Lauren and I met in college. She was the 4'11" blonde from some town in Indiana (that I had never heard of) who lived down the hall my freshman year. We weren’t instantly close. We didn’t hit it off. But one very drunken night, when we were both giggly, we started chatting.
It somehow came up that I was Jewish, to which Lauren replied something along the lines of, “I’ve never really known a Jewish person before.”
This was my chance to make an impression—on her, for my people, for my heritage—to show her that not all Jews were from Long Island. The night is hazy, but it ended with me sitting in her laundry basket pretending to be baby Moses in the bulrushes. To this day, she still calls me Baby Moses. I tried to call her Baby Jesus, but it didn’t stick.
Molly and I met in Brooklyn through a mutual mom friend. She was the fucking president of the G-D PTA. Truth be told, I was a little scared of her. She’s also blonde, looks incredibly in shape, and sewed her kids’ Halloween costumes by hand. I can’t remember exactly how or when we became friends—but I do remember being surprised and delighted hearing this little white lady speak so passionately about how Black lives matter and food is a human right.
Both of these amazing women taught me two things:
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Midwestern people really are kinda the best.
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The capacity to change makes for an amazing friend.
Lauren welcomed the change that came with a new type of friend—a voluptuous Jewess. She was open and kind, and still is today. Her mind and heart were open to new things and new ideas that challenged what she thought she knew about herself.
Molly had already done her 180 by the time I met her. Brooklyn had changed her from a proselytizing Christian, certain her way was the only way, into a compassionate Christian focused on helping vulnerable people achieve equity.
Everyone changes as they age, but not everyone has the capacity to continuously grow through that change. Lauren and Molly did—and I don’t imagine them stopping now.