Page 6 - FMH7

In conclusion, I feel these contemplations raise three questions:
Should I accuse geography?
No. It would be like blaming a drop of water for a flood.
Would I have done better elsewhere; Would I have been spared repression, and the pain it causes, if I moved to Sydney, or New York, or if I just stayed in Israel and fell into the raging Tel Aviv scene?
I will never know. I feel it is more important to discover where I can grow, rather than ruminate on where I could never take root. I fear revisionism, and feel that speculative hindsight does nothing but embitter people about their current situation. A recent visit to Israel made me understand the role we play in navigating spaces, queer or otherwise. I was in what is considered a haven in the Middle East, with a night life that was queerer than most I had experienced. And yet, a separation continued. It was still up to me to negotiate any given space and induct myself. There were many factors at play .Unfortu- nately, even though I was in the middle of the raging queer scene, I took myself home alone without having entered a single club.
Perth is a soft target to accuse of causing repression, and often those accusations are not entirely false. It’s ironed shirts for a lunch date; it’s half a six-pack just to get to sleep; it’s an average of one queer mixed gay-straight venue per 8.5 million people. There is an air of self-restraint about this place. But it is still up to individuals to navigate this terrain. We still exist within a location. I still live here. I study here. I work here. I have sex here. I am queer here.
What is the intersection between being an immigrant (especially English as a Second Language) and queer?
When I contemplate this, I feel that dull pain of Otherness. Both forms of separation touch a nerve so deep that I find their differences nearly indiscernible. Both provide an instant sense of detachment from others. Even if that feeling is later dispelled (“oh you’re
queer too?” “תירבע רבדמ התא?”), it makes us defensive. It forces us to keep, in the front of our minds, the shortest path away from that discussion you’ve been having with people for as long as you’ve been identifiably different in some way (“yeah Israeli but American TV/teachers ANYWAY”). It’s something you are constantly asked to recall and discuss, and treat like it’s something that’s as remarkable for you as it is for your conver- sation partner (“so what’s it like living there?”). You are exotic. You are actively othered.
This is not to even mention the experiences of those who have to immigrate in order to avoid persecution for their queerness. I count this as a massive privilege to have never had to contend with that aspect of either set of experiences. I can only imagine the intense emotions associated with being questioned as to why you left a country, and having to even contemplate exposing yourself in that capacity, often to people who have a barely passing interest in what you truly have to say and are simply prodding you like roadkill. My heart goes out to anyone whose queer and immigration/refugee story re- volves around escape and survival.
Final words
As I’ve repeatedly stated, I feel that overall I am in a position of relative privilege, as
both an immigrant and a queer person, and that I pass in a way that few others do. In some ways, this passing has given me insight into the way individuals view people they consider distinctly as Other to themselves. I’ve often had to listen to, and subsequently intervene in, negative conversations about queers, immigrants and refugees that may not have occurred in my presence had those people known my background. I acknowledge that the place in which I live currently is also highly encouraging of those negative views. I also acknowledge that I have an active role in shifting perspectives and engaging people about these issues, especially when they cross over. I am thankful for the role I have been allowed to have in the world, no matter how much shit I may have to eat by using it.