I’m Jewish, and I’m white
Several days ago, white supremacist neo-Nazis marched in Charlottesville, distributing anti-Semitic material and chanting anti-Semitic slogans. Now suddenly, everyone knows something that many of us have known for a long time already: People in this country still hate Jews.
One result of these occurrences has been a flurry of think pieces by light-skinned Jews of European origin. These writers argue that Jews like themselves (and me) aren’t white, are only sort of white, or should stop thinking of ourselves as white.
Personally, Charlottesville didn’t change how much I think of myself as white. If anything, it only strengthened my reasons for identifying that way.
Of course, Jewish racial identity is complicated. Each of us has a different set of family stories and life experiences that informs our relationship to whiteness. But I don’t see many people acknowledging that our choice to identify isn’t only between us and white supremacists. It affects other groups — people of color, particularly — and our collective relationship with them.
We experience and benefit from white privilege
In short: I identify as white as a way of owning my white privilege.
I enjoy the unasked-for advantages of whiteness. I expect warm and sympathetic treatment. I see people who look like me on television and makeup in my shade in every store. Doctors are sensitive to my pain. In mainstream spaces — white spaces — I blend in.
Are there people who would treat me differently if they knew I were Jewish — or who do, once they know? Yes. My stigma is generally concealed. Just as some white people are invisibly queer, disabled, or poor… and still white.
I pass as Christian. But I am white.
I am “conditionally white,” which is the only way to be white. As we all know, race is a social construction. No one is intrinsically white. To the extent that I get the benefits of whiteness, I am white. And I do get those benefits.
I benefit from the oppression of people of color. When people of color are underpaid — and my organization can therefore afford to pay me more — their disadvantage is my advantage. When people of color find it harder to buy a home in my “good” neighborhood, their disadvantage is my advantage.
In identifying as white, I am recognizing that I did not earn these advantages and that they come at the expense of people of color.
Distancing ourselves from whiteness affects people of color
European-American Jews may be whiter than people of color, but we are less white than white supremacists.
But why would we let white supremacists define our racial identity, especially now, when we so urgently need to stand in solidarity with people of color?
People of color see us as white — try asking one of them. Go on. And when they say we are white, that’s not just a statement about our intrinsic biological characteristics. Remember, race is a social construct. When people of color say we are white, they are telling us about how they see our relationship to them.
How can we work together if we are unwilling to accept the way they see that relationship? It’s like trying to work together with someone while stepping on their foot. And when they tell you that you are stepping on their foot, instead of trying to do better, you flatly deny you are doing it. That is no way to stand in solidarity.
We can identify as white and still ask people to remember that we too are marginalized and hated. There’s no rule that says there can only be one way to be marginalized. We can be oppressors and also be oppressed.
It might be scary to acknowledge that we have any kind of advantage — especially when anti-Semitic conspiracy theories have always emphasized our power and privilege.
But in 2017 in the United States, I worry more about what will happen if we don’t acknowledge our advantage. I worry that denying it will prevent us from being able to move forward together.
By identifying as white, I want to tell people of color that I am willing to examine myself and my role in their oppression so that we can work toward liberation for all of us.
Distancing ourselves from whiteness affects Jews of color specifically
There’s another set of advantages that I want to acknowledge by identifying as white. Within the Jewish community, I enjoy light-skinned and Ashkenazi privilege.
When we ask, “Are Jews white?” we suggest that Jews are all one race. And we erase the existence of Jews who are definitely not white.
Some Jews do not have the luxury to ponder, soul-search, or choose their racial identity. Outside the Jewish community, these Jews are doubly marginalized by both racism and anti-Semitism. Within the Jewish community, they are less likely to be leaders of Jewish organizations, they face discrimination in Israel, and their Jewishness is questioned. We fail to make room for their stories.
If all Jews are racially “Jewish,” that leaves no way to name or talk about these differences. And if we cannot name the differences, we cannot rectify them.
Sure, light-skinned privilege and colorism exist within communities of color, too. But this advantage stems from — or at least is fueled by — white supremacy.
So why not take a shortcut and call ourselves…white?
Identifying as white isn’t aligning with whiteness
Some say that we should distance ourselves from whiteness to show that we reject white supremacy — that embracing whiteness means aligning ourselves with it and seizing its benefits.
To me, calling myself white means the exact opposite of that. White supremacy operates invisibly. Nice, non-racist white people accept unearned advantages because they can avoid seeing how they got those advantages.
I’m not happy about being white. I’m not saying, “We white people are superior and should be allowed to reclaim our superiority” (If I tried that, I don’t think my new friends would like me very much. They’re the ones marching with torches).
No, I’m exposing my unearned advantage for what it is. And that’s the first step to rectifying it.
That’s why the way I identify affects people of color — both Jews and non-Jews. If I distance myself from whiteness, I am refusing to recognize their experiences and refusing to help them. And it makes no sense to seek my own liberation while neglecting theirs.
That’s why — after Charlottesville, as much as ever — I’m white.
*This is the collective product of women of color and allies. This piece specifically comes from the voice of an ally.
