Boy / בא

This is a weekly series of frum, trans, anarchist parsha dvarim. It's crucial in these times that we resist the narrative that Zionism owns or, worse, is Judaism. Our texts are rich—sometimes opaque, but absolutely teeming with wisdom and fierce debate. It's the work of each generation to extricate meaning from our cultural and religious inheritance. I aim to offer comment which is true to the source material (i.e. doesn't invert or invent meaning to make it more comfortable) and uses Torah like a light to reflect on our modern times.

Content note: Transphobia

An appeal: My friend Areej and her family have finally been allowed to return home in Central Gaza after living in an IDP camp tent for months, but their house was partially destroyed by the bombing. If you can donate even $5, please do. May this be the start of a lasting and meaningful peace as we all rebuild and move toward a free Palestine.

The final three plagues strike Mitsrayim: locusts, darkness, and death of the firstborns. Hashem hardens Paroy's heart so that he refuses to let the Israelites go until after the death of his own son. The parsha ends with two commandments to remember this devastating miracle:

The Rabbis interpret these as commandments to wear tefilin, and this is the first time it's mentioned (the second being in Dvarim). This is a time-bound positive mitsve; therefore only adult Jewish men are obligated according to halakha.

I love tefilin. The strange and mystical boxes that, as far as I can see, have nothing to do with the exodus. The ritual of repeating the same brukhas every morning. The black leather wrapped tight against my skin—tight enough that I'm out of my head and snapped back into my body, grounded, held. It's a meditative practice. It's also undeniably erotic.

But who counts as a man? Some Orthodox Rabbis poskim that halakhik gender is determined at birth, and cannot be changed; there is very much an element of biological determinism. Others concede that the issue of trans people is, as of yet, halakhikally unclear.

I apparently count as a man as long as I keep my mouth shut, which is difficult for me. I'm uninterested in closets but I also desperately want to be part of homosocial frum life, which requires being stealth. I can manage it for a few months at best.

On issues of halakhik uncertainty—where you might be obligated in or prohibited from performing a mitsve—is it better to do it, or to abstain? My uneducated opinion is that it's better to err on the side of dignity. Let trans men wrap!

The tefilin campaign was launched by the Lubavitcher Rebbe in 1967. When the weather's good, bokhrim in black or navy suits loiter on Eastern Parkway near 770, tefilin bags in hand, stopping white men on the street with a shy but assuming, "Excuse me, are you Jewish?" If you say yes, they ask if you want to wrap. A few months ago, I'm stopped by one such man while walking my dog in my bright pink running short shorts. I haven't wrapped yet that day and take him up on it. He's surprised that I know how to leyen V'ohavto. As I unwrap the leather straps from my arm, I notice that he's very cute, so I smile at him. He asks if I wanted his phone number and I smile again. His name is Yitskhak. Later I text him: "Do you want to go for a drink?"

He wants to learn Torah. We meet in 770. ("Where will we find each other?" he asks. Don't worry, I say, I'm easy to spot among the Chabadniks). I borrow his tefilin and daven a quick Shakharis with the always-minyon that exists in the big shul. I make a scalding hot cup of instant coffee and we find a place to sit, surrounded by other young men who literally climb over over us. In the middle of studying, his phone rings. He answers it and continues to read Torah into the phone—the Akeyda—gesticulating and droning in that particular sefer cadence until he finishes the psuk, then he speaks Yiddish with the caller. I am delighted. When he gets off the phone, I chirp:

He indulges me and we mostly speak Yiddish from then on. And he wants to see me again. We study some more. I'm anxious that it's boring for him, that he's just humoring me. I text him afterwards:

He also likes me. He's impressed that I daven three times a day and worry about zmanim. "Yiddishkeyt is important to you," he observed. I'm careful not to fall in love with him: an attractive, sweet, Yiddish-speaking young father who recognizes something in me that I'm desperate to for everyone to see.

He brings his tefilin, and I eagerly show off my own. He picks them up. Are these kosher? I hope so. When did you last have them checked? Never, I can't afford to. Let me take care of that. How can he afford that? His community sets aside money to give to tsedoke. He tells me he'll come over until my tefilin are ready, so I can wrap with his. He tends to my religious obligation while I'm in bed with bandages on my face. He meets my dog, Motke. He tries not to look at the phallic art on my walls.

I don't take his generosity for granted. Halfway through my recovery, I ask if he wants to come over to wrap.

I'm immediately defensive. I say something cowardly about being too tired anyway before deciding to confront him.

I'm immediately relieved. I live with two roommates; his problem is with them, not with me. He can't handle the gender disruption of seeing women. Do women inspire un-tsnius thoughts? Is he simply more comfortable around men, having spent his entire life socializing in gender-segregated environments? Are women not a sexual threat but impossibly alien?

I'm still too cowardly to out myself as trans—just gay, with proximity to trans people—but I'm pleased that he's amenable to the idea. A week went by and he retrieved my tefilin with the verdict: they were kosher b'di eved—"after the fact", less than ideal—but now that they're open and the tefilin-inspector can see inside them, they're not kosher. Why? I don't understand and neither does Yitskhak. I'm crushed but he tells me that the he will fundraise to buy me a new pair: $400 at least. While he raises the money, he'll continue to see me every day so I can wrap with his. I'm touched by his dedication to the mitsve. Every day he texts me, "Gut morgn, ven ken ikh kumen?"

We structure our mornings around each other. We have a routine. I ask him to take his shoes off when he gets in, and after a few months he finally remembers without my asking. Motke eagerly runs up to him and he tenses up, arms tight against his sides until she goes away. He sits at my dining table and reads Gemara and Mimarim on his phone while I wrap and daven. Sometimes he futses over me while I do it, making sure the ראש tefilin is in the right spot on my head. Sometimes he borrows my phone (his is often out of credit) to call another wayward Jew and recite the Shema with him, word by word, while he wraps on the other end of the line. Sometimes he brings his 2 year old kid. Once he fell asleep in the chair, hat over his eyes and head in his arms on my table while I davened next to him and kept an eye on the little boy to make sure he didn't hit his head, or whatever it is that makes adults so watchful over young children. Sometimes he barely wants to talk, and sometimes he offers me a vort Torah which lasts an hour. He always leaves without saying goodbye, simply standing up and walking out when he's ready to go. I admire his attention to tsnius and disregard for stupid social norms.

I ask him what his Yiddish name is, so that I might daven for his success and whatever else he wants.

Whenever we try to meet in 770, I struggle to find him among the million black hats. Okay, I tell myself, What does he look like? Late 20s, brown hair, somewhat scraggly beard, glasses, clear skin, brilliant eyes. This is no help. Eventually he finds me, or I call him, or on the rare occasion that he doesn't show, I give up and daven alone until a different Chabadnik notices I'm not wrapping and offers me their tefilin; a stolen mitsve.

When I'm disorganized or in a rush and at risk of missing the latest amidah, Yitskhak drops everything to run over and help me wrap on time: he bolts up the stairs, throwing the straps over my bicep and yarmulke as soon as I open the door, not stopping to catch his breath until I'm safely reciting the shema.

One night he comes over not to wrap, but just to study; we argue for hours about Kabbalah and time and layers of spiritual worlds and whether or not God exists. He doesn't drink the water I offer him despite my assurances that the glass is kosher and the water is filtered. But he's having a good time: his alarm keeps going off, and he keeps ignoring it.

I tell my friends about him and this daily routine. "He comes over every day? Sounds gay. Maybe he broke your tefilin on purpose to have an excuse to see you," says one frum trans girl. Another smiles and nods her head: "He has good midos. Can I give you some money for the tefilin?" The next time Yitskhak comes over, I hand him $54 from her that I might have my own kosher set.

During Khanike he texts me reminding to light, as if I might forget. "Did you light yet." Yes, did you? I tease him.

"Moshiakh now," he says one day in place of goodbye. I stop him as he's halfway out the door: everybody says that, but what are they doing to merit him? Yitskhak smiles. "Exactly."

One morning he texts, and I don't answer. This is so unusual that he calls. I tell him he shouldn't bother coming over because I'm too depressed to wrap. "Oy vey, ken ikh kumen un mir kenen redn? Far a minut." ["Can I come and we can talk? For a minute"]

Sure if you want, I say in English. I'm too sad even to speak Yiddish. He comes in, takes off his shoes, and asks what was wrong. After months of being stealth, I finally out myself: I'm trans, and the frum world is terrible to us. He's gentle and listens to me vent.

"I don't understand why they would send you death threats. You're very nice." He asks if I want to wrap. I do and I feel better.

But after he leaves, I worry that maybe he didn't understand me, so I text him to be absolutely clear. The frum world operates on a policy of "Don't ask, don't tell" but I'm simply not capable of it. I need to be treated with respect on the basis of truth, not a false and insulting "benefit of the doubt".

He doesn't reply. The next day he doesn't call or text or come over. I call him in the evening, after it's too late to wrap. He apologizes and say his day was hectic but that it had nothing to do with my disclosure. He asks if I've ever asked a Rov about my obligations as a trans man: am I not merely permitted, but obligated, in the time-bound mitsvos? I have not asked this particular question. I know it's unfair of him to ask but it bothers me. I spend the evening texting and emailing every vaguely trans-sympathetic Orthodox Rabbi that I know and some that I don't. Most won't poskim on it but to my relief one responds with an answer: "Men, of trans experience, are obligated". I text Yitskhak to tell him the good news. This is a burden we share.

He comes by the next day with a sefer—a book to study—but no tefilin. As soon as I let him in, he asks if he could put his shoe in the door to prop it open. I don't realize it until later, but he's now concerned about yikhud: the prohibition of unrelated men and women being alone together.

"I don't know that Rabbi." He speaks calmly, and I argue in English. Then ask one who you know! I don't know your Rabbis! He tells me a Reb Zusha story and concludes, "If we know what Hashem wants us to do, we must do it and be happy." This Rabbi, this Orthodox Rabbi says I'm obligated! In the absence of a contradicting opinion, you're denying me the opportunity to do this mitsve, and for what?! He sheepishly takes $54 out of his breast pocket and slides it toward me on the table. "I can't buy you tefilin." I tell him to leave. "I hope I haven't ruined your day." He has.

He texts me later:

"What?" He doesn't understand my Yiddish. I say it again in English: You hurt me and I don't want to see you now. "I'm very sorry, I didn't mean it."

He doesn't answer.

I'm still wrapping every day, using my b'di eved tefilin. The protective plastic case has this sad little sticker marking it not-quite kosher, and it's broken open so I can see the parchment nestled within. Contrary to my silver lining hopes, seeing the klaf inside does not connect me to the mitsve—it just makes me sad.

As an atheist, I'm not comforted by Zusha stories that tell me to do what Hashem commands and do it happily. But I am comforted by performing gender-specific mitsvos as a man in a long linage of Jewish men, even if it's b'di eved.

In the past few years of being a frum transsexual, I have faced discrimination, harassment, cruelty, and threats of physical violence. Usually people around me ignore it or endorse it; rarely has anyone stood up for me. When I told my friend Rena Yehuda what happened, they asked for Yitskhak's number, that he might know that—though we are isolated from community at large—trans men are not isolated from each other:

The fact that you don't come around anymore to lay tefilin, so be it, but you left him with a pair of broken tefilin when you said that you were going to get it fixed. And he's not in a position where he can get a new set. חס־ו'שלום that you should be in the position that if Misha gets to the gates of עלום הבא and they say "Why didn't you lay tefilin?'"and he says, "This Yid prevented me from doing so," that you should be the reason why someone who is חיוב did not fulfill his obligation in an area of halakha that is actually not yet determined.

Yitskhak responded almost with contrition, asking for permission: "Can I think about it?" Yes, he can think about.

The world is a hostile place to be trans. What would it look like if we were more organized? What if we ran to each others' houses at the drop of a hat to help fulfill mitsvos? What if we had each others' backs and presented a united front so we couldn't be dismissed as fringe individual cases?

What does the world look like if transsexuals stick together?