Lately, I’ve been writing and rewriting essays titled Screaming into the Void. I’ve been horrified by the antisemitism coming from both the right and the left. It feels like the allies I once stood beside — people I trusted from my years as a liberal — have fallen away.
This past winter, there was a neo-Nazi demonstration on a bridge near Lincoln Heights. I saw it while driving home from one of my daughter’s school events. Lincoln Heights is the first all-Black self-governing city north of the Mason-Dixon line. And the neo-Nazis — well, they hate Black people, they hate Jews, they hate minorities.
Here’s where I need to admit my mistake: my dear friend, Neil, who grew up in Lockland, a town next to Lincoln Heights, had family affected by that march, and I didn’t reach out. I’m sorry for that. A few months earlier, I had told him I was hurt. After the October 7 attacks and the rise in antisemitism, I was saddened that he hadn’t checked in on me.
We’ve been friends for three decades. While our friendship hasn’t centered on our racial or religious identities — he’s a Black man, I’m a Jewish woman — it also never erased them. Our friendship is one in which we see and appreciate each other as full, complex human beings. We’ve been important parts of each other’s lives over the years.
When Rabbi Ari Jun was uninvited from the Queen City United event against neo-Nazis, I was aghast. The event had morphed into something both anti-Nazi and anti-Zionist. I avoided it. That same weekend, I was taking my daughter to the theater, right near where the event was happening. As we had lunch, I saw white women walk by wearing keffiyehs like accessories — fashion statements on their way to protest Nazis, somehow blind to the irony. As we walked past, I heard a speaker lumping together Sudan, Somalia, the West Bank, and Gaza with broad, sweeping language.
Suddenly, standing against Nazis and in support of both Black and Jewish communities was no longer something I felt safe doing.
Then I learned that my friend’s mother had died.
His mother, Dorothy Armstrong, lived all her 95 years in Lockland, which borders the neighboring Lincoln Heights. (According to Neil, “Historically the borders between the two have been fluid for African Americans, even more so for [his] mother, who while raised in Lockland, spent many years traveling and visiting there.”) There she raised her children, grandchildren, and others’ children. She was the matriarch of the neighborhood, the secretary of her church, and a wisdom keeper for her community. She was a woman of faith. In Jewish terms, Dorothy would have been called a woman of valor. I was lucky enough to have met her and to call her son my friend.
I had spent so much time agonizing over how isolated I felt as a Jew on the left—how alone so many of us felt after October 7. Our pain seemed invisible in progressive spaces. And maybe among my non-Jewish friends.
Then I was reminded of Dorothy Armstrong: an activist for civil rights, a woman who marched in Cincinnati and stood up for justice. I’ve seen the photo of her standing with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. I know she was friends with Nikki Giovanni, the beloved poet. But more than that, she was a stalwart part of a community that has also long been the target of hatred and marginalization.
Attending her funeral reminded me of our shared humanity — and our shared struggle.
A Black Baptist funeral is emotional, joyous, sorrowful, and deeply moving. I was touched by the choir, the dance, the reading of Nikki Giovanni’s Cotton Candy on a Rainy Day, and the neighbors and family who stood to share memories of Dorothy’s remarkable life.
When the soloist sang My Soul is Anchored, something in me softened. Though he was praying to a different deity than I do and in a different manner, my neck loosened, the knots in my shoulders released. The love for family, neighborhood, and people in that sanctuary was comforting and familiar. It didn’t matter that the rituals were different — the spirit of it was something I recognized. It was two hours of honoring a powerful matriarch and her beloved community.
There I was, sitting with my friend, his family, and community, reminded that beyond our labels — Jewish, Black, liberal, Zionist — we are people who love, grieve, and stand by each other.
The lesson for me was in showing up. In Judaism, we are taught to comfort the mourner — to show up for those who grieve. And that’s what I did. (While I hope it benefited my friend, I know I benefited.) I followed that tradition, not just because it’s Jewish, but because it’s human. That simple act — attending a funeral — helped me reconnect with the power of presence. It reminded me that change and connection happen not in statements or slogans, but in shared experiences, in quiet moments of support.
The division between minority communities only serves white supremacists. If we’re fighting each other, we cannot fight the real threats.
We have a history of working together. I was reminded of that when I heard Rep. Ritchie Torres speak about the legacy of Dr. King (a Zionist). There is a generational connection between the Black and Jewish communities. Sitting in that church, celebrating one extraordinary woman’s life, I found space to breathe. The political noise outside makes it seem like we’re further apart than we really are.
And did I mention the singing? the poetry? the dancing? It was breathtaking.
The synagogue where I pray and raise my child in Wyoming is just a few miles from the church where my friend Neil was raised, and his mother was celebrated.
If we remember the friendships that span our difference — if we honor individuals, not just groups — and cherish how those differences can enrich our relationships, we will find strength. We will find common ground. Together.
What a powerful piece. Thank you for sharing.