KarMel Scholarship 2007

“On Being Read and Other Tribulations”

By SG Reichen

Desciption of Submission: (2004) A brief, non-fictional narrative exploring gender and the complex nature of perception from a Jewish perspective.

Random guy. Bulldyke. High school boy. Leather Daddy. Lesbian. Fag. Someone’s son. Someone’s girlfriend. Gay bath-house boy. Professional man. Gentleman Butch. Transperson. Sometimes a person can’t even make a guess.

Most days, I am forced to navigate all of these labels within just a few hours. Some of these labels are applicable, at least sort of. But it gets tiring. I suspect that when most people awake in the morning, shower, dress, and leave their places of residence, awareness of their sex, their gender, their safety, particularly in regard to other people’s perceptions and opinions and the respect they may or may not show, isn’t even a subconscious notion. I wonder what it’s like to live like that.

A few years ago, I travelled to Israel. I’m a Jew and, as such, Eretz Israel is supposed to be my birthright. One might think that with a name as Jewish as mine, I might be able to earn some favour (or even mere neutrality) in the eyes of Israeli security. However, this was far from the case.

My flite out of New York City’s JFK aeroport made for one more step in my very long journey to Tel Aviv, which had begun in Washington D.C. the previous day. I was exhausted, sore, and longing for a day of rest in the Holy Land.

El Al passengers must face an inquisition prior to boarding high-security aerocraft. I am told that there are separate lines of questioning for Jews and non-Jews. I, naturally, was questioned as a Jew. This interrogation included all sort of enquiries – everything from what was on the Seder plate and the symbolism of these items to when we fast to questions regarding obscure liturgical passages and the holiday of Tisha B’Av. It proceeded on to the matters of my ability to read, write, and/or speak Hebrew. Indeed, I can both read and write Hebrew; I can even speak it, at least to the extent of basic survival (or what would be survival if not nearly every Israeli spoke some modicum of English). As a Jew, it would seem that El Al expects you to read, write, and speak Hebrew. However, if these linguistic capabilities are not borne of years of religious school and bar or bat mitzvah studies, then, it seems, you are immediately guilty of something, probably a grievous trespass.

I was sorely mistaken when I jumped thru all the governmental, bureaucratic hoops, thinking that if I changed my name, my photo, my gender marker on my passport, just to make them happy, situations exactly like this would be circumvented. It was, by no means, easy and I still wonder how I was so disillusioned.

I, of course, have never become a bar mitzvah. But neither have I become a bat mitzvah and, even if I had, I can’t imagine that my arguing this would have earned me any points with the El Al agent in question. And so I stood in the very long queue of people waiting to board their flite to Tel Aviv and explained that, hypothetically speaking, one would become a bar or bat mitzvah often around the age of thirteen years. I continued to describe what the process entailed and the importance there-of. I was obviously not convincing; not as anything other than a shady and suspicious character, anyway.

Thus is told the story of how I was nearly detained by Israeli special security for never having been a little boy.

Weeks later, as I embarked upon my journey back westward over the Atlantic, I was no longer travelling alone. Rather, I was accompanied by a new friend – a gay man (one of the labelled-male-at birth variety) who was just aware enough to realise that there may be trouble at hand, but still too naïve to know that his best course of action was to keep quiet, calm down, and draw as little attention to us as possible. As he and I attempted to pass thru the security checkpoint at Tel Aviv aeroport, I was once again pulled aside. With a fretful, pacing, and rather vociferous travel companion looking on, I was ushered in to a small side room.

Knowing that I both held a passport with a prominent male gender marker and possessed a body which would never meet their strip-search expectations, I prepared myself for the unspeakable things that often accompany such degradation. All I could think was, ‘I don’t know how to explain this in Hebrew.’

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