I was born with an X on my back.
Conception.
Pregnancy.
Birth.
Parents.
Family.
It’s not really something we choose—
It just happens.
Childhood.
First teeth.
First steps.
First food.
It’s not really something we realize—
It just happens.
Siblings.
Schooling.
Toys.
They aren’t really things we have a say in—
It just happens.
And one day, you’re walking into first grade.
You’re walking into first grade—
Or maybe even kindergarten—
And you start to realize the world is a little bigger than you ever thought it was.
You see, we are brought into this world—
And then nurtured…
Or tortured—
By those who decided,
Or didn’t decide
To bring us here.
We then become a product of the childhood we have—
The siblings,
The class,
The money,
Or lack thereof.
But we don’t really realize this bigger world yet—
Until we step into the classroom for the first time.
And… wow.
There are other kids beyond those I have grown to call family?
They look different.
They act different.
You make a friend.
Or two.
Or five.
You learn your ABCs.
Your colors.
Your shapes.
How to write your name.
How to tie a shoe.
How to color in the lines.
How to draw.
How to cut.
How to dream?
You start reading books.
You start watching shows.
You start learning that you have this thing, maybe called—choice.
You become interested in decisions you find very important:
“Honey, do you want the blue or pink water bottle today?”
Second grade.
It seems like everyone just wants to be the same.
What’s happening?
Wait a minute…
I thought it was cool that we all came from different places?
I thought it was original that we all had different backpacks?
It’s not something we realize.
It’s just something that happens.
Okay.
Let’s readjust.
I start to buy the same backpacks,
The same hairstyles,
The same clothes.
But my hair doesn’t fit into a ponytail the way the girl with straight hair does.
My curls are too big.
My hair is too frizzy.
Water.
Gel.
I will fit in.
I will be the same.
You get older.
You start entering the higher grades.
And the things you are learning—
About the world,
About yourself,
About decisions—
Change.
Time goes on.
It’s no longer about dreams,
And about “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
It’s—
How are you going to pass this test?
It’s studying.
It’s homework.
It’s the latest TV show.
And it’s about drama.
Drama.
A lot of it.
Family dynamics shift.
And the world gets larger—
But at the same time, smaller.
Because we now feel confined within the parameters
We learn the world is setting for us.
Year.
Change.
Shift.
High school.
I start to look around, and I realize that the X I have on my back is growing.
“What is the star you wear around your neck?” they ask me.
And I learn about the stars my people were once forced to emblazon on their clothes.
I hear about numbers—
Not in math,
But on arms,
Tethered to skin,
Inked below the surface.
A year.
Stops.
And continues.
And again, the conversations shift.
And I’m no longer learning about those numbers,
But I’m seeing them in real time.
What do you mean, a synagogue was bombed?
What do you mean, that leaves an imprint on me—
And makes me different?
What do you mean, I’m tied to something bigger than myself?
I had my hair the same.
And I bought the same backpack.
And I straightened that curly hair.
And I wore my star.
But somehow,
Some way—
I am seen beyond just who I am.
I am seen for what I am.
A Jew.
And it’s not really something I chose—
It just happens.
I enter sophomore year, and it’s no longer decisions about which water bottle I’m taking,
But decisions that will define my identity.
Life gets tough.
And things start to get harder.
I’m still friends with the same people.
I still wear my star.
But I start to realize—
Not everybody likes it.
Not everybody likes Jews.
Not everybody likes me.
And as I enter 11th grade—
I hear about symphonies and sunrises.
But then—
Rockets.
And it’s October Seventh.
And my world changes far beyond what I ever thought it could.
Now I realize—
I am set to defend my people.
And my homeland.
And I’m tasked with a responsibility bigger than I ever thought.
And the X on my back starts to leave me feeling naked.
Naked.
Exposed to the opinions—
And the pains—
And the politics.
But what I fail to understand—
Is why my identity is political.
And it’s senior year.
And suddenly, I’m here—
In body, but not in soul.
Because those numbers once tethered to our skin
Now bind me to theirs.
And when they are taken,
It feels as though pieces of me
Are scattered across the silence,
In an effort to bring them home.
And then I recognize—
The X on my back is not just something I chose.
It just happens.
But my reaction?
That’s not just something that happens—
That’s something I choose.
And conception,
Pregnancy,
Birth—
Lead me to this moment.
And childhood,
Elementary school,
Friends,
And high school—
Lead me to this moment.
This moment—
Of recognizing the X on my back
Not as a mark of weight,
But as a spark of light—
One I can ignite through the fire of my determination
To make this world a little brighter than it was before.
And with that, I choose responsibility.
Because it is no longer an option—
To simply accept the consequences or reactions
Of what it means to be alive—
Of what it means to be me.
But to stand—
Loud
Proud.
Strong.
And Jewish.