Stories Of...Notting Hill

I danced with Jews this weekend. In London there’s an annual event called Buttmitzvah. It’s a big queer Jewish party. And when I say party I mean a huge venue with over 500 queer Jews and their friends—both straight and gay— dancing the hora under purple lights with glittered faces. We spun in circles to the ancestral tunes of Hava Nagila and Mizrahi music. 

I’ve never been in a room with so many non middle eastern people dancing to my people’s music.

It felt like my bat-mitzvah. When we party bussed a bunch of 13 year old kids from Redlands to a fancy venue in Los Angeles. They too, spun in circles. They too, dipped their heads and danced to Persian and Jewish music. 

I don’t believe in God but if I were to meet her, I think it would’ve felt something like this. Looking up at those purple lights…exaltation. 

The unspoken understanding.  All the cultures from far and wide, from every corner of the world, and yet the songs and dances, we all knew. We didn’t so much as skip a beat. 

I didn’t realize how much I longed for this. For Jewish friends. For Jewish spaces. For spaces for us to celebrate. And our friends alongside us also celebrating. I know to some, it was just a party, but to me, it stirred me awake. 

A rude disruption of all that I’ve been disconnected from and how deeply I want to reunite with it. 

I think I’ll go buy a menorah tonight. Light the second candle. It’s Hanukkah and I’m alone in an apartment in Notting Hill. But God dammit, I’m celebrating. 


                                                                                                                                           Stories of Notting Hill 
                                                                                                                               Monday November 29, 2021