Note: This is my best reconstruction, written from memory with a handful of barebones emails and notes I dug out of a backup archive. While I’ve done my best, this should be treated as a first person narrative, more akin to the fallibility of eye-witness accounts rather than objective, document-based reporting.
In light of recent censorship efforts aimed at Distributed Denial of Secrets, including one that seems to come from Israel, and seeing as it’s Friday I thought it was a good time to write when I was detained by Israeli state security and the FBI.
In 2013 my legal name was still my birth name, although I wrote and worked under the deadname that some people are familiar with. It was a name I’d had since childhood, having been found during what was arguably my earliest hack if one counts social engineering as hacking. At the time, it was a throwaway name plucked from the air without deliberation (possibly my earliest known flirtation with André Breton), which I would pick up from time to time before learning the etymology of the name, which amounted to a call and response pun mocking YHWH, with Whom I have beef. [Micha-el and Beeste. Who is like God? Animals. Who is like God? Daemons. Who is like God? Beasts. Who is like God? The merciless. Who is like God? The senseless fool.] After that, choosing it as a public name was inevitable and delicious. [yum yum yum]
I had a lot of reasons for not using the name I was born with: the internet was already becoming a nasty place (I had already run afoul of th3j35t3r‘s followers, who responded with indifference at the time, which is how I briefly became acquainted with Rachel Marsden) and doxing and SWATing was already scary, I didn’t want to carry on the name of my father (who I had a strained relationship with), I wanted to protect my mother, and being trans but not yet understanding it meant I had a discomfort with my birthname that I couldn’t explain at the time. Some of my concerns were increased by my work and studies related to national security and counterintelligence, which was fueled by my naive belief that the system could be fixed if people who had seen the BS* showed up.
* I’d had a personal interest in some stereotypical topics like the JFK assassination and Watergate. Trying to understand and fact check all that led to studying the wider cold war and intelligence apparatus, which included reading things like Allen Dulles‘ memoir, The Craft of Intelligence. Reading it was an extremely illuminating and somewhat defining moment. In the book, Dulles repeatedly describes the horrors of the Soviet Union, all the supposedly horrible things they were doing. For every example he gave, I already knew that the US (and often the CIA itself) had already been doing what Dulles described in the book, or started doing it because they believed (sometimes incorrectly) that the Soviet Union had been doing it. At the time, I thought flaws like this could be fixed.
That year, I went to New York City for a conference hosted by the Jerusalem Post where a number of US and Israeli officials and leaders would be attending and presenting. (I should add at this point that in addition to naive beliefs, I was simply wrong about some things.) Using my legal name, I registered (alone and unsponsored) as anyone could, and managed to snag some sort of slot which included sharing a meal with some of the attendees. My assumption was that it was a generic big room luncheon rather than any sort of intimate affair. I reserved a room at the Marriott Marquis where the conference was (it was nice but like all hotels it was overpriced, though at the time I let myself be glamoured as a participant of the aesthetic), got some decent clothes (they were actually the most expensive I’d ever worn) and then later it was off to New York.
I got checked into the hotel and setup okay, despite the angry traffic that almost felt like it was there to either satisfy the stereotype or externalize my anxiety, along with the increased security. Simply parking the car meant having to explain and document my presence and letting the police do a sweep for explosives, opening up the trunk for them and letting them look inside the car. Once I was inside, it didn’t take long before the desk the hotel provided was a mess of laptop cables and the laptop itself, while room service was on the bed and I was reading and chatting online.
I’m not sure if they started letting people pick up their registration packets and name badges the day before or several hours before the conference began, though I believe it was the former. Regardless, when it came time I stood in the queue on the third floor with everyone else, at the end of which were about a half dozen temporary desks staffed by people with computers and special printers. I went up to a lovely middle-aged woman, with the kind of aura that says “Auntie.”
I gave her my ID and registration information, and explained to her the situation. “I registered under my legal name [my birthname] for obvious security reasons, but that’s not the name I work under, it’s not what people know me as and I plan to change my name. I know it’s a long shot, but is there any way we could put my badge under my work name? It’d be easier than telling everyone to ignore it…” I imitated how that would go, and we both laughed (she was probably just being polite). She said it was fine and printed out the pin-on badge with the deadname that some people are familiar with. Her innocent mistake might have been enough to cause problems for me later, but it was my absent-mindedness that directly resulted in Israeli security having me detained.
The conference itself was held several floors up, which allowed them to limit access, both visually (protecting against surveillance, snipers, etc.) and ingress points that have to be secured. Before the conference, I got dressed and ready like I always do, went down to the street for a smoke, and then back to the room to put the lighter and cigarettes away. What I didn’t think to put away was the small pocket knife that I carried everywhere. I didn’t remember I had the damned thing in my pocket until I was on the sixth floor, walking towards the security checkpoint with the metal detector.
I had two bad options: I could either turn around and limp conspicuously away from security and only to come back a minute later (a bad look, no amount casual whistling could save me) or immediately hand it to them and explain I forgot I had it (a bad look but better than being “caught”, and not uncommon at security checkpoints). Unfortunately, the person I handed the knife and my ID to not only began calling others over in Hebrew, they began pointing first at my name badge and then the ID, holding it up in what felt to me like equal parts suspicion and triumph. Before I could say anything, I couldn’t see anything but the black on their suits.
The people who surrounded me were fast and professional. You have to admire that, at least in the abstract. There were perhaps five or six of them who surrounded me (I didn’t get a chance to count) and expertly moved me downstairs. I think they hardly grabbed me or pushed me, surely not wanting to risk an international incident with an unknown factor while on US soil. But they controlled the space around me well enough that I would have had little room to resist if I had tried to. But part of knew that moving away from the conference was the first step to calming them down, and the rest of me was dissociating and simply observing. Soon I found myself in a hall not far from either the main lobby or, more likely, the third floor. Once there, the Israelis made a point of keeping their distance while members of the NYPD and FBI proceeded to ask me all sorts of things.
Before anything else, I told them I wanted them to clarify something for me: “Am I under arrest? I just want to know what status is, if I’m free to get up and go. To be clear, I’m not going to – I’m not going anywhere until everyone feels safe and comfortable. But I want to know what my status is.” They gave me a simple response and told me I was “not under arrest” at the time. I was satisfied enough and gave them my wallet which had a second photo ID, a CCP, that like my driver’s license was from Pennsylvania. The CCP upset them at first, and prompted them to ask if I had any guns with me. I told them that no, I didn’t. There would be no need with all the security – if I needed my gun there, things were already beyond fxcked. Then the CCP reassured them, because they realized it meant I had passed basic background checks. Periodically, they went down the hallway to discuss among themselves the Israelis. The Israelis had a lot to say, and while it wouldn’t be fair to say they were behind the wheel, it’s entirely fair and accurate to extend the metaphor by saying they were backseat drivers.
I was autistic, so their questions got their worth. If they asked something meaningful, they got a meaningful answer. I told them how I got the badge, who the woman was, and that I’d never seen her before and hadn’t tricked her. I told them it was important she not be punished, and they promised she wouldn’t be, but they needed to verify with her what I said. I have no way of knowing what happened to her, but I hope they kept her word. Other questions were understandable but silly, so they (unintentionally) got understandable but silly answers. “What’s inside the cane?” forced me to explain that it was metal, so it depended on where you looked – either more cane, or nothing but cane. “There’s no sword or anything in there?” There was no sword or anything in there.
One of the feds commented that I was “lucky” because the knife was legal, but that if it had been any longer it wouldn’t have been. I pointed out that it wasn’t luck, it was an common pocket knife that cost a dollar or two and wouldn’t have been sold at big chains if it were illegal, and that if I had meant to use a knife against someone there, I would simply have used the one they were going to give me at lunch, along with the other utensils. The realization about that last part seemed to dawn on him in that moment.
After some more discussion and a full search of my car (that started before telling me), the Americans decided that it was a comedy of errors (my words, definitely not theirs), but from what I understand the Israeli’s remained angry. I was “asked” if the head of hotel security and an NYPD detective could search my hotel room, and I “consented” to the “question.” In the elevator ride up, they asked me about things in the room. I was able to categorically say no to everything except one question, which needed what I call the autistic caveat: “I have, like, computer cables and cell phone charges and stuff, but if you mean like wires wires, then no. Not for, like, making anything.”
I unlocked the door, which they explained made it legally cleaner for them (so consensual, y’all) and walked in first. The closet doors were two sliding mirrors, so I very helpfully centered the doors both so that you could see in on either side of the closet. Coincidentally, my travel backpack, which had my pajamas and a couple joints in it, was in the middle of the closet at the front. While one of the pair went into the bathroom to look around, the other moved past me, ignoring the open closet, opting instead for the desk and drawers. When the other came out of the bathroom, he waited for me to finish unzipping my suitcase so he could go through it. I guess neither of them saw the backpack for some reason.
Seemingly satisfied that I wasn’t a terrorist or an assassin, the Keystones left. The hotel sent a platter of candy to my room for my troubles. They said it was either that or a steak dinner, and frankly I like chocolate a lot more.
Later that day, I went to try to get some documentation that would help me get a refund for the conference, since I wasn’t allowed to attend it. Based on one of my notes at the time, I believe I asked for a man with the Israeli Security Agency (known in Israel as Shabak and externally as Shin Bet) whose information I was given after the search of my room. I was told that he was the person who could make decision and get things done, including paperwork. Everything, as I recall, had to flow through him.
While I was waiting, I learned that many of the people who had been hired as temporary security for the event (as opposed to the state security that was in attendance) were former FBI agents, including the man I had approached and asked to call the ISA officer for me. When I introduced myself to the security guard and referred to the earlier incident, I found out that my picture had been circulated widely. At one point, he told me that there was additional alert and concern because of the Boston Marathon bombing, and that it was unknown if I had been a “dry run” for something. I told him that was stupid and no one would waste a dry run on handing a knife to security. He didn’t seem receptive to that fact, so I changed the topic and said Russian state security services was the greatest external threat to the U.S., which he grumpily agreed with.
After several minutes, a bald Israeli man – I assume the ISA officer I had asked for – flanked by four or five younger men came downstairs and began yelling at me, really getting right in my face and accusing me of threatening them and saying that I was trying to extort them. Soon the American Liaison interceded and saved me. He said he understood what I was trying to ask for, and got one of the organizers from Jerusalem Post over. I explained I didn’t expect a refund right then (unreasonable, not the time or the place), just something that would help me get one. He agreed and wrote a brief guarantee and asked about the knife right before we parted ways.
Things were fine, y’know? I’m white and lucky and I was wearing much nicer clothes than usual, so it was fine. With NYPD and Israeli security services, not getting arrested or hurt was a best case scenario. I was lucky I didn’t visit the Consulate.
But the conference was still a waste. So were the clothes. Any money I might have been able to use to enjoy the suddenly free time in New York City had been eaten up when my car broke down right before the trip, forcing me to leave it at the mechanic and rent a car. But I knew it was only a matter of time before my name would be a problem again. My general and vague plan to legally change my name cleaved into a more immediate and specific need, so I started researching how to do it. Later that year, I filed the papers and by early the next year it was official.
Unfortunately, I didn’t realize yet what it meant to be trans, much less recognize that it described me. If I had, I’d only have one deadname. But the gods saw me and in their jealousy, they commanded the fates to bind me with two deadnames.
Morbidly curious about my deadnames?
You can see redacted copies of the name change documents if you’re logged into DocumentCloud here, weirdo.
