Sometime before I came to Israel, I took on the custom of covering my head at, pretty much, all times. Sometimes I wear a kippah, sometimes a scarf wrapped in such a way that I hope it is obvious that what I am covering is the top of my head and not my hair. I have been doing this for about two years now.
The wearing of a kippah is a custom, not a law. It has been elevated in Orthodox communities to the status of law, but this is a relatively recent phenomenon. In the Talmud it says that Rabbi Huna, son of Rabbi Yehoshua, never walked more than 4 cubits without covering his head. There is also a story of Rav Nachman Bar Isaac whose mother was told by a stargazer that he was destined to become a thief, so she instructed him to always cover his head so that the fear of heaven should be instilled in him… and indeed one time the scarf that covered his head fell off, and he was seized by the urge to steal, and stole some dates from the tree under which he was sitting.
The custom of piety took on the status of law for some simply because it became ubiquitous among Jews at certain times, and ubiquitous customs in Judaism have this tendency to become laws. But there is nothing in the Torah or in the Talmud which suggests that everyone, all men, or even really anyone is legally bound by this custom.
So why do I do it?
There are a few reasons. Just as custom has a habit of becoming law in Judaism, there is a strong injunction in Jewish custom that one is to follow the custom of one’s father. In my father’s family, the custom is that one will cover his or her head when he or she is in a religious institution, saying or responding to a bracha, or studying classical Jewish texts. So I began covering my head at all times so that when I engaged in any of these activities, which were becoming much more frequent, I would be ready and not have to go fishing for a head covering. Also, putting on a headcovering when you begin to study and taking it off again when you finish, I feel, is more conspicuous than simply having the covering on by default, and not wishing to draw more attention to myself than is necessary is one motivation. That was my rationale.
Here’s a story.
One day I was on the subway on the way to work. This was a few years ago when I was still working in retail. I had a hat that I had bought at The Falcon Ridge Folk Festival. It was a green brimless cloth hat, one might call it a skullcap or a beanie. I used it at times as a kippah, when I was in shul or when I was studying, and when I bought it I thought “this would make a good kippah.” But when I wore it, I didn’t always think of it as a kippah. It was a hat. There was nothing particularly Jewish about it, it was sold to me by a non-Jew who almost certainly didn’t think of it as a kippah, and a lot of people who were at the festival that year bought similar hats and wore them without making any sort of religious statement. That day, I was wearing this hat because it was cool out. I was going to take it off when I got to work.
So there I am on the subway minding my own business, not really looking at anything or anyone in particular. Suddenly I hear a loud, not so friendly voice:
“Look! A woman rabbi!”
I look up and there is an Orthodox man with a black hat staring down at me. I regard him in bewilderment, saying nothing. He turns to the man next to him, also a black-hat Orthodox man and begins speaking, to him, but clearly for my benefit, about how ridiculous these Reform Jews are who think that women can be rabbis. “There’s no such thing as a woman rabbi!” He declares loudly as though his companion needed convincing. He continues on about Reform Jews pervert Judaism, serve lobster at bar mitzvahs, don’t know anything about anything, “and look… they think that women can be rabbis!” He continues this tirade for the entire 40 minute train ride, and I say nothing until he disappears the stop before mine.
At this point I take a deep breath and let it out.
I get off at the next stop, Union Square, and exit the train station. As I emerge from the stairwell to the street, I see the man. I had thought he’d gotten off the train at the previous stop and I have no idea how he is there. He spots me and points directly at me. “YOU!” He yells at me, “you’re a woman rabbi!” It sounds so much like a declaration, a proclamation. I’m not entirely certain what his purpose is… is he asking? Is he asserting?
Regardless, he needs to be set straight. I walk calmly up to him.
“I’m not a rabbi,” I say to him softly. “But I will be. Because of people like you.” And I walk off toward my store.
Were I put in the same situation again now, I don’t know that I would have given the same answer. Because the truth is I am not doing this for him or for people like him. I’m not doing this to rebel, to be anti-anything, to make a statement.
On the other hand, wearing a kippah is a statement, regardless of my intention. It is a statement because it is out of the ordinary for a woman to do so. For me to wear a kippah is to go against the grain which necessarily calls attention to me and necessarily makes a statement to those who take notice. The same is true for wearing tzitzit. And this is at least part of why when I am not in the Yeshiva, I tuck my tzitzit in and I wear something on my head which is not immediately recognizable as a kippah.
This is a constant struggle for me. Part of me dislikes the idea of making a statement at all. It feels as though my practice loses something the minute it becomes about making a statement. Like with hagbah… the second it stops being about the congregation and becomes about me, it becomes meaningless. At the same time, since I have no control over how people read the symbol, the only way that I can prevent it from being read as a statement is to be in hiding about it, which is problematic for a number of reasons. It is beneficial for me and for women like me for such symbols being visible on women to become more mainstream, and hiding the symbols prevents that from happening. It also does little to encourage other women to explore ideological full egalitarianism, and perpetuates the status quo sense of isolation and loneliness.
My general rule is that I wear the “potentially gender problematic” symbols visibly in contexts where there is hope of the people who see them receiving the potential challenge to their world view in a productive and useful way. That means that I will wear tzitzit out and sometimes a kippah-style kippah at The Yeshiva, at Masorti/Conservative and progressive congregations, in the English tutoring program I do with 4th 5th and 6th graders at the Reform shul, and at my choir. On the street or in an Orthodox congregation, I keep myself closeted until I have reason to out myself.
Not too long ago I accompanied my friend Rachel, an Israeli woman from my choir, to a shabbaton called “Shabbat Shetach,” a Jews in the Woods sort of event, though decidedly less crunchy, and consisting almost entirely of nominally Orthodox young Jews. After some internal debate, I made a decision to cover my head with a kippah rather than with a scarf, and to wear my tzitzit out. This was supposed to be a friendly environment where people get to know each other and bonds form between people. If I was going to be myself anywhere, it was here. My garb elicited many questions, about myself, about Conservative Judaism, about my Yeshiva… all productive, all constructive. The determining factor is how likely it is in any given context that I will be dismissed out of hand versus how likely it is that someone will come to me, genuinely curious, ask me “why,” and then care enough to hear the answer.