J.P. Leskovich

 I moved to Highland Park when I was twelve, in the summer before 7th grade. It wasn't my first move, nor would it be my last, but I was still apprehensive and unsure. Moving is difficult as a kid: you have to start from scratch every time, laying down new roots.


The move to Highland Park was like no other. People were so welcoming, the community was so vibrant. The minute I got there, I belonged. And I knew that I belonged, because people made me feel it. In the halls of Edgewood and HPHS, on the soccer field and the track, along Central Ave in HP and Sheridan Rd in Highwood, I forged lifelong childhood memories that fill me with warmth.

Highland Park is so special to me. It's more than just a place that welcomed me and my family. It's where I was introduced to Jewish life, hopping from bar to bat mitzvah and being invited to family Chanukah parties. This proved to be formational, as I've since converted to Judaism and thrown myself into my own Jewish community. 

It's where I was exposed to the colorful vibrancies of Latino life, building multicultural friendships on my soccer team and popping over to La Union to grab Mexican groceries. And it's where I grew into myself, discovering, accepting, and celebrating who I am. Without Highland Park's tolerance, I don't know how long it would've taken me to accept my queerness. 

Highland Park is so special to me because it made me who I am today. Even though I only lived there for four years (long for a military kid), I consider it a hometown and it is very close to my heart.

That is why it was so devastating to get the news on the 4th that Highland Park's magical parade had been targeted by cruel and crude violence. I was speechless, I was heartbroken, I was shaken, and I was taken back to October 27, 2018. That was the day of the Tree of Life synagogue shooting in Pittsburgh, the day I was woken out of bed by an emergency alert and spent the morning making sure all my friends were safe and accounted for. I still carry deep trauma from that day, and our community is still healing. Nothing makes me angrier than knowing that another community I love, another one of my homes, is now on that lengthening list of traumatized towns. Nothing makes me angrier than knowing that beautiful, innocent lives have been callously taken from two of my communities. Which place I lived and loved will be next?

At the time of the Tree of Life shooting, I was a year into the process of converting to Judaism and I felt stuck between two worlds. On one hand, I very much felt Jewish and wanted to grieve with my community. On the other hand, I wasn't "technically" Jewish yet and didn't want to step on anyone's toes or center myself too much. These concerns were dismissed, with one person telling me "however you grieve is the Jewish way to grieve because you're Jewish."

I can't help but find myself feeling the same way again, stuck in the middle. On one hand, I very much feel like a Highland Parker and this tragedy cuts me to my core. On the other hand, in the grand scheme of things, I lived there shortly and haven't been back in a minute, so I don't want to take up too much space or step on anyone's toes. Even now, I am unsure if I should be writing this, not wanting to take up too much of the oxygen in the room. If I am filling space inappropriately, I am dearly and sincerely sorry. 

I decided to say something because otherwise I would explode and because I want HP to know how much you are loved. What happened on the 4th is an unacceptable, unfair evil and the wound will never fully go away. The way through it--to healing and a semblance of a new normal--is community and togetherness. That's what's got us through it here in Pittsburgh, so I'm here to tell you to lean on one another, love each other, hug each other, and be there for each other as much as you can. 

More than that, I'm here to tell you that your community of love is even bigger than you think. There's a whole cohort of us out here ready to do everything we can to help HP heal. We're reaching out, but please don't hesitate to contact us. I may not physically be in Highland Park anymore, but I've always been there in spirit and I'm sending the most love, strength, and support possible.

These are dark days and they will leave a deep scar. But they will also bring out the best in the people we love. Since I'm writing this from Mr. Rogers' neighborhood itself, I'll wrap up with his words: "find the helpers"

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