by Nevo Zisin
I have a lot of anger. Anger fuels my activism. It gives me power on days when I feel I can’t go on. I am angry at many aspects of society, and I have every right to be. As a young girl, while boys around me play-fought and rolled around aggressively and it was shaken off as “boys will be boys”, I was taught to repress my anger. When I would get upset or angry about things I was told I was being too emotional.
I had a lot of anger issues as a child. I think it was the direct result of feeling totally lost and misunderstood, but I bullied people and I was constantly aggressive. I spent a long time trying to dull those feelings, ignore them and hide them. It is within the last few years that I have learned to redirect them. I don’t think anger is an inherently bad emotion. I think some of the actions that come from it certainly can be, but I think redirection rather than invalidation has worked best for me.
When I have conversations about gender, sexuality, feminism and oppressive forces in our society, I get angry. I get angry because a lot of these things affect me on a deeply personal level on a daily basis. I can’t have objective dispassionate conversations about these topics and I don’t want to. I get into debates surrounding these ideas and people try to shift the conversation away from the topic and towards my emotions. They say, “You’re being too emotional” and “Can’t we have a rational conversation?” or “If you weren’t being aggressive about this, maybe more people would agree.” I understand where those sentiments come from, and maybe for the most productive discussion certain standards should be upheld, but that’s easy to say when those issues are not yours. If you don’t experience those oppressions, you don’t get to have an opinion on how they affect the people that do.
The oppressive gender forces in society constantly distress me; they have triggered, traumatised and destroyed me in many ways. I don’t want to talk about them without emotion. It is absurd to expect people of oppressed minorities to calm themselves and educate you delicately on a topic you don’t understand because you haven’t put in the effort. It takes enough energy for us to exist. It is what we in the Jewish world would call a chutzpah – a stronger word for audacity that means having the “guts” to say something you probably shouldn’t.
I still struggle every day getting onto public transport and seeing the uniforms that have been pre-approved for men and women. When everyone looks the same, your differences become acutely obvious. Depending on the day, it can feel empowering, but other times it feels raw and exposing. People’s stares might be interpreted in my mind as envy, or attraction, but on the worst days, I see hatred, violence and disgust.
I have also had to work hard to find healthy and authentic ways to express my masculinity. Most representations surround patriarchy, dominance and toxic understandings of what it means to be masculine. But it’s important for me to recognise who I am, break down the binary understandings of both masculinity and femininity and find a comfortable spot that fits for me.
I have spent many years trying to unlearn what has been ingrained in me. That women and men need to look a certain way; that my future holds marriage and kids; I must find a job I both like and that pays lots of money, and stick with it for my whole life; I need to have a degree; how much money I make is a measure of how successful I am; and other standards that I cannot reach, or don’t want to. It’s scary to realise that the adults around you aren’t always right, or that the life they envision for you does not necessarily apply. It’s not easy to unlearn what we have been taught from birth.
For every concept learned that I manage to break down, I discover another I didn’t realise was there, making the path of unlearning a never-ending one. I am grateful to exist in an environment where I do have other options than what I’ve been taught. I have communities that encourage diversity, counterculture and rebellion. Inspirational activists surround me and fuel a belief that things can change, and that they can be better. If you don’t think they should and that the way society functions currently is perfectly successful, then it’s likely you’ve never had to think about your privilege. Privilege is often invisible to those who have it. Try looking at the world from another perspective, listen to other people, then reconsider.
If it wasn’t for my youth movement, I think it could have been easy for me to reject my Judaism, move north-side and assimilate into the queer community. I’m grateful that didn’t happen. My Judaism is important to me; it’s integral to everything I am and it’s my community. Despite differences in ideologies and understandings, I trust the Jewish community. I know that should I ever need it, the Jewish community will be there for me.
My life has always revolved around community, and still does. Being raised with many wonderful people in my life has made me feel an important sense of belonging. Engaging in transgender and feminist activism within the Jewish community is vital for me. I have had many young queer Jewish people message me and ask for my help. I have loved being in Habo as a leader. Educating kids on essential and critical issues has made me a better person. I run programs on gender and sexuality, polyamory, privilege, feminism and other issues and there is plenty of space for me to do that.
The queer community is also integral to my existence. I could not comfortably assimilate into the Jewish community without embracing my queer identity. My queerness bleeds into my political position on many issues. In recent years, other trans and gender diverse people have been a lifeline for me in times of dysphoria and depression. Seeing people transcend gender binaries and fight to take them down fills me with inspiration and hope. I am surrounded by incredible activists changing the world. It helps me to keep going.
The queer community is not without its issues. I have spent a long time, and imagine I shall spend a long time in the future, trying to navigate my place in this community and within its politics. I have seen and experienced things that have made me feel unsettled. We need to find ways of engaging in political discussions that don’t isolate people if they aren’t knowledgeable enough, or happen to make mistakes. Similar to the Jewish community, I feel a responsibility for the problems that exist here. I am committed to changing it for the better, and also taking a step back on issues that don’t directly affect me in the hope of supporting those who are affected.
It’s amazing to be a part of two incredible communities. I am abundant in love and support. But sometimes, being part of both communities at once can feel tense. It doesn’t always feel like I truly belong anywhere. My queer family will never understand what it means to be Jewish, and how I connect to my Israeli identity. At the same time, the Jewish community will never fully comprehend my life as a trans, queer, polyamorous person.
I am always trying to find ways to bring the communities together in my life, but often I am balancing the two on opposite ends of my identity and city – quite literally! I drive from the south-east suburbs to the northern suburbs multiple times a week. I still live with my mum. I am grounded in a community of Jewish people at my workplace, in my neighbourhood and at my movement. I feel like I am always explaining my identity in both worlds. But it’s a process and I wouldn’t change it. I have also made queer Jewish friends that feel similarly, and we are trying to navigate these two identities together. I hope I’ll maintain balance between the two without having to compromise either, because they are both integral to who I am.
A lot has happened in my short life. It has changed in unimaginable ways and I often have to stop and look at it through the eyes of my younger self in order to truly appreciate it. I have experienced adversity and oppression, but I have also had immense privilege and met incredible people.
I can’t be sure what my future will look like – no one can. All I know is I’m doing my best. I have learned so much from the communities I am a part of. A new world of potentials and opportunities and learning has opened up to me.
The world is scary for people like me. I hope you will think about what you can do to try to make that world less scary. People have been inspired by my story and have looked a
t me as a role model. That’s lovely. It means a lot to me. But I don’t want to hear how my story has touched you. I would rather hear what you’re going to do to make this world safer so that each trans person doesn’t need to be a role model. So we can live our lives without being constantly politicised. So we can choose to be activists, not be forced into it.
Nevo on a Habonim camp, twenty years old (2016)
Afterword
I look in the mirror now and I’m not sure if I see a man, a woman, a child, an adult. I guess I just see me. I’ve always seen me. Sometimes I look more like me, sometimes less. Some days I prefer not to look in the mirror at all. It’s difficult to end a story that is still continuing.
I think of my past as fractured, each stage of my life as a different identity. It makes me sad that I will never again meet the people I used to be. I have a lot I’d like to say to them. I wonder how they’d react to me. I find solace in imagining a party where we all attend, and I’d like to share that with you.
It is almost impossible to decide what to wear. I have no idea how I want to represent myself. I know everyone will be confused to see me as it is. I don’t want to wear a dress; I feel awkward about it. I’m not even sure I can handle make-up. I know part of that decision is because I want to show them how “successful” my transition has been. What a believable man I am capable of disguising myself as. This is not going to be a safe space, even though it will be filled with people I know very intimately.
I settle on a pair of black jeans, an eccentric shirt, my leather jacket and some jewellery. I want to look challenging, to be true to both my masculinity and femininity. I don’t want to just make people comfortable, but I’m not in a state to go all out. I put a bit of glitter on. I know it will make me feel better. My lighter necklace dangles against my shirt. I always keep my flame close to me.
I drive up to the venue and don’t have trouble parking – after all, I am the only one with a licence. I enter the building and straight away I see six-year-old Liat. His hair is short, but only as short as Mum will let it be. He is wearing a dress he has obviously been forced into for the occasion. He looks up at me and smiles, and starts chattering about something I can’t quite understand. I nod along and laugh. He shows me his new skull ring and I tell him it’s cool. I say that it’s okay if he wants to take the dress off – Mum’s not here, it’s just us. His face lights up and he quickly sheds the dress to reveal bike shorts and a T-shirt with a dragon on it. He tells me he’s a boy, and I believe him. He grabs my hand, touches my beard and gives me a hug. I hold him close and tell him it’s going to be okay, he knows who he is, and no one can tell him otherwise. He squeezes me right back, then runs off in a way he couldn’t have if he was still wearing the dress.
As I walk further into the room, I notice heads turn. I wonder how many people I have surprised, how many I have impressed and how many I have disappointed. I happen upon nine-year-old Liat. She stands out among the others around her age. She’s straightened her hair underneath a train-conductor style hat, and is wearing lip-gloss, a denim mini skirt and a shirt that hangs off her shoulder. I see her staring at other versions of us and wonder who she relates to the most. I wonder if she lusts after the freedom of more masculine Liats, or if she is comfortable in the way she has dressed.
Thirteen-year-old Liat comes up to me and says, “You look different”. I nod and am silent because I’m not sure I can say anything without crying. I don’t know if I’ve disappointed her. She has tried so hard to be a woman and she is doing a great job. I worry I have failed her. I miss her but I can see how sad she is behind the mascara she has tried to put on. She pulls at her shirt, attempting to cover the size of her stomach as much as she can. She has been looking around to see if she is skinnier than the others. I tell her she is beautiful, always and forever. She is intelligent and powerful and if she wants to she will change the world. Although she knows I’m right, she has a hard time believing me. She hasn’t yet felt loved and desired in the ways she will.
I go over to a mirror with her and ask her to point out her favourite features. She says she likes her hair, it makes her feel unique; she likes her hands because her fingers are slim; her face because it looks like her. I agree with everything she says and realise those things have not changed. I hear her voice drop as she begins to talk about her body and I stop her. “You are a force to be reckoned with. More of you means more space taken up. Your fat is part of your strength, your identity and your image. Own it and be proud.” She starts crying. I’m not sure anyone has told her this yet. As I say the words I remind myself that they are still applicable. I know she will have a tumultuous time with her body and weight, but I hope these words will make it easier.
I am overwhelmed. Nothing could have quite prepared me for the emotions I would experience in this space. I feel my heart racing and realise I am probably having an anxiety attack. I’m not sure anything I can say to these people will make a difference. I’m also not certain I am the one with the most wisdom.
I sit down beside other Nevos and Liats. We fiddle with our phones. We message no one, check the time and maybe play a game. Some read over old messages, others plan new ones. We sit in silence. Elsewhere, I would feel awkward in such a silence, as if someone needed to speak soon or it will feel uncomfortable. But we all know why we’re here. We need a little time out, and there is a deep understanding among us.
I can see seventeen-year-old Nevo in the corner of the room, shyly eyeing me. I know he wants to come over but can’t. I consider going to him then realise I can’t either. I pretend not to notice him.
I find sixteen-year-old Liat. She is the most sure of herself and I sit with her a while. She’s wearing jeans and a button-up. Her hair is short and curly; she has only recently stopped straightening it. She tells me about Tia, and about her dreams for the future. She wants to be a mum, is thinking of being a psychologist and spends a lot of time writing music. I thought I would have words of wisdom for her but realise that it is the other way around. She is surer of herself than I think I’ll ever be. I listen as she speaks excitedly. She talks of love in the kind of unguarded way I can only imagine. I have been stung too many times to speak that way now. She tells me she likes my beard. I knew she would.
I light a cigarette and heads turn. I don’t have the energy to explain why dying is less scary to me now. It’s not that I want to. It’s just that I’m no longer as afraid.
I muster up the courage to speak to seventeen-year-old Nevo. He is anxious, awkward, not sure of himself at all. We notice eighteen-year-old Nevo dancing wildly in the centre of the dance floor. We don’t speak for a while and I know he has a million questions for me. I tell him he can ask whatever he wants. He asks me about testosterone, when I started, how it felt, what changes I experienced first. He looks at my chest, asks if he can touch it and wants to see my scars. He follows with many questions about surgery. When did it happen? How was it? Was I frightened? What is it like to not have to bind any more? He touches my chest hair, and my stomach hair. He can’t believe his eyes. He tells me it’s as if he is looking into a mirror of self-fulfilling prophecy. He is the one I had wanted to meet the most. I needed to see how proud he is. He looks carefully at every detail of my skin and body. The appreciation he shows is one that I try to remember to show myself later. I try to answer all of his questions without showing just how much this interaction means to me. I love him so much, and am so grateful for the choices he made.
Eventually, he looks up at me (only slightly, as testosterone has not made me much taller) and asks, “Well, are you happy?”
I take a deep breath, smile and reply, “I’m certainly trying.”
He smiles back and we hug.
I go around a corner and see a long hallway. Although I can’t see what is behind all of the doors, I know they are insights into my future. I have no idea what versions of me exist behind those doors. What I am wearing, how I am feeling or how I present my gender. I choose not to look into
them, as the security in knowing I have a future is enough comfort to me right now. I back away from the hallway. It’s not time to go down there yet.
I go over to two-year-old Liat. She is as cute as the photos. I look at her and wonder: If I could go back and do things differently, would I? She looks up at me and smiles.
I wouldn’t change a thing.
Nevo after finishing the second draft of this book (2016)
Acknowledgements
To my family – both biological and chosen. Thank you for existing, for trying to learn and expand your understandings and for loving me unconditionally. I owe everything I am to all of you. When waking up in the morning is difficult, I think of your faces, your affection and your genuine care, and things become less hard. I am so lucky to have you.
To my Jewish community, we have had our difficulties but I could not be more grateful to be part of such a loving environment. Thank you for showing me that my queerness and Judaism can coexist in beautiful harmony, and that I am not any less Jewish for expressing myself authentically.
To my queer community, the strength I see from you every day fills me with humility and pride. We are warriors and most of our lives are spent on the battlefields, but we hold each other’s hands and create strength in numbers. Discovering my queerness has been the hardest and best thing to happen to me. Do not forget how strong you are, that there are people out there like you, who understand and love you.
And finally, to P!nk, you made me my own hero at a very young age when I had nowhere else to turn. You taught me I was powerful and could be anything I wanted. I loved you, I will always love you, and I thank you for the strength in me your music guided me towards.