Kippuh at the Crossroads

By Mikey Galván

They looked at me like I was breaking code.
Like I walked in with forbidden frequencies stitched to my soul.
But I didn’t come to disrupt—I came to remember.
To wear the echo of my ancestors like a question mark
etched in cloth
on my crown.

This ain’t just a kippuh—
It’s a cipher.
A signature.
A seal.

I felt the raised brows like daggers of doubt,
Like “What’s he doing bringing that into here?”
But bro… God brought me here.

This ain’t rebellion.
This is reclamation.
This is Galván walking into a Mass with Sepharad on his scalp
and Zion in his chest.
This is Spain and Israel
making peace in a pew
under stained glass judgment
and Spirit-filled silence.

The priest looked at me—
And he knew
but couldn’t say it.
And the real ones?
The ones with Spirit vision?
They didn’t flinch.
They nodded like
“Finally. The line has returned.”

This is Roman cross
meeting Temple cloth.
This is the veil tearing
again.
Not in the Holy of Holies,
but in the minds of the holy who forgot
they were once captives too.

I’m not confused.
I don’t wear the crown for show.
I wear it for them—
The ones who hid their names,
swallowed their tongues,
burned their books,
and bowed to survive
when they were born to stand.

So now I stand—
A hybrid of heaven and history.
A child of the Covenant,
grafted and grounded.
Lion-blood in my veins.
Messiah-fire in my eyes.

And I wear my kippuh
not out of tradition—
but because remembrance is worship.
And I refuse
to forget
who I am.

Location: Dallas, TX, USA

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