. As LGBT people were pushed to shadows, it was easier for society to see them with suspicion and contempt. Over the last three or four decades, LGBT people have made a conscious choice to be visible. Increased visibility lead to humanization and need for understanding and reconciliation. Historical perceptions and stereotypes were replaced with names and faces. Even today, as people we know and love surface as LGBT in our lives or in the workplace, we feel an obligation to stand up for them and defend their freedom and equality.

Visibility is important. When we see someone displaying a rainbow flag, our understanding of that person and aperture of LGBT people expands. By wearing a kippah in public and in the workspace, I can use each interaction as an opportunity to expand the visibility and representation of Jewish people. Additionally, by demonstrating my comfort in being visually Jewish at my workplace, I signal a sense of safety and value of diversity and inclusion to my Jewish coworkers.

Pride

Historically, covering the head was a method to separate and protect the Jewish community and its faith and traditions from a world wanting to assimilate it. Maimonides explains in the Mishneh Torah (12th century CE) that “covering the head is the Jewish way of showing reverence; and in places where non-Jews do not cover their heads, we must cover our heads as a way of identification.”

Wearing a kippah can be significant and valuable as a recognizable sign of belonging to a group of people with a rich religious history and long history of struggle. Human beings often look for ways to connect with others. I can’t count the times in which people have paused to say, “Shalom!” or in which other Jewish people asked which synagogue I attend or showed me the star or chai pendant around their neck. Wearing a kippah is an opportunity for me to publicly show pride as a Jewish man and an opportunity for other Jewish people to experience pride and identity through me.

In defiance of fear

Back to that moment in 2019 and a week of news stories. With each story, a fire of defiance grew within me. I want my son to be proud of his Jewish identity. I want him to grow up in a world where he can feel free to express himself without fear, to wear a kippah or not, and to be the person and live the life that’s been given to him. I refuse to enable others attempting to push us into the shadows with fear.

And so, I wear a kippah. For some, wearing a head covering is an important religious observance. For others, wearing a head covering is a way of bringing the divine into specific moments. For me, wearing a kippah is an intentional act of visibility and pride, to connect with others as fellow human beings and expand appreciation of where we’re different and where we’re the same. It is my personal call to action in response to a quote from Rabbi Jonathan Sacks:

“There always were two ways to live in a world that is often dark and full of tears. We can curse the darkness or we can light a light; and as the Chassidim say, a little light drives out much darkness. May we all help light up the world.”