Feminist theory is not immune to the problems that plague representations
of trans issues. While many feminists—especially those who came of age in the 1980s and’ 90s—recognize that trans women can be allies in the fight to eliminate gender stereotypes, others, particularly those who embrace gender essentialism, believe that trans women foster sexism by mimicking patriarchal attitudes about femininity, or that we objectify women by trying to possess female bodies of our own. Many of these latter ideas stem from Janice Raymond’s 1979 book
The Transsexual Empire: The Making of the She-male,
which is perhaps the most infamous feminist writing on transsexuals. Like the media makers discussed earlier, Raymond assumes that trans women transition in order to achieve stereotypical femininity, which she believes is an artificial by-product of a patriarchal society. Raymond does acknowledge, reluctantly, the existence of trans women who are not stereotypically feminine, but she reserves her most venomous remarks for those she calls “transsexually constructed lesbian-feminists,” describing how they use “deception” in order to “penetrate” women’s spaces and minds. She writes, “Although the transsexually constructed lesbian-feminist does not exhibit a feminine identity and role, he [sic] does exhibit stereotypical masculine behavior.” This puts trans women in a double bind, where if they act feminine they are perceived as being a parody, but if they act masculine it is seen as a sign of their “true” male identity. This damned-if-they-do, damned-if-they-don’t tactic is reminiscent of the pop cultural deceptive/ pathetic archetypes.
While much of
The Transsexual Empire
no longer needs to be taken seriously—its premise is that “biological woman is in the process of being made obsolete by bio-medicine”—many of Raymond’s arguments are echoed in contemporary attempts to justify the exclusion of trans women from women’s organizations and spaces. In fact, the world’s largest annual women-only event, the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival (MWMF), still enforces a “womyn-born-womyn” policy specifically designed to prevent trans women from attending. (Full disclosure: I am one of the organizers for Camp Trans, the annual protest of MWMF’s policy banning trans women.) Many of the excuses used to rationalize trans women’s exclusion are not designed to protect the values of women-only space but rather to reinforce the idea that trans women are “real” men and “fake” women. For example, one of the most cited reasons why trans women are not allowed to attend the festival is that we are born with, and many of us still have,
penises. (Many trans women either cannot afford or choose not to have sex-reassignment surgery.) It is argued that our penises are dangerous because they are a symbol of male oppression and have the potential to trigger abuse survivors. So penises are banned from the festival, right? Well, not quite: The festival allows dildos, strap-ons, and packing devices, many of which closely resemble penises.
Another reason frequently given for the exclusion of trans women from MWMF is that we would supposedly bring “male energy” into the festival. While this seems to imply that expressions of masculinity are not allowed, nothing could be further from the truth. MWMF allows drag king performers, who dress and act male, and the festival welcomes female-bodied folks like Animal (from the musical duo Bitch and Animal) who identify as transgender and often describe themselves with male pronouns. Presumably, MWMF organizers do this because they believe that no person who is born female is capable of exhibiting authentic masculinity or “male energy.” Not only is this an insult to trans men, but it also implies that male energy can be measured in some way independent of whether the person who is expressing it appears female or male. This is clearly not the case. Even though I am a trans woman, I have never been accused of expressing male energy, because people perceive me to be a woman. When I do act in a “masculine” way, people describe me as being a tomboy or butch, and if I get aggressive or argumentative, people call me a bitch. My behaviors are still the same; it is only the context of my body that has changed.
This is the inevitable problem with all attempts to portray trans women as “fake” females: They require one to assign different names, meanings, and values to the same behaviors depending on whether the person in question is perceived to be a woman or a man. In other words, they require one to be sexist. When people insist that there are essential differences (instead of constructed ones) between women and men, they further a line of reasoning that ultimately refutes feminist ideals rather than supporting them.
Women and men are not separated by an insurmountable chasm, as many people seem to believe; most of us are only a hormone prescription away from being perceived as the opposite sex. Personally, I welcome this idea as a testament to just how little difference there really is between women and men. To believe that a woman is a woman because of her sex
chromosomes, reproductive organs, or socialization denies the reality that every single day we classify each person we see as either female or male based on a small number of visual cues and a ton of assumptions. As a feminist, I look forward to a time when we finally move beyond the red herring of biology and recognize that the only truly important differences that exist between women and men are the different meanings that we place onto one another’s bodies.
On Getting Dressed in Jerusalem
Danya Ruttenberg / WINTER 2005
THE KID WHO WORKS AT MY MACOLET (CORNER STORE) HAS stopped talking to me.
Yaakov, who’s about seventeen, was totally my buddy when I first moved to Jerusalem for a year of rabbinical study. He helped me remember the Hebrew for words like “shopping basket” and made sure that I knew I was buying cottage cheese instead of, say, one of the nine thousand other possible cheese products available at the Israeli
macolet.
He waved to me when I walked by. It was sweet.
Then one day I forgot myself and went to buy juice straightaway from the language intensive I’d been taking, dressed as I would have been back home in Los Angeles. Suddenly it was all over. He wouldn’t even make eye contact with me.
In my normal life as an American rabbinical student, I wear a
kippah
(or yarmulke, a kind of head covering) and
tzitzit
(ritual fringes that are worn on an undergarment but often hang out from under one’s clothes). In Numbers 15:37—40, God tells the Israelite people to “put fringes on the corners of their garments … and you will see it and remember all of God’s commandments.” In other words,
tzitzit
are a sort of wearable Torah intended to constantly remind the wearer of the relationship he or she strives to have with the Divine—and to implicitly hold the wearer responsible to that relationship. I notice that a particular part of my heart actually unfolds
and opens when I untuck the
tzitzit
, and that kind of openness is crucial when attempting to connect to the Divine in prayer. The
kippah
, on the other hand, is neither commanded in the Torah nor described in the earliest codes of Jewish law, though it’s one of the strongest
minhagim
(customs) in our contemporary practice. It’s generally understood that covering one’s head shows respect for the Divine and an acknowledgment of the fact that God is above—greater than—us mere humans.
I took on these practices because of my own personal contract with God—because they reflect and strengthen my spiritual life and spiritual commitments. I wear these things because of God, but I feel entitled to do so because of feminism. See, neither item is traditionally worn by women. According to Jewish law, women are “exempt” from having to wear
tzitzit
—it’s not a requirement for women, as it is, technically, for men. But it’s not forbidden, and there is room in Judaism to take on
mitzvot
(commandments) to which one is not personally obligated. The
kippah
, legally speaking, is less complicated because it’s “only” a custom—albeit a strong one. There’s nothing “unkosher” about my decision to wear these things, and I believe that anything that helps to foster a connection with the Divine is good and to be encouraged. If ritual garb helps me to be a kinder, more compassionate person who is more connected to the world and those around me, why would I
not
wear it?
Whatever the legal details, in the semiotics of traditional Jewdom, I’m a pretty serious gender transgressor. In my own denomination and seminary, it’s not a problem—philosophically and practically, there’s plenty of room for me to get my fringe on. But in more traditional circles of Jewish culture (including at my
macolet),
I may be perceived as nothing less than a threat to the natural order of things.
Back in Los Angeles, I wear jeans, a tank top, and my
kippah
with the
tzitzit
flying in the wind, and I feel like me—religious, committed, and also of our contemporary cultural time and place. When I’m out and about in my heavily Jewish, largely Orthodox neighborhood, I typically hear one question or comment a day—ranging from the curious to the snarky—but in general people are nice, respectful, and well trained in American pluralism. In the United States, there are many different denominations and modes of Jewish practice, and the dominant American Jewish culture reflects this mix. Female rabbis, queer synagogue activities, and interdenominational
dialogue are increasingly commonplace; it’s more or less understood that there are a number of ways that one can be a Jew. Here in Israel, on the other hand, Judaism is generally understood to be only a traditionally interpreted version of Orthodoxy.
The prospect of a year in Jerusalem was, as such, fraught with hard questions, not the least of which centered around my wardrobe. I knew that my understandings of Jewish law on gender issues would not reflect the dominant culture—and I also knew that a literal hanging-out of my ideas would be loaded and not always well received.
I decided, therefore, that when I’m just walking around Jerusalem, it’s good both for keeping the peace and for my own self-protection to fall under the radar a little. So I often wear bandannas instead of
kippot
and I keep the
tzitzit
tucked in. Since Israel is a country of dichotomies and extremes, this puts me in one of, for me, two possible categories. When I wear pants and/or a tank top, I signify “secular Jew/Israeli” on the street—pants are considered by many traditionally religious Jews to be men’s clothing, and revealing the shoulders is not considered modest dress. Unlike the interpretation of Diaspora Jews, who might identify as mostly secular but get a little spiritual or religious every now and again, in Israel “secular” tends to connote “completely secular”—of the modern world and wholly disinterested in Judaism. (Secular Jews are sometimes called
hilonim,
or “desecrators,” in part because of their willingness to do things like go to the discos on Friday night, the Sabbath.) So when my dress suggests that I am secular, people may assume that I have progressive political views, am interested in new music and nonreligious cultural events, and have a lot of modern ideas about gender, society, and all sorts of other things. All of this is true—but I spend my Friday nights in prayer.
By contrast, when I wear a skirt and a T-shirt or long-sleeved shirt, I signify “nice Orthodox girl.” People will likely assume that I follow Jewish law, keep kosher and Shabbat, value Torah study, and spend a lot of time thinking about God. And while I do all of these things, I don’t identify as Orthodox and have some very different philosophical and religious perspectives from those who do.
My sartorial choices telegraph a range of meanings, and wearing the
tzitzit
out is often perceived as an invitation for attention: I’ve had people ask me very intimate questions about sex a moment after asking me about
my
tzitzit,
two moments after meeting me—it’s as though wearing them opens me up to lots of other kinds of bodily scrutiny. At the same time, I’ve had secular Israelis tell me that I’m a wonderful model of rebellion against the religious establishment—which is funny, because I wear them specifically as an expression of my faith. It’s sad, really, that there are so few models here for what Judaism can look like.
That said, I’m ambivalent about navigating these issues in Jewish circles. After all, I have willingly put on long skirts and elbow-covering tops to visit other communities and cultures—while traveling in India and Morocco, and also to attend a friend’s church service in my own hometown. Those are not my spaces, and I feel it’s just good manners to be respectful and mindful of my role as guest. Certainly, it could be argued that when entering Jewish communities not my own, the same rules apply. And if I go somewhere like the ultra-Orthodox neighborhood of Mea Shearim (an important destination for those of us who want to buy holy books on the cheap), where life is in many ways radically different from my own, I can tolerate dressing in the drag of their cultural norms for limited amounts of time. Because, of course, drag is exactly what my long skirt and elbow-covering top is: an enactment of a certain set of gender ideals in a purely performative way. I don’t really mind having to do this from time to time; there’s a part of me that enjoys playing dress-up.
I have more trouble pretending to be something I’m not (or pretending not to be something I am) in liberal Modern Orthodox circles or my mixeddenomination neighborhood in Los Angeles, both of which are either literally or metaphorically closer to home for me. Even if women in
kippot
aren’t a common sight in either of those spheres, I am a religious woman and I wear a
kippah.
At some point it’s only fair for me to stake ownership in that fact: Judaism is my religion too. And it becomes just as problematic for me not to stand up and assert my relationship with and obligations to God, to claim my spiritual life, as it would to provoke with my
tzitzit.
To what extent should the culture of my neighborhood take precedence over my own understanding, grounded in Jewish law, of how this works?
In every religious tradition there is an interplay between issues of egonullification and individual identity—there are times when it’s appropriate to be reminded that, ultimately, it’s not all about you. For women in particular, the spiritual work of what writer Carol Lee Flinders calls “selfnaughting”
has the potential to run counter to many important feminist principles: Find your voice. Tell the truth as you understand it. Establish your self, your identity. Do not annihilate yourself to please others. Fight cultures in which double standards and sexist dictates make women or their bodies the problem.
A male colleague recently told me that he decided to tuck in his tzitzit because he became unsure if he was seeing them for his own spiritual benefit or showing them off to others, and he wanted to err on the side of humility. I sometimes wonder if my own showing off is sufficiently great that it would be wise to put the fringes away. In some respects the answer is yes. But for women, there’s another
s
word in play, and it matters: “silencing.” The
mitzvah
is about seeing them, and when I tuck my
tzitzit
in, I notice all the men on the street who get to leave theirs swaying, who do not have to shift how they perform one of God’s commandments out of concern for personal safety or to put other Jews at ease. If I always kept them tucked in, would I be enacting humility or buying into my culture’s suggestions about what a good girl does and doesn’t do, placating those who would rather not see women take on these practices at all? Is it ever possible to fully tease out one from the other?
I’d be lying if I said that there was no activist dimension to all of this. I put the
tzitzit
on and keep them on because of their tremendous spiritual power and the benefit I receive from wearing them, but an upside of wearing them untucked is the number of conversations I’ve had with other Jews—particularly women—about the
mitzvah
. I was recently chatting with a new colleague who had been thinking about wearing
tzitzit;
by the end of the conversation we were planning a workshop/crafts night with half a dozen women so that everyone could learn how to make the undergarment and attach the fringes. I’m thrilled if any of my choices have helped other women and men move closer to taking on practices that strengthen their own connection to and relationship with God. I know women who wear
tzitzit
and always keep them tucked in, and while I respect their decision, when I was first taking on the
mitzvah
I would have loved to know that I wasn’t the only one in my community doing so. In fact, I had never thought about doing it until I met another woman who wore her
tzitzit
out. Expanding the range of possibilities for everybody is a feminist value, and bringing people to
mitzvot
is a Jewish one.
From there the answer seems, fleetingly, clear. But even so, the issue is too complex for me to sit pretty with my self-righteousness. At a Sabbath afternoon lunch with a friend I hadn’t seen in years, my
tzitzit
wearing somehow came up. (I was wearing a dress that day, so the fringes were hidden and the conversation was theoretical.) My friend is an Orthodox rabbi who teaches radical-feminist theology, has encouraged women to enter the rabbinate, and is a regular at the most feminist Modern Orthodox synagogue in Jerusalem. And he—wholly accustomed to women in prayer shawls and having no philosophical opposition to women in
tzitzit
—actually shuddered as we talked about it. “It’s … even for me … it’s just a really visceral thing,” he said, somewhat apologetically.
People—even allies—sometimes need time to get used to new things. I’m too old to think that I have to shove my beliefs down the throats of others, and yet I’m also too old to think that it’s always my job to keep others from being uncomfortable. As I understand the world, a little discomfort is sometimes a healthy thing. And more to the point, is my choice to wear an article or two of clothing that transgresses traditional norms to be understood as getting in someone’s face, or simply living my own life?
I don’t think there are any easy answers, and I’m pretty sure my responses will shift both over my year in Jerusalem and over my lifetime. As I write this in a café, there’s a do-rag on my head and the fringes are tucked in, and at this moment, it feels okay. What I might need to do in the same café, or at synagogue, or at my school tomorrow or the day after that might be different—and that’s also okay.
It’s nice to remember that for others, too, things sometimes shift. After several months of concerted effort on my part, Yaakov has come around a little. He now responds to my greetings and doesn’t scurry to hide when I come by the store for milk. It’s still a little weird when I’m
kippah-clad,
grabbing an iced coffee on my way to school, but on other days when I wave hello, he’s begun to wave back. I don’t expect him to change everything he believes about Judaism and gender, and that’s not my agenda. For other reasons, his recent softening is encouraging—after all, if there’s a way for Yaakov and me to live together in our little neighborhood, maybe there’s hope for all of us.