Page 5 - FMH7

Should I Accuse
Geography?
My dad and step-mom thought I was as stupid as their kids, and never changed the satellite TV code from its default of four zeros. I started exploring the restricted channels, and eventually came across the first episode of Queer as Folk (US edition, for extra cheese) that aired in Israel; by myself, aged 12, in my door-less, near-public bedroom. Suddenly I was privy to (albeit staged) human interactions that I never knew could
be real (they still weren’t, though a girl can dream). Almost simultaneously, I realized this is something to be ashamed of: accessed using codes, aired after the sun goes down, showing things I’ve never even heard of in conversation let alone witnessed with my own eyes. In what I can only define as a social reflex, I put those feelings as far in the back of my mind as possible almost as soon as I began experiencing them.
I moved from Israel to Perth when I was 13, making the delayed leap in my mom’s footsteps four years after she left. I was an Unescorted Minor on flights
to Australia for years before I finally got the guts to stand up to my dad and leave. Moving to Australia
was hard. I knew how to speak English, but not how
to speak Australian. I spent the first six months guess- ing what people were saying. I got given lots of grief for my thick accent, courtesy of the near-monopoly
of American shows on Israeli television and American English teachers in the Israeli school system. “Go home Yank” was a pretty popular phrase around me, which confused me in a myriad of ways. It didn’t feel like rac- ism (because I wasn’t American), but I certainly didn’t feel welcome. Even more confronting were instances where people not-so-gently asked me to practice changing my accent. It’s tough being 14 and explain- ing that when I try to say “can’t” like they do, it comes out as “cunt”. I remember having to whisper that last word.
After a while assimilation took its toll. While dating one particularly True Blue Aussie Girl TM when I was 18, I started intentionally augmenting my accent. It helped socially. Now instead of instantly responding with twisted, xenophobic faces, people wait for a lull in the conversation before asking if I’m from America or Canada. I have my speech laid out:
“Actually it’s neither, I’m from Israel [this is where I momentarily allow them to express surprise] yeah, I just watched a lot of American TV and had American teachers, I used to have a much thicker accent”
I have my immigrant narrative down pat. I know how to tell people to get off my back about my origin in 27 words. My close friends will sometimes say it for me. It barely feels like a waste of energy. I consider my im- migration a success and a privilege: I was given citizen- ship quickly as I already had a parent who was a
permanent resident; I pass as white; I’m from the side of the West Bank wall that’s backed by billions of American dollars; my mom insisted on teaching me English from birth; I’ve had very few difficulties in achieving employment, housing and relationships due to where I’m from.
Despite my relatively privileged circumstances, I continued feeling like an “other”, like my geographic transition was the root of my disconnect. I blamed Australian culture for making me feel alone. I blamed Perth’s special brand of cultural up- take delay for my psychological imbalance. But as my “Unaus- tralianess” became less obvious, I had to search elsewhere to explain my feelings of isolation and separation.
My relationship with my queerness through adolescence was one of timid acknowledgement. I got the best of both worlds: enough visibility to get called a faggot, not enough to meet other faggots. My adolescent encounters involved two stoned hookups where I was faced with a man’s rigid understand-
ing of Gay Male Sexuality, and one very M-rated night with
a gorgeous man who passed away from a heroin overdose two months later. The latter occurred in 2008, and was all the motivation I needed to put aside addressing my desires. In doing so, I left the proverbial pot unwatched, and eventually it boiled. I found myself crying on my mom’s couch in 2012, ex- asperated by my constant feeling of alienation. I decided that I had to confront the aspect of my otherness that had gone mostly untouched until that point.
At the start of 2013, I found a fantastic therapist who was will- ing to engage with me about my sexuality (my previous one was more focused on interpreting my dreams and my shitty relationship with my dad). At the time I had already began developing a long distance relationship with a beautiful queer punk in Melbourne. I was confronting my emotions; chal- lenging my internal judgements of my sexuality; and trying
to put my newly-addressed queerness into practice, as well
as contending with the growing pains that this exploration brings. In doing so, I came to understand that my suppression of my desires was not simply something brought on by Capital S Society, intermixed with Capital U Upbringing. I realized that my sexuality is not a hermetically sealed, timeless artefact. I began observing how it operated in the places where my body was, where my mind was, where my lovers were. I came to comprehend that my queerness flows. My queerness forms and reforms in whatever geographical, psychological, social, and physiological state I’m in.