As a first-generation American, born to exiled Cuban parents, raised in the multicultural neighborhoods of 1970s Miami, and growing up alongside the women’s movement, gay liberation, and the ongoing fight for civil rights and equality, I became politically precocious from a young age. By 10, I was a full-blown news junkie. I was also a budding film connoisseur. It was these twin passions that informed my choice to later become a filmmaker and LGBT activist, directing over a dozen fiction and non-fiction films screened all over the world, including my award-winning feature Who’s Afraid of Vagina Wolf? (2013). But as a kid, the notion of LGBT representation never crossed my mind. I identified with all types of characters, men and women, Latino or not, living vicariously through their stories and romances. To my way of thinking, I didn’t need James Bond to be a woman in order to identify with him — I just needed his tux! Then, at 13, a film came along that changed my mind forever and showed me what the power of representation can really do: Barbra Streisand’s Yentl (1983).

Now before you start singing "Papa, Can You Hear Me?" — an unfortunate oversimplification of the film's brilliance — let me tell you how Yentl was, and still is, the single most feminist-queer-lesbian cinematic experience I’ve ever had.

Who would have guessed that a film set in an Old World shtetl would explore gender roles, homoeroticism, cross-dressing, feminism, stigma, nudity, sex, bisexuality, polyamory, same-sex weddings, and the evil eye, and conclude with the promise of early 20th-century America as a place of equality and freedom? Leave it to Barbra Streisand, who fought for 15 years to bring Isaac Bashevis Singer’s celebrated short story, Yentl, the Yeshiva Boy (1962), to the screen. In so doing, she earned the honor of being the first woman to win a Golden Globe for directing — and the first female director I had ever known of.

I first fell in love with Streisand, not from her filmmaking, but from her music. From when I was six years old, I knew I was a lesbian and that I adored Barbra Streisand. It was her velvet voice, magnetic charisma, and beguiling good looks that drew me in. I became a devoted fan of her music, crying every time I heard her heart-wrenching ballads, wondering if I would ever love someone as deeply as she did. Her acting in Funny Girl (1968), What's Up, Doc? (1977), The Way We Were (1973), and my favorite version of A Star is Born (1976) captivated me. But on November 18, 1983, in a dark Miami movie theater, she changed my life. It was the opening night of Yentl, a film about an eponymous Jewish girl (Streisand) in 1903 Poland who wants to pursue a religious education in Talmudic law at a yeshiva. But studying in yeshivas was forbidden for girls (and still is, in many Orthodox Jewish communities), so she disguises herself as a man and attends anyway.

Barbra Striesand as Yentl pictured right, Anna Margarita Albelo as Yentl pictured left.

At a glance, it might seem that a first-generation Cuban-American girl in 1980s Miami would have little in common with a turn-of-the-century Ashkenazi Jew in Eastern Europe. And yet I identified with her more strongly than anyone I’d ever known. Yentl is both a coming-of-age and a coming-out film, released at a time when I was doing both. Like Yentl, I knew early of the injustice of living in a male-dominated society that discounted women and girls just because of our sex. I was raised in a Latino household with three brothers and had to constantly fight to have the same freedom as they did. I knew what it was like to be treated as a delicate flower in need of being carefully sheltered and protected from life while boys were out living it. I also knew about homophobia, living in red-state Florida where the hateful Anita Bryant was always on TV. As a young closeted lesbian, I knew I had to hide who I was to be accepted (and not assaulted) by society and those I loved.

Yentl’s burgeoning romantic desire mirrored mine at the time, as we were both secretly in love with our best friends. In the film, Yentl (as her male avatar Anshel) and Avigdor (her hunky best friend played by Mandy Patinkin) are quickly drawn to each other intellectually and physically. As the best and the brightest of the yeshiva, their love starts with the mind — stimulating discussions and debates — and they grow closer, as men.

As is often the case in my own lesbian love life, Yentl’s object of desire, Avigdor, is already in love (and getting married) with someone else — Hadass (played by the breathtaking Amy Irving). Hadass instantly infatuated me. I realized Yentl wasn’t the object of my desire; she was my avatar. The plot thickens as Hadass's family cancels the wedding over fears that Avigdor's family is tainted with insanity. When Avigdor begs Yentl to marry Hadass in his place, I practically jumped out of my seat! Yentl objects, saying it’s impossible, but she eventually relents because her love for Avigdor is stronger than the insanity of marrying a woman while pretending to be a man.

This leads us to the euphoric music montage, “Tomorrow Night” where we follow Yentl being tailored for her nuptials, intercut with a full-on Jewish wedding and Hadass looking drop-dead gorgeous. It was such a vicarious moment for me as a young lesbian, to see Yentl and Hadass getting married and being lifted and twirled in their chairs by jubilant friends and family. To top it off, Avigdor pulls Yentl aside to hot whisper some 500-year-old Kabbalistic sexual advice, murmuring in her ear about the importance of putting the woman’s pleasure first (an important lesson for anyone!).

But suddenly I fretted — how will she pull this off? I mean, girl, it’s the wedding night; Hadass is going to know! Surprisingly, the wedding night becomes a brilliant moment of feminism and friendship. Once locked in their post-nuptial suite, Yentl explains to Hadass that, according to the Torah, the wife can refuse to have sex until she is ready. Relieved, the two women drink together and laugh, as Yentl pours wine on the bed to fake the despicable tradition of checking marriage-night sheets. From then on, Yentl decides to secretly teach Hadass the Torah at home. Their bond deepens, their chemistry intensifies, and Hadass falls in love with Yentl. When they finally kissed, it was the first woman-woman kiss I’d ever seen. I must have re-watched it a hundred times when the VHS came out.

But the web of deception had become unbearable, and, as Streisand had sung with Donna Summer years earlier, enough was enough. Yentl takes Avigdor on a trip and finally comes out to him. Avigdor is stunned and outraged, accusing her of being a demon. It’s the violent reaction we all fear when coming out. But, Yentl is just a woman in love and Avigdor confesses that he too felt things for her even though he believed she was a man. He proposes marriage, but as far as yeshiva goes, the best he can offer is to teach her in secret behind the curtains at night. Yentl knows in her heart that no matter how much she loves him, there’s no way she’s going back to hiding and refuses.

My own life became an endless series of me coming out while hoping for the best and expecting the worst. Fortunately, I never had a bad coming-out experience, which I credit to having the courage of knowing myself and the strength to stand in my truth — attributes I learned from watching brave characters like Yentl and real people like Act Up activists who fiercely chanted, “Out of the closet, into the streets!” Visibility was key.

After her coming out, there’s only one place for Yentl to go, and that’s on a boat to America and the freedom to learn and follow her destiny. As she belts out her closing song, "A Piece of Sky”, Yentl triumphantly weaves through the boat and hundreds of immigrants filled with the hope of the New World, she passionately asks, "What's wrong with wanting more? If you can fly, then soar! With all there is, why settle for just a piece of sky?”

All these years later, I still carry with me the qualities and the lessons Yentl taught me. The film was a trailblazing work of film, boldly exploring feminism, gender identity, and same-sex love at a time when such topics were rarely seen in mainstream cinema. For me, Yentl was an avatar, a learning experience, a demystification of what fighting for what I believed in could look like. It was a happy end for girls who knew traditional societal roles were not our destiny. Streisand’s audacity as an artist and a director not only paved the way for me to tell diverse and inclusive stories about lesbian, queer, and diverse people in my career, but it also left an indelible impression on me about the importance of representation in media. Storytelling, filmmaking, and activism will always be my weapons in creating the world I want to see.

Published July 1, 2024