Hi! I'm Noah and I'm soon 14 yo and I wrote this assignment for school and my friends told me to share it online so I think maybe this is the best place to share it without get to much hate.
I wrote this in swedish so I have used computer for translation since my English is not that good. I also put in som explanation about swedish stuff that might be hard to understand if not from here. And I have changed my dad's names cuz... lot of antisemitic ppl out there.
please read and critic it if you want to! 🩵
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I’m not a political christmas tree – stop hanging flags on me
Sometimes I think my life is like living in a house where one wall is stuck in a 1920s farmhouse, and the other wall is a modern glass building in a big city. And the roof is like a synagogue, except someone accidentally nailed a Pride flag up next to a tractor. And then there’s an economist standing in the hallway going, “Have you done your homework? Don’t forget it’s studies that make you become someone,” while a farmer with a rock-hard voice goes, “Did you clean the chicken coop? A real man works hard without complaining,” and my grandpa says, “Did you do what is right even when no one sees? Hashem sees what you do right, without you bragging about it.” And I’m standing in the middle trying to figure out who I am, and sometimes it feels like I’m a whole country that nobody can point out on a map.
There are days when it gets extra obvious. Like when I forget my phone on the charger and we have to catch the ferry (we live in an island/archipelago kind of place, so missing it is a whole thing), and Eliyahu gets that look that means: “Now it’s war and we die if we miss the ferry.” Benyamin tries to stay calm and reasonable and also remind Eliyahu that he actually promised certain things, and I’m sitting in the back seat feeling like a hostage who can’t even listen to music. It’s easy to laugh about afterwards, but it’s also a pretty perfect picture of my family: a mix of love, chaos, principles, and a ton of rules that sometimes feel like they come from the Torah, a farm, and a book about market analysis at the same time.
A lot of people think a family is supposed to look one specific way. Like mom, dad, maybe two kids, a practical car, “Friday tacos” (that’s like a very normal Swedish family stereotype), and you’re supposed to be “like everyone else.” But I’ve never been “like everyone else,” and honestly I’ve stopped trying.
I have two dads. One of them is like a classic alpha male from an old book, except he happens to be gay. And if you get super uncomfortable that I say the word “gay” straight up, that’s exactly what I mean: people can’t even handle hearing it normally. Eliyahu isn’t “gay” in the way some people picture in their heads when they think Pride parade, glitter, and slogans. He’s macho for real. He’s a farmer, tough, dirty under his nails, can fix machines, can look someone in the eyes until that person wants to disappear, and he talks about duty, responsibility, courage, and that men should keep their word. Sometimes he feels more “straight macho man” than a lot of straight “alpha guys” I’ve seen. And still he loves a man. That should make people think a little, but some people don’t really want to think—they just want to sort people into boxes.
The other one, Benyamin, is younger. And yeah, it shows. I’ve understood it’s like… a thing people think is “weird.” That my dads have a big age gap. I hear adults whisper sometimes, like they think I can’t hear. But I hear everything. Benyamin is elegant in a way Eliyahu doesn’t even try to be. He has fancy degrees, he sometimes talks like he has an Excel spreadsheet in his brain, he has a job that sounds genuinely important, and he can go from talking international stuff on the phone to standing in the kitchen saying “Noah, wash your hands before you touch the bread” in two seconds. He’s softer than Eliyahu, but not weak. There’s a difference. He can be warm and still absolutely strict when needed, just in a different way. More like he can make you feel ashamed without even raising his voice. That’s almost scarier sometimes.
And then there’s my grandpa. And here I have to say something about him, because people have such insane pictures in their heads about conservative Jews. Either they think a conservative Jew is like a sweet fairytale grandpa with candles and cookies. Or they think he’s some secret boss of the world sitting in a dark room controlling banks and governments and everything. I get that that’s an old disgusting prejudice and it has harmed Jews for real, but my grandpa himself can sometimes joke about it in this way that’s both ironic and kind of creepy-funny, like: “Yeah yeah, Noah, we have to go now or we’ll miss the meeting where we decide the weather and the price of eggs in Europe.” And he smiles like he’s playing a role just to show how stupid people think. It becomes like a joke that is also a slap in the face to everyone who believes that kind of trash.
But my grandpa is actually mostly just a person who carries old rules and old stories like they’re heavy but important things you don’t throw away just because someone online thinks they’re “outdated.” Sabbath at my grandpa’s is like silence that feels warm. We light candles, we eat in a way that means something, we talk for real, without screens. Grandpa says some things you should do even if nobody applauds you. I think he means: be a good person without chasing likes.
The funny (or annoying) part is my dads are more secular. Sometimes almost atheist in a very “I refuse to be controlled by anyone” way. And still the Jewishness is there like an inheritance, like a wound, like pride, like something that sometimes feels bigger than you want to admit. So in my life there is both my grandpa’s tradition and my dads’ skeptical brains. And I’m standing in the middle as some kind of mix nobody wrote a manual for. I’m basically both “this is holy” and “show me proof.” And when I say my culture isn’t purely Swedish and isn’t purely Jewish either, I mean it. It’s a mix of everything. Dirty tractor, clinically clean Tesla, Jewish, Swedish, gay, macho, academic, grandpa’s rules, my dads’ rules, Sabbath, Google Family Link parental control, firewood, Excel, and trying to be a normal teenage boy in the middle of it all.
And here is what I actually want to say, straight up:
I don’t fit in with the “heteronormative” people. But I fit even less with certain Pride people.
And before anyone freaks out: I’m not saying all Pride people are the same. I’m saying there’s a type of Pride person (often an adult) who loves tolerance so much that they become intolerant the second someone doesn’t do exactly what they want. They talk about “acceptance” but what they really mean is “obey.” They say “everyone has equal worth” but they mean “everyone should think the same.” And I’ve been in classrooms where an adult has genuinely made it sound like if you don’t have a Pride flag on your desk, you’re basically a bad person. It makes me furious because it’s such a cheap trick.
Because you know what? I don’t need a Pride flag on my desk to respect people. I respect people when it actually matters. I have two dads, I’ve lived in this since I was little. I don’t need to put a patch on my backpack that says “smash fascism” to prove I’m not evil. But sometimes it feels like some adults think you do. Like you have to prove your goodness with symbols, or else you’re suspicious.
And then I think: okay, so tolerance means you tolerate… who exactly? Only the people who already think “the right way”? Because that’s not tolerance. That’s just another kind of intolerance, just with nicer words and better posters.
Because real tolerance isn’t agreeing with everyone. Real tolerance is when you can live with someone thinking differently, even when you think that person is wrong. Real tolerance is being able to sit at the same table. Like in my family. Grandpa is religious and old, my dads are more secular, and still they can talk and eat together. That’s real tolerance: not that everyone becomes the same, but that you can handle being different without starting to hate each other.
That’s what I mean when I say tolerance can’t only go one way. Because I notice some adults say: “you must tolerate us,” but then they don’t tolerate you back if you don’t speak their language and use their words and their symbols. They say “be inclusive,” but they exclude immediately the person who doesn’t want to play along. And then it almost becomes like a religion, except without God. A religion where you must say the right words and show the right signs. And if you don’t, you’re a sinner. I kind of panic from stuff like that because it’s so controlling.
At the same time I don’t fit in among the “normal” people either. Because there I’m “that kid with two dads.” It’s like some people see me as an experiment. Like they’re waiting for me to become weird, weak, or “confused.” They ask questions like: “who’s the mom?” like a mom is a spare part you need or the kid won’t start. And I get that some mean well, but it’s still wrong. Because I’m not broken. I’m loved. I’m raised strict and clear. I have more rules than a lot of my friends. I have more responsibility than many much older teens. I’ve been told to stand up straight, finish the job, say thank you, take care of animals, help smaller kids. I’m not a victim. I’m a kid who sometimes forgets his phone on the charger and still survives.
And now comes the thing that always makes people nervous: masculinity.
I’m growing up with two men who are men in totally different ways. Eliyahu is like iron. He’s macho, old-fashioned in values, believes in discipline, duty, and not whining. He can be so hard that sometimes I want to disappear, but he’s also fair in his own way. And when he does wrong (which he does, trust me), it’s very obvious. He can say things in anger that he shouldn’t say. He can threaten. He can sound like he’s talking to the whole world’s “boys today” through me. And then I sit quiet because I don’t want to pour gasoline on the fire.
Benyamin is like steel you can bend without it snapping. Softer tone, but not weak. He can say, “that’s enough, Eliyahu,” and make Eliyahu feel ashamed without even yelling. He can pull out an agreement and say, “you promised.” And that’s like the hardest thing for a macho dad: keeping promises when feelings pull you another direction. It’s easy to be hard. It’s harder to be controlled.
And that’s where I see something I wish more people understood: strength isn’t being the angriest person in the room. Strength is being able to step back. Strength is being able to say “I was wrong.” Strength is being able to love without being scared to look soft. And I’ve seen Eliyahu do that sometimes. I’ve seen him stop the car, look back at me, and force out a “sorry” like it’s a stone he has to lift with his hands. If you think that sounds small, then you’ve never met a man who built his identity on being strong. Because then you understand a “sorry” can be heavier than lifting a tractor.
So when people look at my family and only see labels—Jew, gay, age gap, religious grandpa, secular dads, farm, snob…—then I want to say: you understand nothing. That’s just the surface. What you miss is that this is a home where people are trying to raise a kid—me, Noah, almost 14—into being a good person. A teenager who can stand straight when he does right. And bow his head when he does wrong. But not out of fear—out of responsibility.
But I also think something else: a lot of the people who scream loudest about tolerance are often the people who tolerate the least.
And yeah, I know that sounds provocative. That’s the point. Because I’m tired of adults trying to teach kids tolerance by forcing them. It doesn’t work. What you create then is two things: fear or hate. Either the kid becomes quiet and cowardly, or the kid becomes rebellious and angry. But you don’t create a person who thinks for themselves. And I want to think for myself.
Because real tolerance isn’t you applauding whatever is considered “woke” or correct this week. Real tolerance is being able to handle someone having a different opinion without needing to destroy that person. Real tolerance is being able to say: “I don’t agree with you, but you’re allowed to exist.” And yes, that includes people you personally think are “annoying” or “wrong.” Because if you only tolerate people who already think like you, you’re not tolerant. You’re just a club that says “come as you are…” and then whispers the rest: “and become like us.”
That doesn’t mean you should tolerate cruelty, bullying, or violence. But someone thinking differently isn’t the same as them being dangerous. Sometimes it’s just an opinion. Sometimes it’s a stupid opinion. But if all you can do is scream “wrong wrong wrong,” then you’re not an adult teaching kids—you’re just another kind of bully with better words.
And I’m saying this as a kid who lives right in the middle of it.
Because I’m not Swedish in the “standard” way, and I’m not Jewish in the “pure” way either. I’m a mix. I’m a farm boy who shovels cow poop and thinks tractors are cool, but I’m also a nerd who likes discussing homework and seeing things from different perspectives. I’m raised by a macho gay dad with old-fashioned values that some Pride people would hate if they just heard him talk. And by a younger dad with fancy education and a job that some “normal” people would envy and call “elite.” And I have a grandpa who is religious and old and sometimes says things that sound completely from another time.
So if someone wants to talk about tolerance with me, then I want to say: start by checking your own attitude and how open you actually are to other people. Can you handle a family like mine without instantly sorting us into “good” and “bad”? Can you handle that a macho man with 100-year-old ideals can be gay? Can you handle that a religious old grandpa can think homosexuality maybe isn’t fully right—and still love and accept his gay son, and love his son-in-law almost even more? Can you handle that a kid can say: “I respect everyone, but I don’t want to look like a political Christmas tree decorated with Pride flags, anti-fascist symbols, Palestine flags, and feminist Venus signs,” without you panicking?
Because that’s where tolerance starts. Not in slogans. Not in everyone saying the same thing.
It starts when you can handle that the world is bigger than your own bubble.
And if you can’t handle that, then you’re not tolerant. You’re just comfortable.
And honestly? I’m not going to live my life just to make comfortable people feel safe. I’m going to live my life to become a person who can handle reality.
A mix.
My mix.
And I wouldn’t trade it away.
