I remember feeling confused when the swastika took up an entire page in my eighth-grade yearbook. I wasn’t particularly scared by what I saw but was more concerned with what it meant to the person who wrote it. Did they hate me? Was it a joke? And who did it? The only scary thought was realizing that it could have been from any one of my friends.

As the grandchild of Holocaust survivors, I take images like these seriously. My Jewishness wasn’t something I discussed so much growing up, it was rather a secret hidden in plain sight — something my mom’s side of the family was accustomed to since changing their names upon entry into America. I actually experienced more representation as a mixed-Black kid growing up in the Bay Area: in friend and family groups; in educational models; in theatre, TV, and film; in music; in books; and in activism. However, as a queer Black Jewish kid, there wasn’t yet a curriculum developed that would allow me to see myself fully.

I didn’t know much about being Jewish besides our family story of survival, and the only education I’d receive through my public school system was simply the story of the Holocaust. What stories could be told in school and media that demonstrated the joys and complexities of being Jewish, especially for this second-generation American Jew? What about the intersectionality of being Black, Jewish, and queer? Where is my representation in the media and in books?

These were questions left unanswered for most of my education, until I was in my college Hillels, which strived to share the joys and realities of being Jewish on campus. In connection with other Jewish students, I would learn about the radical fights of Emma Goldman, the powerful Civil Rights solidarity of Rabbi Abraham Heschel, Larry Kramer’s telling of the 1980s AIDS Crisis, and of course, some of the most righteous dissents of Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg. Throughout my time in higher education, I learned about inspiring Jewish changemakers, some of whom were also queer, which represented me further. I also learned about how vibrant Jewish communities can be through their existence and celebration of everyday Jewish culture. The weekly Shabbats with my Hillel at CSU Long Beach taught me how to express my Jewishness more openly, not for the sake of inspiring others, but to just exist proudly.

Finally, I got to fill in the puzzle of my identity a bit more. However, the puzzle took a different shape when I had to consider how my Jewishness fit with my other identities. I would be 23 by the time I got to meet another Jew of Color and more queer Jews. I remember meeting Ilana Kaufman, who was leading the Jews of Color Field Building Fund, for the first time at work. I was excited to hug someone who looked more like me than I’d ever seen before, albeit she looked cooler with her crisp fit, tatted sleeves, and collected energy. I got to be affirmed in the presence of someone who understood what it meant to not have a context for their history and was actively building that context themselves.

“Progress doesn’t begin until intersectionality shows up,” writes Jasmine Baten, in The Center for Scholars and Storytellers @ UCLA. “Intersectionality isn’t an invisible or elusive concept: there are people with intersectional identities everywhere who live rich and deeply complex lives.”

The article provides recommendations for centering intersectionality through notions like telling stories outside of the struggles of one’s identities; building a team of intersectional backgrounds to better tell stories; and prioritizing underrepresented stories. Intersectionality, additionally, needs to go beyond race, gender identity, and sexuality, and also be inclusive of gender expression, body diversity, and ability.

What does it mean to have true intersectional representation?

This is the question I’m working to answer every day now, and a question with answers unfolding by the day. In a full circle moment, I now work with Ilana and serve Jews of Color around the U.S through philanthropy. We fund the programs, leaders, and research helping write the histories that will hopefully fill my future children’s textbooks. We’re co-building the worlds for people like us to experience a reality where our stories are told from our families, institutions and our school systems, whether they’re about thriving or struggling. It’s a privilege to be able to hold both.

Outside of the workplace, I continue advocating for the liberation of Jews of Color and the many additional intersections we hold. I cohost an award-winning podcast, BFF: Black Fat Femme, that focuses on being unapologetic about who we are as Black LGBTQ+ people, and it’s a space where I get to often bring in my Jewishness to the conversation. I get to use Jewish culture and knowledge to explore how we work to change the world around us.

I understand the importance of needing quality education about my identities because I know what life was like without it. It was challenging to miss a context to yourself, and even more challenging to be bullied for it. Thankfully, I thrived with the education I received as an adult, and the education I still receive today working in communities that reflect. I can’t help but be continuously curious about what life would have been like if I was educated as a kid.

Growing up might have been different if I had the education tools to address why the swastika in my yearbook was wrong beyond antisemitism, and that there were Jewish people like me who were incredible changemakers in our world.

With gratitude and excitement, I know there’s so much opportunity for that to happen to youth today. May they get to experience a life of diverse and inspiring histories that make them feel seen and powerful.

Jordan Daniels is a Program Officer for the Jews of Color Initiative and co-host of the award-winning BFF: Black, Fat, Femme podcast.