Young, Nonbinary, and Rebuilding— as Things Fall Apart

Growing up Jewish and nonbinary in South Florida, I often felt like the odd one out. Most people didn’t understand what it meant to be trans, let alone nonbinary. Those who did, at least in my life, never understood what it meant to be Jewish, downplaying antisemitism or falsely assuming all Jews carried the same, sometimes harmful, beliefs. It was only when I graduated and enrolled at Brandeis, an extremely liberal and extremely Jewish university, that I finally found my people, a group that gave me a sense of community.

Election night began with joy. I sat with my new friends in rows of blue chairs in a multipurpose room in our campus center. These new friends shared my cultural values and accepted all my identities and the intersections between them. Sharing this experience with them, although nerve-wracking, was exciting. We all thought history was going to be made. Someone even brought a cake. 

But then, at 7:30, the first batch of electoral votes began to roll in. The initial results from typically conservative districts weren’t surprising; nevertheless, my stomach dropped, and all of the hope I had felt since Kamala Harris became the Democratic nominee exited my soul. Suddenly, I couldn’t be around the friends I loved anymore. Deep in my gut, I knew Harris would lose, and my friends’ excitement felt useless in a helpless situation. I left the campus center, choosing instead to pace around campus in the cold air. When CNN finally projected Pennsylvania’s results at 2:30 AM, I collapsed into bed, tears coating my eyes.

In a cruel twist of fate, the sky was bright blue and sunny on the morning of November 6th. I sat on a bench outside my dorm, watching everyone walk to the classes I couldn’t force myself to attend, considering booking a flight home. How could I possibly stay in my liberal bubble when my family was still in Florida? I feared that they would experience a drastic rise in antisemitism. I felt as if I had broken and my hopes had been permanently shattered. But once I spoke to a living soul, I realized everyone else on my campus was in a state of mourning, too. Everyone could feel the weight of losing their freedoms, especially on a campus with so many Jewish and queer students. Project 2025 had promised the end of abortion access and gender-affirming healthcare, and Trump openly supported white nationalists who fueled antisemitic hate. We were all terrified for the chaos to come. We still are.

The Saturday before the election, I had knocked on doors in New Hampshire, experiencing the joy and passion of political organizing for the first time. But after the election, I felt as if nothing I did would truly impact the world around me. I dream of leading education reform in America, but now I can feel the dismantling of the Department of Education within reach.

As I look to the future in this new and frightening era, I have to plan for loss, as do many of my friends. In addition to being nonbinary, I was assigned female at birth and can’t be sure that I will keep my reproductive freedoms. I have already lost them in my home state. Stocking up on Plan B and discussing impractical escape plans to Canada have become essential, even though talking about my body as a reproductive entity causes me immense dysphoria. Now that I live in a liberal state, I am not as worried about facing legal barriers to expressing my gender identity. However, I fear for myself and other trans people in a country where transphobia has become acceptable. I used to fear only for trans kids from the South. Now, I fear for them everywhere. Because of the normalization of hatred, they may be bullied, discriminated against, and scared. They may not have the opportunity to understand who they are and accept themselves. Though I experienced fear throughout high school, I knew that safety and a full life awaited me on the other side. In this new climate, such hope would be naive. 

Nevertheless, I’ve been revived since my hope was swept out from underneath my feet on election night. I have a new purpose for seizing the opportunities in front of me: to try to push change through the next four years, to build a path forward, and to hopefully inspire others to join the fight.  I was knocked down, but, now, it’s time for me to get up. Here’s to the next four years – where we will show our fighting spirit through resilience, words, and love.

Ollie (they/them) is a student at Brandeis University, studying English and Education with the hopes of going into education policy. They currently serve as Tikkun Olam Coordinator on Brandeis Hillel’s Student Board and love expressing their thoughts through all writing (when they have the time!).

This piece was originally published on jGirls+ Magazine, a project of Moving Traditions.

 Photo credit: Rachael Rosenberg/ Ggirls