Why I Love the Phrase "Jewish American Princess"

I’m sorry if my being Jewish offends you. And I’m sorry if my dirty jokes offend those who are on the more religious end of being Jewish.

The phrase “Jewish American Princess,” or “J.A.P.” for short, is often viewed as a dig at a spoiled, valley-girl-accented, Cartier jewelry-clad Jewish girl. She is categorized by her love for summer camp, her materialistic nature, and her lifelong search for the coveted NJB (Nice Jewish Boy) who can provide her with the same wealth and stability that her parents have. A lot of Jewish girls hate or neglect “J.A.P.,” but I recognize it for what it is: a headstrong Jewish girl’s endeavor to assimilate.

I’ve lately felt that to reach a wider audience with my social media content, I have to assimilate. It’s a shitty feeling. I grew my following (75k on Instagram, 181k on TikTok) by doing comedy sketches, most of which were reclaiming the “Jewish American Princess” stereotype. It was a means of creating representation for girls like me, but also demonstrating to those outside of the Jewish community that Jewish culture isn’t always religious, political, or depressing.

But despite my best efforts to be funny, upbeat, and relatable, I feel a stark difference between myself and other content creators. When I attend coveted New York City influencer events, I wonder if I should’ve gotten more injections in the bump in my nose, if I should’ve worn even higher heels, if I should’ve gone for hot hot and not just hot for a Jewish girl.

I love Jewish American Princess. To me, Jewish American Princess means a headstrong, confident Jewish woman who knows what she’s worth. A girl who knows her place in the world as a woman and as a Jew, and who isn’t afraid to be exactly who she is in those spaces. The Jewish American Princess has opened doors for a new kind of Jewish woman—one who is reformed, and not necessarily religious, however, cultural and spiritual.

In my best effort to reclaim a stereotype and make it a term of endearment while also making people laugh—it’s like I carry the weight of the WORLD on my shoulders—it seems that I still fail to close a certain culture gap. Some people don’t understand the satirical premise of my videos, thinking that I behave this way in real life. People claim that I have “arrested development” and need to grow up, but it’s nothing of the sort. I get insecure about posting about things like summer camp as I near 25, but the summer camp girls are the audience that I know I can count on. Some of my content feels stale to me, or like it’s at a standstill. I crave growth, something more. My big break. Jewish American Princess: The Movie. Starring me.

It feels impossible to be both an influencer influencer and a Jewish influencer. I am somehow both and neither. The Jewish influencers built their platforms on a sort of activist, combat Antisemitism tirade, and hey, mad respect. They boost engagement with a controversial statement in their fight against antisemites, and they earn a living because Jewish organizations hire them to be the face of some new campaign. The regular influencers, the ones anyone sees—you know, like Alix Earle or Halley Kate—thrive off of brand partnerships and an everyday relatability that audiences love. It’s like a more accessible, more personal reality TV series. Sometimes mainstream brands find overtly Jewish creators “not brand safe,” and sometimes Jewish organizations find mainstream creators inappropriate.

I know I was put on this earth to reclaim and represent “Jewish American Princesses” in the media. It’s my calling. But how do I immerse into the mainstream? It would appear I have to be a little bit less Jewish and more American Princess. Or just American Girl Next Door. But I’m not a girl next door—I’m a loud, opinionated, dirty-joke-making Jewish girl who was born and raised in Chelsea, NYC. I’m sorry if my being Jewish offends you. And I’m sorry if my dirty jokes offend those who are on the more religious end of being Jewish.

I love every single person who engages with me, every single person I meet. I can only hope that you allow me to assimilate.