How the self-declared “Punk-Rock Queen of the Jews” learned to shout her sexuality from the rooftops

In honor of Women’s History Month, we’re highlighting some of the many incredible LGBTQ+ women of both the past and present, women who overcame unimaginable obstacles to change the world.

The following are two excerpts from “The Punk Rock Queen of the Jews” by Rossi, courtesy of Books Forward.

Related:

These two women revolutionized the medical industry. They were also madly in love.

The policies set forth by Martha May Eliot and Ethel Collins Dunham remain the bedrock of the American public health system to this day.

Marrying Wonder Woman

Never Miss a Beat

Subscribe to our newsletter to stay ahead of the latest LGBTQ+ political news and insights.

Daily

Weekly

Good News

Harriet wanted to raise her three 1960s children with values she’d internalized in the 1930s. She wanted her kinderlach to have as few goyish friends as possible, hoped that her daughters would marry Jewish doctors or lawyers and that her son would become the doctor or lawyer other mothers wanted their daughters to marry. Her children were expected to provide as many Jewish grandchildren as possible. Harriet might accept small deviations from her plan, but she drew the line at even the hint of intermarriage. She was convinced that the Messiah might one day sprout from one of her children and had no intention of allowing the line to be poisoned with Christian blood.

The moment we could understand English, she taught us a bedtime prayer, drumming it into us like an army sergeant. No one was permitted to go to sleep without reciting it: “I pledge allegiance to the Torah, and to the Jewish people. I promise to live a good Jewish life and marry a nice Jewish boy” (or, in Mendel’s case, “girl”).

One night when I was six, after I’d recited my prayer, I closed my eyes and tried imagining what the Jewish boy I was expected to marry might look like. Try as I might, I couldn’t conjure his image.

After months of fruitlessly smothering my face in my pillow and searching for my imaginary spouse, the image of Wonder Woman from one of my tattered comic books appeared. I had a sense that there was something wrong with this. Still, no matter how hard I tried replacing her, every night Wonder Woman appeared in place of my future Jewish husband.

A few months after WW’s initial appearance, I tried running away from home for the first time. It was while our family was summering in Florida—“cheaper then,” Mom had said. I collected all the pears that had fallen from a tree outside our bungalow and filled up a pillowcase with them. While my parents were out trying to find kosher food in the Florida Panhandle, I dragged the pillowcase out of the yard, down the street, and fifteen blocks to the highway, intent on selling the pears.

A few concerned citizens pulled over. Before long, I’d sold all the pears, which, besides being half-rotten to begin with, had been dragged fifteen blocks by a six-year-old.

“What are you raising money for?” an elderly lady asked in a deep Southern accent.

“I’s running away from home!” I answered, mimicking her drawl.

I walked back to my family with an empty pillowcase, five dollars richer and proud that I was a little bit closer to striking out on my own.

Finding my Pride

Rodney came by one Sunday morning dressed in the shortest shorts I had ever seen on a man. He’d completed the look with a pair of red cowboy boots and a pink tank top.

“Girl! It’s gay Pride. You are coming with me to the parade.”

I rubbed my eyes and looked at the clock. 9:00 a.m.— entirely too early to be going anywhere with anyone. I’d been on a roll with my dancers and hadn’t stopped painting until sometime after four. “Rodney, come back later, okay? When I’m awake?”

“Girl, no way! This is only the most important day of the year! Get your ass in gear, I mean it! Get down here and let this fabulous creature in!”

What choice did I have?

The minute he got upstairs, Rodney started rooting around in my closet and bins for something acceptable. While I bustled around making double-strength Bustelo, he cut three inches off a pair of my Levi’s shorts. By the time we left my place, we were wired to the gills, and I was dressed in short shorts, my Frye boots, and a black tank top. We looked like twins… well, sort of.

“Girl, you look fierce!” he announced as we ran down Kingston Avenue toward the subway holding hands. The Chasids clucked away as we passed, but we couldn’t have cared less.

As we sat on the 2 train, I leaned in and whispered, “Do you think it’s okay that I’m going to the parade?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Because . . . I’m not gay. I’m bisexual.”

Rodney leaned back and started to laugh. “Uh-huh,” he said, then laughed harder. When he finally came up for air, he said, “Let me ask you something, Ms. Rossi. When you think of dick what comes to mind? Give me one word.”

The filing cabinet in my brain pushed open a crack and a quick flash of Danny’s luminescent rod leaked out. I winced and slammed the file shut.

“Chalk.”

“Hmm. Not sure I even want to know where that came from. Now think about p***y and give me one word.”

I skimmed over Tilly, Mag, and Maria and went straight to the back seat of the Volaré.

“Warm,” I said with a soft smile on my face.

“Girl, first of all, everyone but haters is welcome at the gay Pride parade. Second of all, you’re about as bisexual as I am!”

We switched trains for the local at Chambers Street and emerged at Sheridan Square, into the most breathtaking scene I’d ever witnessed. Thousands of beautiful people marched along the street, danced on floats, and cheered from the sidelines. There were lavender balloons everywhere, people hanging from windows shouting. Someone threw rainbow-colored beads at me, and I put them on. A float on a flatbed truck rolled by filled with dancing muscle boys and drag queens. A man wearing nothing but a jock strap and high heels swanned down the middle of the street grinning at the crowd. A woman in a studded choker was being led along on a leash by her leather-clad partner.

An elderly woman walked by holding a young man’s hand and a sign that read, “I love my gay son.” The crowd went wild for her.

I thought about my parents shipping me off to the rabbi so I’d be somebody else’s problem. Was this what they’d been afraid of? Not my smoking or drinking or general rebelliousness, but the fact that I might be a lesbian?

I tapped Rodney on the shoulder and whispered in his ear, “Rodney! I think I’m gay!”

“Girlfriend, get over yourself. You’re the biggest dyke I know, and you might as well shout it out loud and proud, honey!”

“I’m gay!” I tried to proclaim, but it came out muffled and halfhearted.

“Girl! Is that all you got? You’re a big ol’ dyke. You were born a dyke, you’ll die a dyke, and you better start letting the world know about it!”

“I’M GAY!” I shouted. And it felt damn good.

Long after the parade was over, Rodney and I lingered on Christopher Street. The pavement was littered with confetti, trash, and a lot of drunk, passed-out, or just tired-ass people like us. A bearded, muscle-bound guy, shirtless in a pair of leather chaps, spotted Rodney. I watched as they exchanged looks. Rodney had explained to me earlier in the day that when men stared at each other and neither looked away, they were cruising.

“Girl, can you make it home without me?” he whispered.

I nodded, and he followed his new friend toward the piers without a word.

On the 2 train back to Kingston, I picked the confetti out of my hair and thought about all that I’d seen and felt. The train was packed with my new compatriots, men and women who’d clearly been part of the festivities. We shared smiles all around as the crowd gradually dissipated. By the time the train reached Grand Army Plaza, the only parade-goer left was me.

When I closed my eyes, I could still see thousands of gay people cheering with joy, out and proud. The image would remain etched in my brain forever. There was no question about it anymore: I was as gay as anyone could be and I wouldn’t have changed that fact for the world.