Since I haven’t written in a number of days, I have had a lot of time to reflect about what living here has been like, and about my studies in general. I was thinking: overall, I am quite an anxious person. I fear many things, and coming up against the unpredictable makes me uneasy. So why did I choose Urban Studies? Why get involved in Social Justice? Why do I choose a field that basically embodies all that is unpredictable, grimy, and unsettling in our modern world? Maybe it is so that I can feel good about myself. Maybe I feel like it’s all part of a healing process. Maybe so it is that I can look my fears right in the face and transform all that negative worry energy into positive bursts of action and change. Heck, maybe it’s all three.

But another thing that really fuels me is my Jewishness: both my faith and my tradition. I am reading an mind-blowing book right now written by the Chief Rabbi of England, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, called Future Tense: A Vision for Jews and Judaism in a Global Culture. He writes (among many other brilliant things):

“At the heart of Judaism is the belief in the reality of otherness. God is not humankind. Humankind is not God. God    creates otherness in love, as we, when we become parents, create otherness in love. Hate is the inability to accept the other. Cain could not live with the otherness of Abel, and he killed him. The builders of Babel could not live with the politics of otherness—they insisted on ‘one language and a common speech’, rejecting the dignity of dissent. The Egyptians could not live with the otherness of the Hebrews, so they enslaved them. Germany could not live with the otherness of the Jews, so it set about murdering them. Judaism is the voice of the other throughout history. The whole of Judaism is about making space for the other, about God making space for us, us making space for God, and about human beings making space for one another…so, time and time again, the Torah commands us to love the stranger, the embodiment of otherness: Do not oppress a stranger; you yourselves know what it feels like to be a stranger, for you were strangers in Egypt. (Exodus 23:9)

There is a reason Judaism does not proselytize. Aside from accepting the ultimate authority of God, Judaism believes that the world should be a potpourri of different culture and religions. Judaism speaks against imperialism and xenophobia, and anything that rejects the position of the uniqueness of every individual.

But it is part and parcel of the human condition to look differently upon the other, so I have been thinking actively a lot about that and I have wanted to defeat that part of myself. I will not stand up and claim that I am not racist, because “some of my best friends are black.” I will not say that the concept of race and different is non-existent, and I will not wish it to be so. I do find it important, however, to acknowledge the historical distrust that exists between myself and between people of color that has come from deeply ingrained ideologies in the communities and institutions surrounding me. I find it important to acknowledge the distinctive place in society that I occupy, and to define what its social significance is.

In London, I am an American woman. I am Jewish. I am also white, and middle-upper class. I have a good education and own both an Apple Macbook and iPhone. As I mentioned in an earlier post, my classes are extremely diverse. In a few of my classes, I am the only “white” person. I occupy a strange space in the classroom.

It was great studying the Civil Rights Movement in Queens College, but it is particularly enriching to be discussing it with middle aged men from Nairobi, young women who have emigrated from India, and young working mothers of color from Brixton in South London. I only wish that the professors took more advantage of the differences between the students. There could be some really incredible work going on if we began to discuss our feelings towards one another.

The other day, I went on an adventure to the East End Thrift store, which was a one-mile walk from my campus, and this adventure turned into an experiment. Like in Flushing, Queens, the East End of London is a multicultural paradise. Every few blocks, there is a different ethnic enclave. As I walked through each pocket, taking in the people, the sights, and the smells, I let my automatic thoughts and feelings wash over me. Depending on the context, I felt fear, suspicion, and sadness, privilege, pride, condescension, and shame. I noticed the difference I felt when I passed the Islamic Center of London to when I passed the Indian Market, or a homeless man on the street.

Hm. It’s not that I find my musings particularly significant, but I thought I should share-it’s really been on my mind!