From the ages of 11 to 22, I spent almost every weekend at Jewish youth group events in L.A., and summers at a Jewish summer camp in Santa Rosa, California. Once we entered high school, our youth group had a point system: The more hookups you had, the more points you got. The teens in leadership positions were worth more. I was never in youth group leadership, but I often found myself in the bed, backseat, or sleeping bag of a boy that was.
According to our point system I wasn’t worth much on my own, but every kiss, every blowjob, every sexual encounter with someone who was worth more than me increased my value. Sure, Jewish camp and youth group aside, some of this was my own desire to seek validation in order to feel whole. (Who doesn’t have family trauma that impacts their romantic relationships?) But it wasn’t all in my head. It was everywhere: tallied score lists kept by peers, the sexual gestures that boys made with props onstage during Shabbat skits that everyone laughed at, jokes about girls not being able to score points during Ultimate Frisbee games, counselors who looked the other way when campers returned after curfew from a hookup. Even the design on our retreat sweatshirts featured a hookup joke.
At every weekend retreat and summer session, there was always a group of boys that would have their pick of girls to choose from.
“Who will land the coveted role as Josh’s girlfriend this summer?”
“Will Dylan and I hook up again this weekend or will he choose (Sarah/Rachel/Hannah) instead?”
It was an honor to be chosen by the Joshes and Dylans of the Jewish youth group world — a world that was very much a boys’ club. A girl could only enter the inner circle of this world on the arm, lips, or down the pants of one of the guys.
As we grew older, the point system faded into the background, but the hookup hierarchy remained. As CITs (counselors in training), the goal was to get with a counselor. As counselors, it was landing an Israeli staff member, song leader, or unit head. The bigger the age difference, the greater the achievement. As a 21-year-old counselor, I competed for the attention of the Israeli soccer specialist. That same summer, one of my 17-year-old CITs got caught with a younger camper — a 14-year-old girl. The girl was sent home; the boy was suspended for two weeks but was allowed to come back and finish the summer.
That same summer my status reached a new level — recognition in the Israeli staff’s end-of-summer video. “Dani zoremet,” they called me in Hebrew — which means “goes with the flow,” as they joked about borrowing my car for a day off. But zoremet is also slang for “is easy.” The line between valuable and trashy was thin — and I had crossed it. If you were a girl who eventually earned too many points, you ended up losing. I walked around camp that last week of the summer second-guessing every smile or hello I received from my peers, especially the Israeli staff. Were they just saying hi? Or were they laughing behind my back about how “easy” I was the second I walked away? Meanwhile, Josh was on his third girl of the summer, his notoriety and desirability increasing for the years to come.
I studied abroad in Israel during my junior year of college. One of the popular boys from our youth group happened to also be living in Israel at the time, and wanted to hook up with me one night. It was the first time in my life that I remember wanting to say no. I remember feeling angry and disrespected — he had spent the evening with other friends, at a dinner I wasn’t invited to, but texted me when he was done, ready for a hookup, and came crawling into my bed late that night. I said no at first, but eventually gave in to his persistence, subtle manipulation, and the voice inside my head telling me I was lucky he even wanted me. This is how you prove your worth, I thought.
Now, though, the only thing that makes me feel worth less than I did that night in Israel is hearing people talk about him and other “Nice Jewish Boys” like they are God’s gift to women. It’s been a decade since my summer camp years, and I’ve only recently begun reflecting on how the culture has stuck with me — I still find myself wanting to rely on the attention of a man, preferably one that’s cooler, older, smarter, or in some way seems superior to me, to feel valued. We placed so much importance on hooking up that I never stopped to think about whether or not I even wanted to do it. I look back now and wish I had spent less time worrying about what men wanted and more time thinking about what I wanted.
Coming to these realizations took a lot of work: going to therapy, speaking more openly about my sex life on social media and through my writing, and engaging critically with my feelings amidst the #MeToo era. I am still unlearning a lot of this; my self-worth is still, at least in part, dependent on being wanted by a man. Last month I decided to take a break from dating, so that I can truly think about what I want from sexual relationships without it getting wrapped up in my urge to please a man. My therapist is proud and I’d like to think that the part of me that said no that night in Israel would be proud, too.
About a year ago, I stood on stage at a Moth storytelling competition in San Francisco and gave thanks to my experiences at Jewish summer camp for the extensive sexual “education” I received. I won that storytelling competition, and it is still one of my proudest life moments. I wasn’t being snarky about being thankful, either. I am thankful for some of it — for being comfortable with sexuality at a young age, for the sisterhood it created with women who are still some of my best friends. I am thankful for a few of the experiences, but I wish they felt like my experiences. I wish that looking back, they felt more like empowering choices and less like required currency.
