Playing Dress Up in the Men’s Section
Written by Naor - Illinois, USA
Trauma. Often, when speaking about the connection between queerness and religion, the word trauma is brought into the mix. The general consensus is that being queer and religious cannot intertwine, but I must beg to differ.
Religion has always been a huge part of my life. My parents are both rabbis, so Judaism was everywhere, woven into everything we did. Where there was joy, there was Judaism. Where there was pain, there was Judaism. It wasn’t just a set of beliefs; it shaped how we saw the world and how we carried ourselves. It is what guided and continues to guide my family to be stronger, more level-headed individuals. As a little kid, I would wear Jewish garb traditionally meant for men. I didn’t yet understand myself as a trans man or as someone pushing boundaries; I just knew I felt drawn to wearing them. My parents always supported me, encouraging my curiosity and helping me explore the teachings I was eager to learn, regardless of the gender they were traditionally tied to. That freedom opened up my world. Being able to practice my religion in a way that felt right for me shaped how I see everything. It taught me that identity and tradition aren’t opposing forces; they are something I can make my own. What’s beautiful about Judaism is that it encourages you to make it your own. The phrase “Ask three Jews, get seven answers” is real, and fascinating. Every person has a unique perspective and lived experience that shapes how religion takes root in their life. To be queer is to know yourself. Most people aren’t born with the immediate knowledge that they are queer. Instead, they embark on a journey, wanted or not, to uncover parts of themselves that society told them couldn’t exist. To be queer is to ask questions. And to me, so is being religious.
For me, one of the strongest ways I connect to Judaism is through what I wear. Jewish garb isn’t just tradition; it is something that makes me feel constantly wrapped in Jewish soul. It is gender-affirming, a way to show up in the world as myself, and a reminder that my faith and my identity aren’t in conflict. When I put on my kippah or tzitzit, I feel aligned, not just in my gender, but in my Judaism. It prepares me for prayer, grounding me in something bigger than myself. I would not be who I am without my kippah (yarmulke) or my tzitzit (the strings that are worn on the four corners of the body). This connection carries over into my prayer. The line between an everyday moment and prayer is thin for me. What separates the two is what I put on my body. I wrap my head and arm in tefillin (phylacteries) and drape myself in a tallis (prayer shawl), fully enveloping my head and body. It marks a shift, pulling me out of the everyday and into something sacred. With the tallis over my head, I create a world of my own, one where I can fully immerse myself in prayer, free from judgment.
There was a time when I struggled to see how I could fully be myself within Judaism without feeling like I was constantly pushing boundaries. Even though I grew up in a supportive household and Jewish community, I was aware of the broader narratives that painted Judaism, especially more traditional spaces, as unwelcoming to people like me. I worried that parts of my identity would always be at odds, that embracing one would mean sacrificing the other. That fear felt especially present when stepping into observant spaces outside my community, where gender roles were rigid and expectations were clear. But over time, I realized that my existence as a queer, trans Jew is not a contradiction; it is a continuation of the deeply Jewish traditions of questioning, wrestling with ideas, and making meaning. I have had to carve out my own place, sometimes pushing back against norms, sometimes finding new interpretations, but always remaining rooted in the belief that Judaism is vast enough to hold me as I am. My faith is not conditional on others' approval. It is something I carry within me, something I actively shape every day.
