Salt of the Earth: How MJF Taught Me To Own My Neurodivergence & Judaism
By Michael Kelman Portney
Pro wrestling isn’t just a spectacle; it’s a masterclass in rhetoric, psychology, and manipulation—when done right. And nobody in this era has played the game better than Maxwell Jacob Friedman.
MJF didn’t just show up and follow the playbook. He became the playbook. He took the tropes, the clichés, and the tired conventions of what makes a great villain—or a great performer—and flipped them into something entirely his own. He blurred the line between reality and fiction, between persona and person, until the audience wasn’t just watching a character—they were believing in him.
And that’s where the magic happens.
Because in an era where everyone is playing the same game, the only way to truly stand out is to change the game entirely. MJF understood this instinctively. He saw that modern wrestling fans were jaded, that they’d seen every cheap heat trick in the book, that they expected the same recycled angles. And instead of giving them what they expected, he gave them something real.
He gave them authenticity.
Not in the way the industry tries to manufacture it. Not in the way WWE scripts a babyface promo about “fighting for my dreams” while pumping in fake crowd noise. No, MJF’s authenticity came from a place of knowing himself so well that he could weaponize every facet of his personality to control the room.
He didn’t just tell people he was better than them—he made them believe it. He didn’t just insult the crowd—he understood why they would react the way they did and played them like a maestro conducting a symphony of outrage. He didn’t just cut promos—he lived them.
And as a Jewish American with autism who grew up in Texas? That shit hit different.
Because let me tell you—being a Jewish autistic kid in Texas was already a wrestling match every damn day. The crowd wasn’t just booing; they were confused. They didn’t know what to do with me. Too Jewish for the mainstream, too autistic for the social game, too sharp for the bullshit. Every interaction felt like I was cutting a promo just to defend my right to exist in a space that didn’t know where to put me.
And then there’s MJF.
A Jewish world champion. Not just a champion, but the best talker in the business. The guy who could make a crowd love him and hate him in the same breath. The guy who didn’t overcome being Jewish—he made it part of his power. He didn’t sidestep it, didn’t downplay it, didn’t turn it into some after-school special. No, he threw it in people’s faces, used it as heat, used it as fuel, and came out the other side a bigger star than ever.
I grew up in an era where Jewish wrestlers had to be disguised. Goldberg was only Goldberg because his name sounded like a walking explosion. Paul Heyman stayed behind the scenes. Colt Cabana was a secret handshake for the in-the-know indie fans. But MJF? MJF made being Jewish part of the gimmick and part of the reality. It’s a menorah-laden middle finger to every promoter who thought Jewish wrestlers couldn’t be main event draws.
And yeah, I know what you’re thinking—bro, it’s just wrestling.
Yeah? Tell that to the guy who cried "It's still real to me, dammit!" and made the entire internet secondhand embarrassed for a decade. But the thing is, wrestling is real in a way no other entertainment medium is. Not in the sense of punches landing or chair shots being unprotected, but in the way it plays with emotion, in the way it manipulates perception, in the way it builds myths in real time.
And MJF? MJF is one of the greatest myth-builders of all time.
Because what he’s really showing—whether the fans fully get it or not—is that authenticity is the most powerful force in storytelling.
You don’t chase approval. You don’t follow the formula. You don’t beg for validation. You dictate the terms, you set the pace, and you force people to acknowledge you on your terms.
That’s exactly how you rewrite the rulebook. Not by trying to “break the rules” in some predictable, edgelord way, but by understanding the rules so well that you can twist them into something fresh.
And that’s exactly the approach I’ve been taking. Whether it’s with my writing, my storytelling, or the way I navigate this absurd, rigged system we all live in—every move is calculated. Every word is deliberate. Every play is designed not just to participate in the game, but to change it entirely.
MJF didn’t just show me a new way to approach the world. He confirmed what I already knew:
Authenticity isn’t just a buzzword—it’s a weapon. And when wielded properly, it’s unstoppable.
