Right Body, Right Time
by Fen Argoff
Printer-friendly version of the text
This year, more than any other year, it’s occurred to me over and over that this is the only life I will ever live. It’s felt a lot like standing in the middle of a creek and feeling the cyclical turning of water, its repetition of behavior and state, yet so discretely new in each passing moment. The sudden turbulation in the water’s flow comes every so often as a reminder: this is the only life, definable as a space of possibilities rather than a linear sequence of events, I could have ever lived.
Though neither I nor my family knew it at the start, I was born with a body that was just so slightly not-shaped. My disabilities are congenital; we are a package deal. Over the years since they expressed in my childhood, I have felt many different waves of grief; I’ve longed to turn back time, hit ctrl-Z for a redo –for a different body. I’ve burnt myself out with anger and cold determination. I’ve felt trapped in years marked by pain and illness, and begged for someone to free me. I thought that perhaps, beyond this body that had turned on me, there was something, by means of either place or action, that I could do that would fix me. I wanted it to return me to an untouched state.
To free the Israelite slaves, G-d informed Moses that all first-born males would die. (Exodus, 11:4). Across all social strata, “from the first-born of Pharaoh who sits on his throne to the first-born of the slave girl who is behind the millstones; and all the first-born of the cattle” (Exodus, 11:5), there would be blood paid for the injustices endured by the Israelites. There were plagues and warnings sent before, but Pharaoh’s heart was hardened against the plight of his slaves; this was, it seems, a last resort.
Symmetrically, at the time this was to occur, G-d commanded a parallel sacrifice – one made by the Israelites (Exodus, 12:3). There was a requirement for the sacrifice: not only must it be the right body and age, the lamb must, “be without blemish, a yearling male; you may take it from the sheep or from the goats.” (Exodus, 12:5) Only those of a similar body (first born males of humans and animals) will be taken. But why the first born specifically? “We will all go—regardless of social station —we will go with our sons and daughters, our flocks and herds; for we must observe יהוה’s festival” (Exodus, 10:9). The young are the ones who carry on traditions and wisdom from the older generation. Pharaoh might have been willing to let the older men of the tribe leave, but they wouldn’t be able to pass on their knowledge the same way as their whole community could, together.
Viscerally, this idea brings visions of animal metaphor even now: when a threat lurks, the flock circles around the young to protect them. The ewe goes nowhere without its lamb. But as much as we are animals, we are also people. Our bodies cannot be so easily defined, and the expectation of all future generations is a heavy weight placed on a child. The sacrificed Egyptian first-born, unblemished, they felt this burden too: the burden of a body chosen for purpose. In the story of Passover, this burden isn’t placed without reason: the sacrifice G-d demands of man will protect the Israelites’ future and safe passage from lives of servitude, there must be an exchange. It is shown to be of utmost importance that everything be right and whole before the sacrifice is complete, and that the Israelites must be ready. Practically speaking, it all makes sense: leave no roasted meat behind that you can still eat; don’t consume raw food before leaving (it could make someone sick); have clothes and shoes on; have food packed and ready to go (Exodus, 12:10). It is as much a passover offering to take the help that is offered as it is to make sacrifices. Is that what it means to be unblemished? To be able and ready to act? I don’t know if it is so easily definable, otherwise couldn’t G-d have granted the unblemished, able, firstborn males who Pharaoh wanted to free a way to pass on all the knowledge of the Israelites? What grants each person, creature and thing its thing-ness? I believe this question is an integral part of this story, and G-d asks us to explore it each time we recount the tale.
It is evident that all things, in the way we experience them each day, are of their own make. When G-d commanded the dual sacrifice, striking down “every [male] first-born in the land of Egypt, both human and beast” (Exodus, 12:12), it was to account for the true shape of each and every first-born that would be felled by the action. “An idol of wood rotted, and one of metal melted” (Rashi, on 12:12) It is certain – wood does not melt, metal does not rot. At least, metal does not rot the same way that wood does, and if you were to examine the corrosion of metal, you’d see the way that the metalness of metal impacts all processes it endures.
There are ways in which all things are a part of a whole, and there are ways in which all things are discrete. It is how an individual moves within the material world that influences all others, whether person, animal or object. This physicality is the foundation for tradition, down to the blood and flesh in every body. It is the foundation for how a firstborn Israelite can be saved by his household’s passover offering, and an Egyptian firstborn, with no offering made, can be smited.
Our physical world is a beautiful but terrifying reality, and it is one I’ve had to face many times not only because of my disability, but as a transgender person. I am firm in the belief that the physical life someone wishes to lead in this world is one they deserve to determine for themselves. So, if we and all our traditions must be bound by our material reality, then perhaps like our rituals and traditions, our physicality offers guidance.
“And this shall serve you as a sign on your hand and as a reminder on your forehead —in order that the Teaching of יהוה may be in your mouth—that with a mighty hand יהוה freed you from Egypt. (Exodus, 13:9). Remembering this story, teaching our children to remember (Exodus, 13:14), wrapping tefillin, and celebrating Passover each year are all examples of how tradition can be used to ground ourselves in reflection. Wrapping tefillin, a slow and measured process, is a deeply physical one. Our holidays each year are imbued with the act of questioning and curiosity. It’s obvious why – the history of our people was forever changed by this era. The story of Exodus and the memory that imbues our cultural, literary consciousness has remained in the minds and bodies of us all.
When we’re called on to remember in ritual, it’s because it must be a considered action. An action requires intention and creates the opportunity, as with so many of our traditions, to center ourselves in our bodies – no matter your body’s construction. With remembering comes understanding, and hope: there is a path forward through actions big and small, each and every day.
In the eternal words of Julian K. Jarboe, referencing Midrash Tanchuma, Tazria 5, “God blessed me by making me transsexual for the same reason he made wheat but not bread and fruit but not wine: because he wants humanity to share in the act of creation.” We are as beings of and apart from the Universe able to create and enact our will, and just as all other things can be shaped and reformed through action and mechanical desire, so can we.
I was born disabled, and I also became disabled. There is nothing I can return to after all, not after all my searching. I continue to live with an aimless, wandering grief of wondering what life could have been, but I am struck with a sense of wonder as well: I have this shape, as strange as it may be, but it is my shape. It is mine. And if this body and life are mine, and like iron, wood, fruit, and clay I have been gifted with a piece of creation, then I don’t need to fight my body and time – I can always mold myself into something new.
Fen Argoff is a queer, disabled, interdisciplinary artist working in the realms of digital illustration and interactive media. Fen began studying Torah and Jewish history as a means of connecting their Jewish life with an artistic practice focused on the environment, morality and the role of myth in an industrial landscape. Fen lives with their cat in Upstate New York, working as a freelance artist and as a proud member of the Freelancer’s Union.
