TOBY BEAUCHAMP

Going Stealth TRANSGENDER POLITICS AND

U.S. SURVEILLANCE PRACTICES

- . . T
V

1 ● ' e
Going Stealth
Going Stealth

TRANSGENDER POLITICS AND

U.S. SURVEILLANCE PRACTICES

TOBY BEAUCHAMP

Duke University Press |Durham and London \zoig

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Names: Beauchamp, Toby, [date] author.
Title: Going stealth :transgender politics and U.S. surveillance
practices /Toby Beauchamp.
Description: Durham :Duke University Press, zoi8. |Includes
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Subjects: LCSH: Electronic surveillance—Political aspects—
United States. |Electronic surveillance—Social aspects—United
States. IElectronic surveillance—Sex differences—United
States. IGender nonconformity—Political aspects—
United States, jGender identity—Political aspects—United
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C O N T E N T S

Acknowledgments vii

INTRODUCTION |Suspicious Visibility

CHAPTER ONE |Deceptive Documents 1 4

CHAPTER TWO |Flying under the Radar 50

CHAPTER THREE |Bathrooms, Borders,

and Biometrics 79

CHAPTER FOUR |Sensitive Information

in the Manning Case 107

CONCLUSION IOn Endurance 151

Notes 141

Bibliography 173

Index 185
A C K N O W L E D G M E N T S

IHAVE MANY TO THANK for the care and feeding of this book, and my per¬
son, over the long period of its development. In its earliest incarnation as a
dissertation, this project found guidance in an ideal constellation of faculty
mentors. Then as now, Caren Kaplan’s enthusiasm, insightful critiques, and
commitment to ethical, collaborative research profoundly inform my work
as scholar and teacher. Istrive always to emulate and pay forward the bal¬
ance of generosity and rigor that she models. Gayatri Gopinath provided
steadfast mentorship during grad school and beyond, and she offered crucial
support during the challenging period when Iwas grasping for the early ker¬
nels of this project. Colin Milburn was an utterly dependable source of cheer
and encouragement and agenerous reader whose observations unfailingly
pushed me to think in new ways.
Among the many other supportive faculty members Ifirst met at UC
Davis, Ithank Kathleen Frederickson, Beth Freeman, Cathy Kudlick, Juana
Maria Rodriguez, Eric Smoodin, and Julie Wyman. It was my incredible
good fortune to be part of the Graduate Group in Cultural Studies at UC
Davis, which taught me the lasting value of truly collaborative work. Among
my fellow Cult Studs, Iam especially grateful to Santiago Castellanos, Mari-
sol Cortez, Sandy Gomez, Cathy Hannabach, Valerie Kim-Thuy Larsen,
Sarah McCullough, Christina Owens, Terry Park, and Magali Rabasa; and
to Davis grads from other departments, including Clara V. Z. Boyle, Ryder
Diaz, Ryan Fong, Carmen Fortes, Matt Franks, Catherine Fung, and Van¬
essa Rapatz. At the UC Davis LGBT Resource Center, Iparticularly thank
Sheri Atkinson and remember Angelina Malfitano with atang-y apprecia¬
tion. My work with Queers for Public Education—and related collective
endeavors oriented toward the public good—indelibly shaped my political
sensibilities.
 The UC President’s Postdoctoral Fellowship Program provided crucial
material and intellectual support as Ibegan the long task of turning adisser¬
tation into abook. Iwill always feel lucky to have spent those postdoctoral
years at UC San Diego with exceptionally generous colleagues including Lisa
Cartwright, Kirstie Dorr, Fatima El-Tayeb, Kelly Gates, Nitin Govil, Todd
Fdenry, Sara Clarke Kaplan, Roshy Kheshri, David Serlin, Nayan Shah, and
Kalindi Vora. Iam grateful to Ari Ideinrich for reading drafts and for shar¬
ing so much through written words. Many of the first revisions were accom¬
plished during writing dates at Twiggs coffeehouse with Lauren Berliner,
whose good humor and encouragement kept me going. Patrick Anderson
provided many meaningful points of connection in both scholarship and
friendship, and he remains acontinual source of warmth.
Ithank my colleagues in the English department and Gender and Wom¬
en’s Studies program at Oklahoma State University, particularly the junior
faculty writing group: Kate Hallemeier, Jeff Menne, Seth Perlow, and Graig
Uhlin. Many other people Imet through OSU provided important support
and friendship, including Irene Backus, Lu Bailey, Caetlin Benson-Allot,
Jennifer Borland, Ron Brooks, Jonathan Gaboury, Cristina Gonzalez, Car¬
rie Kim, Jen Macken, Shaila Mehra, Carol Moder, Charissa Prchal, Louise
Siddons, Scott St. Pierre, and Stacy Takacs. One of Oklahoma’s greatest gifts
to me is afriendship with Angie Piehl, whose thoughtfulness, wit, and queer
camaraderie continue to delight.
It has been ajoy to work alongside my brilliant, funny, indefatigable col¬
leagues in the Department of Gender and Women’s Studies at the Univer¬
sity of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, including Teresa Barnes, Jodi Byrd,
C. L. Cole, Samantha Frost, Pat Gill, Maryam Kashani, and Vicki Ma-
haffey. Thanks to the Hip Hop and Punk Feminisms crew—Ruth Nicole
Brown, Karen Flynn, Fiona Ngo, and Mimi Thi Nguyen—for so imme¬
diately welcoming me into the fold. Chantal Nadeau and Stephanie Foote
provided much-needed mentoring during their respective tenures as depart¬
ment chair. Iam continually grateful for Siobhan Somerville’s steadfast
support and warm presence, and her writing has long been amodel for my
own. Though it will sound hyperbolic, it is simply factual that Mimi Thi
Nguyen’s generosity is unmatched; for reading draffs, for calming nerves,
for neighborly care, and for showing me chat it is indeed possible to be rad
and ethical every day, Ithank her in perpetuity. The dedicated adminis¬
trative staff at GWS, Jacque Kahn and Virginia Swisher, deserve my grati-

viii ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
tude always. Ihold sincere appreciation for my students, especially those in
my transgender studies and disability studies courses at UIUC, for creating
spaces of generosity and curiosity in which to think together. Many other
colleagues across campus have enriched my life and work at UIUC, including
Ben Bascom, Onni Gust, David Hays, Kathryn LaBarre, Mireya Loza, Mar¬
tin Manalansan, Jennifer Monson, Ghassan Moussawi, K. R. Roberto, San¬
dra Ruiz, Carol Tilley, and participants in the First Book Writing Group.
Jenny Davis and Laura Davies Brenier arrived at Illinois just when Idid, and
Iam lucky to know their capacity for kindness and to benefit from their ex¬
cellent senses of humor. Silas Cassinelli’s good company and compassion as
awriting buddy eased the revision process on many occasions. Iam graceful
CO Deke Weaver for his gentle friendship and for inviting me into the weird
and beautiful worlds he creates, and to Jennifer Allen for her own energy
and for her care of mine. Naomi Paik is arighteous force of nature with an
enormous heart; she brings good food and good humor into our home each
week, and her straightforward pep calks make all things possible.
Colleagues elsewhere have shared with me their valuable time, advice,
and many small kindnesses along the way. Any list will surely be incom¬
plete, but Iwish to especially thank Aren Aizura, Simone Browne, Mel
Chen, Deborah Cohler, Deb Cowen, Lezlie Frye, Inderpal Grewal, Chris¬
tina Hanhardt, Ronak Kapadia, Greta LaFleur, Eithne Luibheid, Minda
Martin, Carol Mason, Robert McRuer, Nick Mitchell, Sima Shakhsari,
and Susan Stryker. Jennifer Terry opened new ways of thinking for me at
acritical early stage. Erica Rand has been awilling reader and enthusiastic
collaborator, as well as friend. Dean Spade gave generously of his time to read
and reread drafts and to offer generative questions and insights. Comrades in
the Writing Every Day group freely dispensed optimism and unconditional
encouragement. For their help in researching public accommodations policy
for chapter 3, Ithank Paisley Currah, Lisa Mottet, Alex Sheldon and the
Movement Advancement Project, and the Champaign Public Library. Iam
graceful beyond measure to those who invited me to present portions of the
book in progress, particularly to thoughtful audiences at UC Santa Barbara,
CSU Fullerton, Rutgers University, Sonoma State University, University of
Kentucky, University of Pittsburgh, and Illinois State University.
Ken Wissoker’s steadfast commitment to this project, and to guiding me
through the publishing process with minimal anxiety, made him truly agift
of an editor. Among the many other people at Duke University Press who

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ix
made this book possible, Iam especially grateful to Oliva Polk for patiently
answering the endless questions of afirst-time author, and to Mary Hoch,
Jade Brooks, and Susan Albury. Anitra Grisales helped me articulate the
goals of this work in its earliest stages. Ithank wholeheartedly the anon¬
ymous reviewers at Duke and at NYU Press for the time they invested to
provide exceptionally thorough, generative, and encouraging criticism; this
book and my brain are all the better for it.
An incredible network of people gave personal support to me over the
long course of this book’s development, and here too, no list could encom¬
pass all who have done so. Across many different forms of relationship and
types of care, Iparticularly thank Nimmy Abiaka, Keight Bergmann, Laura
Fisher, Yumi Lee, Lauren Jade Martin, Bob Meyers, Joan Meyers, Eli Og-
burn, Ali Qadeer, Jane Reid, and Jen Walter-Ballantyne. Yasmine Orangi is
abright source of reassurance and solidarity for whom Iam truly grateful.
Iam thankful for the time Iwas given with Bryn Kelly and Elissa Nelson.
Several nonhuman animals contributed snuggles and companionship: Ol¬
ive, Pirn, and Pepper, and the still much-missed Frieda and Skye. For their
deep kindness and generosity Ithank the extended Degnan family, suppor¬
tive throughout. Iam also grateful to aset of people who are not only those
most readily marked as family, but who have deliberately remained so in
their caring relationships with me: my mother, Terry Beauchamp, who can
at long last add this book to her treasured collection; Paula Mekdeci, Ben
Coppel, and Emily Coppel; my remarkable sister Lauren Marlowe, Jordan
Marlowe, and my imaginative, effervescent niblings, Emma Jane Marlowe
and Eogan Marlowe; and my Nana, Betty Scott, whose love and support I
will carry with me always.
The friendships Icultivated in graduate school remain some of my most
meaningful and trusted, providing intellectual, political, and emotional sus¬
tenance across this project’s life span and beyond. More than once, Tallie
Ben Daniel’s encouragement and compassion have been abalm for the com¬
plicated feelings that this research provoked in me. Abbie Boggs is amodel
for the pursuit of critical, responsible engagement with the university and as
such has provided genuinely constructive feedback at many stages; Iwould
be remiss to not also thank her for supplying cocktails in both good times
and bad. As colleague, collaborator, and friend, Benjamin D’Ffarlingue has
quite literally been on this scholarly endeavor with me from day one; Iam
inspired by his political and intellectual commitment, and can only hope

X A C K N O W L E D G M E N T S
this book does the unit proud. Tristan Josephson, stalwart companion in
transgender studies, has helped me better understand the field and my place
in it. Liz Montegary is aconsummate reader of drafts, asource of thought¬
fulness and humor in equal measures, and the best storyteller Iknow. No
one has borne witness to this book’s rollercoaster of joys and frustrations
like Cynthia Degnan, who willingly joined me for the ride. She read every
word across the many drafts, endured my most anxious moments, shared
wholeheartedly in the unexpected delights of this research, challenged my
chinking, and ensured that Ihad access to good food and quiet spaces, even
when the latter meant my absence from her. Iam truly grateful for her hon¬
esty and boundless support, which each day help me take risks chat prove
transformative. There’s no one Iwould rather share atent with.

An earlier version of chapter iappeared in adifferent form in “Artful Con¬

cealment and Strategic Visibility: Transgender Bodies and U.S. State Sur¬
veillance after 9/n,” Surveillance and Society 6, no. 4(2009): 355-66.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS xi
I N T R O D U C T I O N

SUSPICIOUS VISIBILITY

ON APRIL 17, 2007, the day after the shootings at Virginia Tech, aparent
at Cranbrook Kingswood School near Detroit, Michigan, phoned police
to report seeing aman on campus wearing ablonde wig, high heels, and
lipstick. The private high school was placed in lockdown for more than an
hour while campus security and local police searched the grounds and each
room of the school, ultimately finding no one matching the description. A
spokesperson for the Department of Public Safety told reporters that the
parent who first saw the “suspicious” person “thought it was kind of strange,
so she called the police” and noted, “In the wake ofwhat happened yesterday
”1
in Virginia, it’s better to be safe than sorry.
Public discourse about the Cranbrook lockdown, limited mostly to lo¬
cal Michigan news outlets and some transgender blogs, typically conveyed
asense of regret that an individual had been unfairly targeted. But these
discussions also tended to rationalize the police response by positioning
the Virginia Tech shootings as an understandably and singularly anxious
moment for the entire United States. The reports suggest that given this
broader context, afigure that visually transgresses otherwise clear gender
norms justifies heightened scrutiny from both security personnel and the
general public. The hour-long lockdown and meticulous search of the cam¬
pus took place in the absence of any alleged criminal act. Even trespassing
was not an issue, since the school grounds are open to the public and con¬
nected to anumber of public tourist sites, including museums and nature
trails. Rather than suggesting that the lockdown could have been justified
as aresponse to aspecific crime such as trespassing, this additional infor¬
mation should clarify the extent to which suspicion attaches to particular
people: the lockdown occurted not in response to just any stranger on cam-
pus, but to avery particular person perceived as strange and threatening.
When asked if the person had done anything illegal, for example, one de¬
tective agreed with reporters that they had not, but added, “If you’re aman,
you don’t hang around aschool dressed as awoman.”^ The detective relies
on acommonsense understanding that gender nonconformity—here, aman
wearing clothingthat men ought not to wear—itself indicates the likelihood
of dangerous behavior, rationalizing both policing and panic by imagining
that agender-nonconforming individual fundamentally has something to
hide.^ This statement—and the surveillance practices mobilized through
its logic—helps construct the gender-nonconforming figure as an inherently
deceptive object of state and public scrutiny.
This book argues that surveillance is acentral practice through which
the category of transgender is produced, regulated, and contested. It works
against the idea that surveillance measures simply spring up in times of
crisis—such as after the Virginia Tech shootings or in the wake of 9/11—and
also against the notion that transgender people exist as areadily recognizable
population to be assessed by such measures. Instead, it aims to unravel these
assumptions, taking alonger view of surveillance and security to illustrate
how they produce the very categories and figures of gendered deviance that
they purport to simply identify. In examining arange of practices—both
formally undertaken by and spilling beyond U.S. state agencies, both ex¬
plicitly citing and never mentioning the term transgender—I consider here
how the category of transgender simultaneously coheres and further frac¬
tures through surveillance. Tracing the political and cultural histories of
seemingly new surveillance practices opens space for understanding gender
noncompliance through race, citizenship, sexuality, and disability; in this
way, the book pushes at the edges of the category of transgender and seeks
to expand the scope of transgender studies.
Although it made only afaint blip on the national radar and may seem
disconnected from what is generally considered post-9/11 surveillance, the
Cranbrook lockdown illustrates the central questions driving this book.
The case offers an opportunity to consider public and state scrutiny of
gender nonconformity in the broader context of historical anxieties about
gendered deception; forms of deviance read through race, citizenship, and
disability; and seemingly exceptional moments of national security crisis.
Cranbrook was not the only school to increase security and policing directly
after the Virginia Tech shootings; news outlets reported that schools in at

1 I N T R O D U C T I O N
least twenty-seven states had closed, canceled classes, or otherwise imple¬
mented new security measures in response to threats or perceived threats
during the week following the shootings. Cranbrook officials consistently
referenced the events at Virginia Tech when explaining their decision to
lock down their school. Transgender-related blogs and other media discuss¬
ing the lockdown generally tended to acknowledge this political context as
well, while still criticizing the fact that agender-nonconforming person was
singled out as dangerous based only on appearance. Agroup of concerned
Cranbrook community members created awebsite that specifically called
attention to the implications of the lockdown for transgender and queer
people connected to the school, and they too pointed out the air of tension
already present in the immediate aftermath of Virginia Tech.^
Using the shootings to contextualize the lockdown, news reports repeat¬
edly cited officials’ explanations that “it’s better to be safe than sorry,” de¬
spite the fact that at least one law enforcement officer admitted, “We’re not
even sure what gender the person is—it could be atall, muscular woman.”^
This statement serves as an important reminder that surveillance of gender
deviance is not limited to those who are transgender-identified, though it
may appear as most visible and overt when enacted against such individuals.
Although the officer’s admission suggests that atall, muscular woman is
more likely to be deemed innocent than aman dressed as awoman, neither
case negates school and law enforcement officials’ refrain of “better safe than
sorry.” The phrase depends on aconception of safety as something that re¬
quires losing—or willingly giving up—privacy. Surveillance studies scholar
Torin Monahan calls attention to this logic when he notes that questions of
surveillance are typically framed as trade-offs, such that more of one thing
(security) necessarily means less of another (privacy). Asking how much of
one we have to give up to get the other, Monahan argues, is the wrong ques¬
tion. He suggests instead that we pursue questions about how surveillance
practices organize our social lives and produce new, or reconsolidare exist¬
ing, power relations.*^ This reframing must also counter the persistent belief
that privacy is already distributed equally such that anyone might choose to
relinquish or retain it. As scholarship and activism in areas such as reproduc¬
tive justice and disability justice maintain, and as the chapters in this book
show, privacy is not adefault status but an exceptional one, granted largely
on the basis of wealth and racial privilege.^
Acase like the Cranbrook lockdown cannot be understood as an isolated

SUSPICIOUS VISIBILITY 3
 incident, then, but rather as aconstellation of representations, policies, and
material practices entangled in broad historical and social contexts. As Inote
above, almost every media response to the Cranbrook lockdown explained it
as aresult of anxiety about Virginia Tech. But certainly other factors created
ageneral feeling of high alert, afeeling cultivated on anational scale and
intensifying over the previous several years. By April iooy, Congress had
not only passed but reauthorized the USA PATRIOT Act, the Department
of Homeland Security was well established, and the Guantanamo Bay deten¬
tion facility had been operating for five years. Furthermore, by the time the
Cranbrook parent phoned local police, authorities had already identified the
shooter at Virginia Tech as aSouth Korean immigrant who had been diag¬
nosed with mental illnesses. Although much public discourse framed Seting-
Hui Cho as shockingly exceptional, it also relied on an easy recognition
of the monstrous and dangerous figure regularly woven into antiterrorism
rhetoric, immigration debates, and medical classifications of abnormality.
The Virginia Tech case also rests on acomplex set of racialized gender
and sexual norms that contribute to both U.S. national identity and concep¬
tions of citizenship, which resonate in the Cranbrook lockdown. As Jigna
Desai and Amy Brandzel point out in their discussion of the Virginia Tech
shootings, within dominant frameworks, Asian American men are already
outside the boundaries of proper masculinity, “evoking the historical threat
of the ‘yellow peril’ ready to harm white femininity with contamination
and miscegenation by [their] uncontrolled nonnormative sexuality.”* They
explain that public discourse about Cho tended either to position him as
aviolent exception to the assimilated model minority (in contrast to the
expectation of terrorism commonly attached to South Asian and Arab im¬
migrant groups) or to fold him into abroad perception of all immigrants as
potential terrorists. In these ways, Cho readily appears as adangerous fig¬
ure, failing or refusing to adhere to the intertwining norms of race, gender,
sexuality, ability, and citizenship that mark out health and safety. Although
public narratives of the Virginia Tech shootings build on post-9/11 security
anxieties, they reverberate far more deeply, drawing on decades of Oriental¬
ist discourse and racialized gender relations. One prominent response to the
shootings, Desai and Brandzel note, was acall for increased state profiling
measures, not simply in routine policing practices, but specifically in the are¬
nas of mental health and immigration, aresponse that indicates how these
various narrative strands converge through surveillance.

4INTRODUCTION
 The panic at Cranbrook was not produced merely through temporal
proximity to an individual violent event. In part, this is because even the
shootings at Virginia Tech—and subsequent interpretations of them—
cannot be isolated from the longer histories that inform them. Those histo¬
ries therefore also resonate in the Cranbrook lockdown, setting acontext in
which certain bodies or behaviors appear as strange and suspicious threats
even in the absence of any actual misconduct. Moreover, to explain the lock-
down as either about the tension produced by recent events or about apar¬
ticular individual turns attention away from the larger forces at work. Desai
and Brandzel point our that Cho’s case did not prompt prolonged public
discussion about what influenced his actions in the ways that young white
school shooters’ cases did, as with the many investigations into violent video
games and youth alienation that followed the shootings at Columbine High
School. They suggest that Virginia Tech did not draw this kind of investi¬
gation because delving into the broader racialized and gendered aspects of
Cho’s case “could force us to interrogate whiteness and the ways in which
U.S. citizenship continues to rely on Orientalist discourses.”^ Centraliz¬
ing the strange individual thus allows larger structures of power to escape
examination.

Working against this tendency, GoingStealth aims to turn back the scru¬
tinizing gaze of science, medicine, and law, attending not so much to the
gender-nonconforming figure that is positioned as dangerous as to the un¬
even relations of power that produce that figure and its accompanying threat.
It is tempting to read the Cranbrook lockdown as primarily about panic cre¬
ated by the Virginia Tech shootings, as local law enforcement describes it, or
as primarily about anti-transgender bias, as many transgender media outlets
see it. But this book argues that incidents like the lockdown can never be ex¬
plained simply as basic transphobia or as overzealous security. Instead, such
events should prompt critical analysis of the ways that gender deviance is
produced, coded, and monitored not only in these spectacular moments, but
also in the everyday. Likewise, the surveillance practices at work in this case
emerged not merely in direct response to the Virginia Tech shootings, but
through long histories of nationalist sentiments, racialization processes, and
medicolegal taxonomies of bodily difference. This book insists that the two
seemingly separate explanations for cases like Cranbrook—the particular
targeting of gender nonconformity as dangerous and the explicit increases
in security during times of perceived crisis—must be understood as ftinda-

SUSPICIOUS VISIBILITY 5
mentally entwined. Although one news outlet reported that the Cranbrook
school practices lockdowns twice ayear, community members noted that
the last real lockdown of the campus occurred in response to the events of
September ii, 2.001. That the sighting of “a man in adress” might prompt
the same security protocol as for the events that have come to define terror¬
ism in the U.S. speaks to some of the links between gender deviance, racial
anxieties, and national security that Iam concerned with here.

Toward aTransgender Critique

Although the Cranbrook lockdown received only brief public attention, it

exemplifies the convergence of the apparently anomalous gender-noncon¬
forming person and the seemingly exceptional surveillance and security
measures rationalized as necessary, or at least understandable, in times of
national crisis. In the most basic sense, this book seeks to dismantle such ex¬
ceptions: to examine the ways that state surveillance practices, not bound to
recent moments ofcri.sis but rather long embedded in the everyday, produce
abroad range of deviation from regulatory gender norms that exceeds the
category of transgender. How are transgender and gender-nonconforming
populations caught up in ongoing state surveillance practices that almost
never explicitly name transgender as acategory of concern? In cases where
surveillance and policing are overtly concerned with transgender-identified
people, how might such afocus obscure other aspects of securitization or
troublingly limit the scope of political responses? How can an assessment
of surveillance measures help us rethink the very category of transgender,
particularly in relation to racialization and citizen-making processes? How
and why do U.S. state agencies produce intertwined crises of security and
gender, so that the notion of gendered deception becomes athreat on ana¬
tional level? If surveillance mechanisms rely on normative understandings
of gendered bodies and identities, what productive inconsistencies might
gender nonconformity reveal about surveillance practices?
In pursuing these cjuestions, Ishow how transgender and gender-
nonconforming populations are inextricable from the surveillance and secu¬
rity measures that work to produce and regulate them. Focusing especially
on those measures that have gained new recognition in relation to the global
war on terror, GoingStealth contextualizes these practices in longer histories
of bodily classification, militarization, and constructions of deviance to il-

6 I N T R O D U C T I O N
lustrate the persistent relationship between the concept of national security
and state regulation of transgressive gender. Iask how such regulation might
be displaced onto gender-nonconforming subjects, thus appearing nonexis¬
tent or inapplicable to those perceived as (or those understanding themselves
as) normatively gendered. In this way, the book challenges the very category
of transgender and the scope of transgender studies, engaging the fact that
bodies, identities, and behaviors may be read as gender deviant in relation
to perceived or actual racial identity, religious affiliation, nationality and
citizenship status, class status, disability, or sexuality. Relatedly, Ianalyze
the ways that certain transgender-identified persons, able to comply with
dominant standards of appearance and behavior (themselves grounded in
ideals of whiteness, U.S. citizenship, able-bodiedness, and compulsory het¬
erosexuality), may be legible to surveillance mechanisms not as transgender
but as properly gendered and thus nonthreatening.
These inquiries create what Ihope is aproductive tension that runs
throughout the book: Iattend to the specific and ovett policing of trans¬
gender-identified subjects, yet am equally concerned with the ways that
such scrutiny works more pervasively, regulating gender in subtler ways and
positioning avariety of bodies, behaviors, and identities—not only those
explicitly identified as transgender—as gender-nonconforming. In doing
so, Ibuild on scholarship and activism that pushes the relatively new field
of transgender studies to expand its scope and vision. In his lengthy dis¬
cussion of the field’s formation, David Valentine suggests that in the most
basic sense, transgender studies has been constituted through “the idea that
there is alarge group of people who can be understood through the category
transgender.”*° Much work in transgender studies has been concerned with
documenting social histories that take transgender as afairly bounded and
preexisting category, aiming to uncover and report knowledge about the
people identified within that categoty. In many cases, this work has implic¬
itly taken white, class-privileged, U.S.-based transgender-identified people
as its subjects." Valentine notes that several scholars associated with the
field have expressed wariness about taking such aneatly contained category
for granted, and he writes that his own concern “is still that the increasing
use of‘transgender’ as aterm to order knowledge produces the possibilities
whereby certain subjects become appropriated into areading of transgender
that obscures the complexities of their identification and experience.”" Nev¬
ertheless, he suggests that transgender studies might offer amore expansive

SUSPICIOUS VISIBILITY
way to think through multiple figurations of gender in relation to sexuality,
race, class, nationality, and ability.
Dean Spade engages these possibilities when he asks us to consider how
medical and legal surveillance of transgender-identified people actually
functions to discipline all gendered subjects toward anormative gender that
appears natural and healthy when viewed in opposition to those particular
bodies and identities designated as transgender.'^ Spade is interested in the
ways that medicine and law demand from transgender people normalizing
measures that uphold the status quo rather than resist or change it, but he
also gestures at the ways that this process enforces normative gender for all
people. In other words, it may seem that only certain bodies, those that can¬
not or will not conform to normative gender standards, are subject to sur¬
veillance and scrutiny. It may appear that only transgender people have to
alter their gender presentations, for example, while non-transgender people
have gender presentations that are naturally, effortlessly normative. In this
way, gender regulation can appear displaced onto only the transgender-
identified, such that other bodies and identities can seem naturally gender
normative and free from scrutiny. Of course, as Judith Butler explains, all
gendered subjects emerge through regulatory power: “persons are regulated
by gender, and ... this sort of regulation operates as acondition of cultural
intelligibility for any person.”''* Yet these regulatory norms often play our in
more mundane and subtle ways than the explicit medicolegal policies set up
for transgender people.
Consider, for example, an American Express national advertising cam¬
paign launched in mid-2.008. In response to other companies’ turns to con¬
sumer-chosen designs for credit cards, the campaign sought to showcase the
professional look of American Express Business Gold cards. To this end, one
commercial features awhite man dressed in asuit, who approaches an airline
ticker counter for abusiness trip to San Francisco and presents acredit card
adorned with images of kittens. The ticket agent looks at him suspiciously,
confirms that this is abusiness trip, and motions to two security personnel,
who immediately flank the customer from behind. The Black male security
guard asks the customer to come with them, and the white woman snaps on
alatex glove. As they whisk this customer away, another white man steps
to the counter, also requests aticket for aSan Francisco business trip, and
presents his professional American Express Gold card, which creates no
disturbance.

8 I N T R O D U C T I O N
 In this case, aperson not specifically marked as transgender is nonetheless
subject to gender regulation because of the ways his gender is interpreted
through consumer objects. The introduction of alatex glove (notably edited
out of later versions of the commercial) suggests that this person is also sub¬
ject to aphysical form of state violence for his gender transgressions. That
the security guard wearing the glove is awoman adds another gendered
layer to this scene: in response to public anxieties about inappropriate and
nonconsensual physical contact during security checks, government officials
have repeatedly issued assurances that physical searches will be conducted
by an officer of the same gender as the individual being searched. Along
with the too-feminine credit card design, the gloved search conducted by a
woman positions this airline customer as breaking from normative gender
in ways that provoke (and, the commercial implies, justify) serious scrutiny.
Importantly, the second customer—the man with the properly professional
and masculine credit card—is also part of this system, as is the at-home
viewer, for whom these regulatory practices may be internalized. Here, the
privileges of good citizenship are arrived at through normative gendering,
which is read in part through class status and consumer practices. The polic¬
ing of gender transgression, though often occurring most overtly in relation
to transgender-identified people, casts amuch wider net. At the same time,
those transgender-identified people who can comply with the regulatory
norms of race, class, ability, and citizenship through which proper, non¬
threatening gender is read may escape these most obvious forms of scrutiny.
Acentral argument running throughout this book, then, is that surveil¬
lance of gender-nonconforming people centers less on their identification
as transgender per se than it does on the perceived deception underlying
transgressive gender presentation. Just as the telling of alie and the omis¬
sion of information are two different forms of deception, Imove between
an interrelated set of terms to show how this broad link between gender
nonconformity and deception manifests: through accusations of fraud,
through claims that certain bodies or identities do not match as they ought
to, and through demands for disclosure or transparency, among others.
State and public actors may justify surveillance practices by focusing on a
specific form of deception, according to which form best supports the goal
of maintaining normative gender. For instance, claims of fraud—a form of
deception linked to personal or financial gain by taking something from an¬
other person—appear repeatedly in debates about identification documents.

SUSPICIOUS VISIBILITY 9
 particularly regarding the use of false ID to gain citizenship or voting rights,
which conservative discourse frames as stealing from true citizens. Yet the
rationale for intensified airport security screenings more often rests on the
language of concealment, which can discursively merge concealed weapons
with concealed sex or gender under the rubric of public safety that justifies
airport surveillance.
Crucially, the implicit anxieties about terrorism in the American Ex¬
press commercial suggest that nonnormative gender presentation is cause
for alarm and suspicion on the level of national safety. Indications that .some¬
thing is amiss or doesn’t match up increasingly signal amuch larger danger,
producing anxieties fueled by public safety campaigns like the directive, “If
you see something, say something,” circulating widely in public transit sta¬
tions and airports. Against the cultural and political backdrop of the war
on terror, government policy and public discourse produce an atmosphere
casting full disclosure as the primary avenue to security and safety: only the
duplicitous terrorist would balk at providing information to state agencies,
and citizens with nothing to hide have nothing to fear from intensified gov¬
ernment sutveillance and military presence.
But the panic at Cranbrook and the anxieties conveyed in the American Ex¬
press commercial—as well as the gendered and racialized contours of surveil¬
lance practices ranging from biometric identification to airport screenings—
illustrate that the perception of fraud clings more tightly to some than
others. Although this perception undoubtedly creates matetial problems for
many transgender-identified people, the appearance of gendered duplicity
can be exacerbated or mitigated according to the ways that categories in¬
cluding race, class, citizenship, sexuality, and disability mutually constitute
gender and various readings of it. That is to say, state actors and policies may
interpret transgender people as threats to national health and safety, often
in ways that connect to broad anxieties about terrorism and immigration,
but such an interpretation of gendered deception extends far beyond the
transgender-identified, as the early chapters of this book demonstrate.
Ihavethereforehadtomakesomecomplicatedchoicesaboutthelanguage
used to describe gendered bodies, identities, and practices that transgress
dominant standards. It is partly because surveillance practices apprehend a
wide range of gendered subjects as transgressive—whether such subjects are
intentionally breaking from gendered norms or not—that simply defaulting
to transgender as acatchall term cannot suffice. Where Iuse transgender in

lO INTRODUCTION
this book, Irefer to those bodies and subjects that identify or are identified
in ways that exceed normatively bounded categories of man and woman.
Relatedly, Iuse transgender-identified to mark the ways that people identify
themselves or are identified by others, denoting aspecific claim to transgen¬
der itself as an identity category.'^ In general, Iavoid the term transsexual,
which is rooted in and still typically associated with Western medicolegal
classifications; where this term does appear here, it references its particular
employment by certain scholars or its specific use as acodified medical or
legal category. Most often, Irely on gender nonconforming abroader term
encompassing many (though certainly not all) transgender subjects as well as
those bodies and subjects that break from idealized gender binaries or are in¬
terpreted as breaking from them because of the ways gender norms are read
through mutually constitutive categories such as race, class, sexuality, reli¬
gion, disability, and citizenship. Roughly, then, in this book transgender gts-
tures more toward identity and identification, vdnctttLSgender nonconforming
addresses arelation to norms that may involve but need not rest on identity
and identification.'^ These broader and less rigid terms are useful precisely
because surveillance measures produce and affect not only those specifically
identified as transgender but awide range of gendered practices, identities,
and bodies beyond that formal category.
The term cisgender, increasingly used to mark non-transgender identity,
poses related problems for this book. First introduced in the early 1990s,
the term draws on use of the cis- prefix in the biological sciences to des¬
ignate something that does not change property or orientation; applied to
gender, in abasic sense it describes remaining aligned with assigned gender/
sex designations and related boundaries rather than changing or crossing
them as the trans- prefix indicates. Although cisgender has recently gained
quite abit of purchase in transgender scholarship and activist discourse, and
although it can do important work in denaturalizing normative gender, I
do not employ it here for several reasons. The term’s reliance on biological
frameworks—both the biological definition fueling the prefix itself and the
implicit investment in abiological grounding for gender—limits its useful¬
ness for aproject intent on exploring the ruptures and contingencies of those
frameworks themselves. Following A. Finn Enke’s analysis of the term, Ialso
question the mechanisms by which trans- is distinguished from cis-, and
how this additional dichotomy may close down new avenues rather than
opening them up.'^ For instance, how might the circulation of cisgender as

SUSPICIOUS VISIBILITY
 an identity category further naturalize and stabilize the categories of man
and woman, even as it may be intended to highlight their constructed na¬
ture? Might cisgender status simply become equivalent to normative gender,
and, if so, which transgender-identified people might it include, if any (i.e.,
once identified as transgender, must one always remain in that category)?’*
Meanwhile, as Che Gossett succinctly argues, the term cisgender “can’t really
account for how the gender binary was forcibly imposed on black and native
people through slavery and settler colonialism. In American society, black
people have always been figured as gender transgressive.”’^ Inasmuch as the
term centralizes aform of gender privilege that emerges through normative
race, class, sexuality, and ability, but generally fails to name these relation¬
ships, can cisgender properly attend to the nuances of gender difference and
the complexities of gender transgression? Because these questions are central
to my examination of the surveillance mechanisms that assess gendered bod¬
ies, identities, and behaviors, cisgender cannot serve as useful shorthand in
this project. Likewise, Iavoid naming particular groups non-transgender, ex¬
cept when doing so indicates the particular assumption of non-transgender
status within surveillance practices and discourses.
Rather than attempting to collect knowledge about aparticular iden¬
tity category or bounded group of people, this book engages the transgender
of transgender studies as amode of critique. Idraw here in part on Susan
Stryker’s explanation of atransgender critique as one that “takes aim at the
modernist epistemology that treats gender merely as asocial, linguistic, or
subjective representation of an objectively knowable material sex. Episte¬
mological concerns lie at the heart of transgender critique T
arnsgender
phenomena, in short, point the way to adifferent understanding of how
bodies mean, how representation works, and what counts as legitimate
knowledge.”^® Building on this, Stryker and Aren Aizura forward an in¬
tellectual approach that uses the critical lens of transgender studies to put
“as much pressure on the categories of man, woman, and homosexuality, as
on transgender" cautioning that “those terms are no less constructed than
transgender itself, and they circulate transnationally in discourse and analy¬
sis with no less risk of being conceptually colonizing.”^’ In these senses, a
transgender critique is concerned less with producing knowledge about a
particular class of people identified as transgender and more with under¬
standing the social, political, and material conditions through which those
identifications emerge and that knowledge itself is produced.

11 INTRODUCTION
 Nor is atransgender critique limited to aclearly circumscribed category
called transgender. Rather, it is most useful when leveraged to unseat those
categories of gender and sexuality that might be normalized and taken for
granted through their assumed contrast to ttansgender. When taken up as
an analytic rathet than as abounded identity category, transgender can also
usefully intervene into the natutalization of race, disability, and citizenship.
The ttvm gender-nonconforming ptavti especially productive for this work,
by moving away from an analysis of identities themselves (which would risk
further naturalizing those identities) and toward an analysis of the produc¬
tion of, investments in, and breaks from those identity categories and related
regulatory norms. In this book, atransgender critique enables an analysis of
gendernonconformitythatmayormaynotbe(orbeperceivedas)transgender-
identified, and it provides acritical framewotk for examining relationships
between many different gendet-nonconforming practices, bodies, and iden¬
tities, and the knowledge frameworks and institutions through which they
ate produced.
In her classic essay “Punks, Bulldaggers, and Welfare Queens,” Cathy
Cohen obsetves that queer political wotk thus far has failed to enact trans¬
formational politics in large part because it has telied on anarrow under¬
standing oiqueer that tutns on sexual identity rather than on shared polit¬
ical commitments and connected relationships to heteronormativity. While
she does not advocate eliminating identity categories, she argues that “it is
the multiplicity and interconnectedness of our identities that provide the
most promising avenue for the destabilization and radical politicization of
these same categories.”^^ In this book, Ido not discount the material effects
of sutveillance on transgender people, but Iam primarily concerned with
tracing the ways that diffetent sutveillance ptactices directly or indirectly
rely on agender-nonconforming figure that, as Ishow, may well not cot-
respond to attansgender-identified subject. In this way, Ialso follow what
certain queer and ethnic studies scholars have called a“subjectless critique,”
■23
which “disallows any positing of apropet subject of or objectfor the field.’
Likewise, my approach is indebted to queer of color critique, which Rod¬
erick Ferguson describes as amode of analysis that “extends women of color
feminism by investigating how intersecting racial, gender, and sexual prac¬
tices antagonize and/or conspire with the normative investments of nation¬
states and capital.”^'* Acritical lens that situates queet studies as inseparable
from processes of radalization and the uneven ttansnational circulation

SUSPICIOUS VISIBILITY 13
oi bodies, capital, and knowledge, queer of color critique approaches ques¬
tions of gender and sexuality not through narrow conceptions of identity
but as political and cultural formations mutually constituted with race,
nationalism, and global structures of power. Accordingly, while this book
examines surveillance enacted by U.S. government agencies and segments
of the U.S. public, it does not suggest abounded United States operating in
isolation. On the contrary, the surveillance practices examined here emerge
and proliferate in relationship to racism, colonialism, and border anxieties,
particularly (but not only) as they structure the war on terror.^’ Relatedly,
the question of citizenship animates many of the forms of surveillance that
this book considers. Acontested term encompassing many interrelated
definitions, citizenship can be aformal legal status, amechanism through
which to access rights, adescriptor of morality and productivity (as in “good
citizenship”), or a“range of everyday activities through which people claim
political and social belonging within the national territory they inhabit” (as
in cultural citizenship).^'^ This book engages each of these meanings, which
both overlap and contradict one another, indicating one reason that surveil¬
lance measures are so frequently instituted to regulate citizenship.
Drawing on Ferguson, Gayatri Gopinath explains that queer of color
critique “enables us to trace the convergence of what seem to be radically
distinct and disparate ideologies as they shore up heteronormativity.”^” Ap¬
plying this intellectual practice to transgender studies makes it possible for
this book to investigate awide range of regulatory mechanisms producing
gender, even—or perhaps especially—if at first gender does not appear
central to their workings. Thus the book critically addresses dichotomous
frameworks not only concerning male/female and man/woman, or even
transgender/non-transgender, but also deviant/normative, terrorist/citizen,
security/insecurity, and us/them. Atransgender critique, as Ipursue it here,
offers away to read various anxieties about gender nonconformity with a
particular focus on their relationship to racism, xenophobia, ableism, and
securitization.

Navigating Visibility

If, following Michel Foucault, power is not simply repressive but is produc¬
tive of knowledge and categories of identity that work to manage life and
regulate behaviors, then this book understands transgender not as aprede-

14 INTRODUCTION
termined category into which identities or bodies are slotted, but as ashift¬
ing discursive category produced in part through practices of surveillance.
In this sense, it is not that surveillance identifies bodies or subjects that are
already inherently deviant, but that surveillance is one mechanism through
which gender nonconformity is produced as such. This theoretical approach
usefully moves away from medical, legal, and cultural frameworks that have
often sought to determine the truth of transgender identities and bodies; it
asks instead how the very notion of transgender enters into discourse and
why its ttuth becomes important.
Key to both the form and content of this book is Foucault’s argument
in Discipline and Punish that the institutionalization of examinations and
inspections—through spaces such as the school, the hospital, or the military
—transformed mechanisms of power beginning in the late eighteenth cen¬
tury. These meticulous and obligatory examinations mark ashift away from
sovereign power, which made itself most visible, to disciplinary power, which
Foucault contends “is exercised through its invisibility; at the same time it
imposes on those whom it subjects aprinciple of compulsory visibility. In
discipline, it is the subjects who have to be seen. Their visibility assures the
hold of the power that is exercised over them. It is the fact of being con¬
stantly seen, of being able always to be seen, that maintains the disciplined
'28
individual in his subjection.’
Much scholarship regarding transgender people has sought to make them
more visible, to investigate the truths of transgender lives and bodies, and
to promote recognition and legibility of transgender individuals. Work in
fields including psychology, law, sociology, and anthropology has aimed to
discover and articulate what transgender bodies, communities, and identi¬
ties entail. Such scholarly endeavors occur alongside rransgender representa¬
tion in popular culture: mystery novels, medical dramas, and daytime talk
shows regularly position transgender people as hiding adramatic secret that
audiences are meant to uncover, often in the most literal sense of the word.

We might say, in fact, that one of the most common charactetistics of work
on transgender topics is the framing of transgender bodies and identities as
opportunities to make visible what is otherwise tantalizingly hidden.
Although visibility projects can create spectacles and further marginalize
gender nonconformity, in many cases these efforts are intended as beneficial
steps towatd social change. But as Evelynn Hammonds reminds us, “an ap¬
peal to the visual is not uncomplicated or innocent. As theorists we have to

SUSPICIOUS VISIBILITY 15
 ask how vision is structured, and, following that, we have to explore how
difference is established, how it operates, how and in what ways it constitutes
subjects who see and speak in the world.”^’ These tasks are crucial to acritical
engagement of surveillance practices—practices that should remind us that
30
visibility is not apanacea but rathet, as Foucault famously remarked, atrap.
This is in part because one’s visibility to surveillance mechanisms can allow
those mechanisms to work more effectively. At times this can even seem de¬
sirable, as when individuals enroll in preferred customer tracking programs
or register as precertified travelers under new airline screening policies; these
sutveillance practices may not even tegister as surveillance, but rathet as con¬
venient privileges for the compliant consumer-citizen. Heightened visibility
of some populations, particularly those marked as deviant or undesirable,
can also allow others to feel or appear untouched by surveillance (even if this
is not actually the case). All of these instances tend to focus on the problem
bodies that must be overtly scrutinized and deflect attention away from sur¬
veillance practices themselves, much as Foucault notes that visibility shifts
away from the workings of disciplinary power and onto those subjects being
disciplined. David Lyon explains this in the context of increasingly auto¬
mated and digital sutveillance technologies: “Surveillance practices enable
fresh forms of exclusion that not only cut off certain tatgeted groups from
social participation, but do so in subtle ways that are sometimes scarcely
visible. Indeed, the automating of surveillance permits adistance to be main¬
tained between those who are privileged and those who are poor, those who
are ‘safe’ and those who are ‘suspect.’”^'
With these concerns in mind, this book seeks not to uncover particular
information or truths about transgender subjects, but to understand how
these subjects, and the shifting category of transgender, are produced in
concert with arange of nonconforming gender practices and made visible
through modes of surveillance that may never even name transgender as a
category of concern. If, as Foucault argues, power is exerted not in aone-
directional, top-down manner but through diffuse networks, then this book
is concerned with the ways that practices of surveillance extend far beyond
their most obvious forms—the USA PATRIOT Act, the National Security
Agency—into the mote quotidian aspects of our lives. These surveillance
and security practices of the everyday produce and refine normative gendet
even when they may appear disconnected from it, as the first two chapters
make clear.

i6 INTRODUCTION
 Likewise, although this book pays special attention to U.S. state surveil¬
lance, it does not assume that surveillance practices originate in the state or
that the state itself can be considered astable and unified entity. Rather, in
Wendy Brown’s terms, we might best understand the state as “a significantly
unbounded terrain of powers and techniques, an ensemble of discourses,
rules, and practices, cohabiting in limited, tension-ridden, often contradic¬
tory relation with one another,” and yet despite this somewhat unwieldy
and shifting set of practices, also as “a vehicle of massive domination.”^^ In
this framework, surveillance can be analyzed as aconstellation of mecha¬
nisms that may support but also exceed state power, while also illustrating
the incoherence of and fractures in what we call the state. By addressing
state sutveillance, this book seeks to understand how surveillance practices
move through and beyond formal state apparatuses and to explore how those
practices put the state itself in question. Thus as Margot Canaday writes,
“the state does not just direct policy at its subjects; various state arenas are
themselves sites of contest over sex/gender norms, and therefore structured
by those norms.”^^ Accordingly, while Iexamine the ways that U.S. state sur¬
veillance works to tegulate gender, Ialso address these practices as fraught
struggles over the very gendered categories that such surveillance claims to
bring under control.
Because surveillance practices proliferate to pervade all aspects of our
lives, extending well beyond those specific measures that state agencies lay
claim to, the scope of my primary source material here is necessarily both
broad and incomplete. In many cases Ilook to facets of surveillance clearly
connected to specific government agencies, such as congressional hearings
and formal legislation, that set in motion and maintain security mecha¬
nisms. But Ialso take seriously Foucault’s caution against conceiving of the
state and civil society as adichotomous and “antagonistic pair” in which
the former is domineering while the latter is “something good, lively, and
warm.”’'* If power has no single origin or hierarchy, but consists of “the
manifold relationships of force that take shape and come into play in the
machinery of production, in families, limited groups, and institutions,” then
my archive also traces surveillance through capillary networks of power not
confined to the arenas commonly associated with the state itself, as the third
chapter particularly illustrates.^^ But it is also for this reason—that power
“is produced from one moment to the next, at every point, or rather in every
relation from one point to another”—that the archive must always be par-

SUSPiCIOUS VISIBILITY 17
 Ibring together acombination of formal and informal surveillance
mechanisms, tracing their connections through the everyday to better un¬
derstand how surveillance, the state, and the category of transgender come
to seem legible and stable through one another.
Ialso consider transgender advocacy organizations’ responses to U.S.
surveillance practices, responses that reflect atension between these organi¬
zations’ different political frameworks. Aligned with amode of scholarship
that promotes visibility and recognition, some organizations have urged a
rather patriotic compliance with state policy while seeking to reform se¬
curity measures to more accurately and sensitively address transgender-
identified people. This strategy emerges out of alarger investment in existing
institutions such as the legal and penal systems, understood here as granting
rights and protection, provided they can be taught to properly account for
and include transgender-identified people. Although intended to alleviate
particular harms, these inclusion campaigns rest on claims of good citizen¬
ship that both presume equal access to that status and help legitimate sur¬
veillance practices by working within the frameworks they provide. Asjasbir
Puar argues, the queer subject is often incorporated into normative white
citizenship through the production of acontrasting racialized figure of ter¬
ror, creating figures that appear both exceptional and binarily oppositional.
But crucially, these figures can work together to deflect attention from the
ways that queerness is thoroughly entangled in and produced through the
37
biopolitics of war, militarism, and security.
Working against that problem, other transgender advocacy and activist
organizations begin not by attempting to fold more genders into surveillance
systems but by questioning instead the very terms on which those systems
operate. Structured by frameworks of racial and economic justice—and
understanding these as central to transgender politics—these groups fol¬
low what Dean Spade has desctibed as a“trickle-up” model of social jus¬
38
tice, which ptioritizes the needs and leadetship of those most vulnerable.
Through this lens, greater recognition of transgender people from police,
prisons, or biometric screening technologies exacerbates rather than miti¬
gates harm: many transgender and gender-nonconforming people are al¬
ready made visible—and thus vulnerable—to surveillance mechanisms, as
this book shows, and campaigns for greater recognition tacitly support the
continuation of those systems.
Two organizations’ approaches to hate crimes legislation can illustrate

INTRODUCTION
these different advocacy approaches. The National Center for Transgender
Equality (ncte), perhaps the most prominent transgender-specific lobby¬
ing and policy organization in the United States, offers aresource manual
titled “Responding to Hate Crimes.” Last updated in 2,009—the year that
U.S. federal hate crimes law was expanded to include sexual orientation,
gender, and gender identity—the manual provides extensive information
about the parameters of hate crimes laws, responding to harms considered
hate crimes, and working with law enforcement. In the section regarding law
enforcement, NCTE begins with ashort paragraph noting restorative justice
programs before describing at length how to best interact with law enforce¬
ment personnel: for instance, the manual encourages readers to remind po¬
lice officers chat “criminal law protects and applies to transgender people in
the same way that it protects and applies to non-cransgender people.”’’ Also
in 2009, the Sylvia Rivera Law Project (SRLP)—a New York-based collec¬
tive providing free legal services for low-income transgender, intersex, and
gender-nonconforming people—released astatement regarding the federal
hate crimes law expansion. Explicitly marking the disproportionate target¬
ing of marginalized communities, the statement denounces such legislation
as a“counterproductive response to the violence faced by LGBT people,” not¬
ing that “this system itself is amain perpetrator of violence against our com¬
munities” and recommitting SRLP to creating “systems of accountability
” 4 0
that do not rely on prisons or policing.
The statement by SRLP explicitly recognizes that greater transgender in¬
clusion and legibility in the criminal legal system intensifies harm for many
and reinforces the status of law enforcement as our primary recourse for
addressing violence, and it emphasizes avision for responding to harm that
does not depend on this system. The NCTE manual briefly mentions re¬
storative justice programs as “relatively rare” in the United States, and fore¬
grounds instead adetailed set of suggestions for assisting and educating law
enforcement that naturalizes reliance on “law and order.” By presuming a
universal and equally accessible protection granted by the criminal legal sys¬
tem, the manual elides the profoundly uneven ways that criminalization and
incarceration play out; it positions that system as aremedy in itself, if one
in need of education regarding transgender-identified people. Going Stealth
explores the contours of these different advocacy frameworks as enacted by
avariety of organizations and considers the relationship of such responses
to specific surveillance practices. Efforts toward more recognition of trans-

SUSPICIOUS VISIBILITY 19
gender identities and bodies within surveillance systems may reduce harm
for certain individuals, yet they also facilitate the workings of surveillance,
bringing those identities and bodies more efficiently under biopolitical man¬
agement. To return to Hammonds’s concerns with visibility, then; “in over¬
turning the ‘politics of silence’ the goal cannot be merely to be seen: visibility
in and of itself does not erase ahistory of silence nor does it challenge the
structure of power and domination, symbolic and material, that determines
what can and cannot be seen.”'*'

In light of these interventions, this book seeks not to forward visibility

for transgender subjects but to consider how that visibility works as apart
of biopower to produce the very category of transgender. Rather than ar¬
guing for or against the veracity of the information that national security
measures purport to offer up about gender-nonconforming people, Ireflect
here on the effects of that focus on truth and accuracy. In this sense, the
book’s form works hand in hand with its content: each chapter begins with
arelatively recent and fairly overt instance of surveillance that may seem
singular, often appearing as adirect response to the events and aftermath
of 9/11, and works outward to excavate its historical and political under¬
pinnings. Itrace genealogies of discursive figures, classificatory frameworks,
and security technologies with aparticular eye to how an understanding of
post-9/11 events as exceptional, new, or isolated occurrences can efface these
nuanced histories. Across its chapters, the book moves from little discern¬
ible visibility of transgender subjects—by considering surveillance practices
chat almost never refer to the term transgender—to what we might consider
hypervisibility—by examining practices that, Iargue, come to seem entirely
about an explicitly transgender subject.
The first chapter cakes up U.S. government regulation of identification
documents, which has garnered increased public scrutiny since 9/11, par¬
ticularly regarding the introduction of the Real ID Act and related policies
aimed at identifying terrorist suspects. Noting chat the medical and legal
scrutiny of gender nonconformity—and the medicolegal production of
transgender subjects—regularly converge in the administration of identity
documents, this chapter explores the broader history of such documents,
including their racial and nationalist foundations. Analyzing the longer arc
of efforts to identify through documentation, Idemonstrate how gender-
nonconforming bodies and identities point to internal contradictions in
the government’s control of identity, even as state-assigned documents aim

10 INTRODUCTION
to produce legible and fixed gender identities, and even when security poli¬
cies seem utterly unconcerned with transgender people. This chapter also
considers several transgender advocacy organizations’ responses to the new
forms of document regulation; Ishow how the strategies proposed by some
of these groups bolster U.S. nationalism and fail to attend to the broader po¬
licing and classification of bodies deemed deviant or dangerous, particularly
in terms of race and citizenship status.
Government efforts to screen, identify, and track people have perhaps
been most noticeable and contested in that space at which travel, borders,
and bodies regularly converge: the airport. In the context of wide public ap¬
prehension about the potential for recently installed X-ray screening systems
to impinge on travelers’ bodily privacy, chapter iexamines the particular
concern that certain bodily technologies, such as the prosthetics used by
some transgender people and people with disabilities (among others), may
be misinterpreted as weapons rather than as medically necessary technolo¬
gies. Drawing on disability studies, Isketch acultural history of the X-ray
itself to understand its emergence in militarized contexts as atechnology
that simultaneously heals and harms. And Iconsider how chose areas of the
body understood as especially private—the genitals in particular—are his¬
torically suffused with public anxiety in ways that overtly link gender, race,
and national security. In this way, Iintervene into the frameworks used by
some transgender and disability advocacy groups, which call for stronger
privacy measures and more accurate screenings by which to distinguish safe
bodies from dangerous ones. Analyzing the airport security screening as a
particularly fraught microcosm of these interconnecting debates, Iargue for
amore complex understanding of privacy, health, and violence.
In chapter 3, Itake up that space of bodily privacy that is perhaps the
most commonly discussed site of surveillance for gender transgression: the
public bathroom. Rather than focusing on accessibility concerns, Iaddress
the regulation of bathrooms and the bodies that move through them as a
method for producing citizenship and determining national belonging. This
chapter considers legislation regulating gendered bathrooms in the context
of anti-immigrant policies and discourse. Isuggest that public bathroom
scrutiny (which increasingly names transgender people and their bodies as
threats)isonecomponentoftheU.S.government’sinvestmentinthephysi¬
cal body as proof of good citizenship and spatial belonging, and Itherefore
argue that the surveillance practices represented by the bathroom bills are

SUSPICIOUS VISIBILITY ii
part of arenewed emphasis on biometric identification following 9/11. At the
same time, Idemonstrate the ongoing role that the space of the bathroom
plays in creating U.S. national identity through structures of race and gen¬
der, in turn positioning its regulation as fundamental to the national project
and the maintenance of good citizenship.
The final chapter turns to an instance in which the explicitly transgen¬
der figure appears utterly central to surveillance. Here Iconsider the case
of Chelsea Manning, accused of undermining national security by send¬
ing classified U.S. military and government materials to the whistle-blower
website WikiLeaks in zoio. Manning’s legal defense rested in part on her
apparent struggle with gender identity, suggesting that the emotional bur¬
den of hiding atransgender identity influenced her decision to leak sensitive
documents. Examining the trial transcripts—which reflect the concealment
not only of military actions but also of the conditions of Manning’s pretrial
incarceration and even the trial itself— Iargue that court and media scrutiny
of Manning’s gender identity deflects attention from U.S. military actions
while simultaneously rationalizing intensified surveillance over Manning as
an exceptional, deceptive individual. This chapter shows how overt atten¬
tion to transgender identity can work to obscure and thus enable broader
surveillance practices.
Most of the research and writing of Going Stealth took place during the
George W. Bush and Barack Obama administrations, but Icompleted the fi¬
nal revisions after Donald Trump’s election in November 1016. In the book’s
brief conclusion, Icarry forward the central contentions that current surveil¬
lance practices are not unprecedented and that these practices do not simply
identify aready-made set of transgender-identified people. These arguments
remain in the Trump era, even as our political context undergoes significant
changes. In looking ahead, Iexamine the Trump administration’s rescind¬
ing of federal guidelines that govern treatment of transgender students in
public schools and the announcement that the zozo U.S. census will not
collect data specific to LGBT identities. The book closes by returning to the
seductive appeal of visibility and by considering the political possibilities
that may yet arise in the enduring relationship between surveillance and
gender nonconformity.
Ihave at times wryly remarked that this is atransgender studies book
that is not terribly interested in transgender people; instead, it considers sur¬
veillance practices through atransgender crititjue to explore that category’s

INTRODUCTION
edges and its complicated interactions with racialization, citizenship, dis¬
ability, and militarism. But Ialso write with adeep investment in transgen¬
der politics and with an interest in the particular material and ideological
relationships that transgender people and social movements may develop
with government policies and practices. Too often, the state’s regulatory gaze
can appear either as an impervious and inescapable force or as the key to a
liberating form of recognition. By examining the normative assumptions
used to analyze and interpret—as well as to produce—gendered bodies and
identities. Going Stealth illustrates ruptures in surveillance frameworks and
complicates aspirations of legibility and visibility. In this way the book aims
not to clearly define the category of transgender or to perfectly trace the
workings of surveillance practices, but rather to refocus our energies on the
fraught negotiations between them. It is in these struggles and fractures that
new political possibilities can emerge.

SUSPICIOUS VISIBILITY 23
CHAPTER ONE

DECEPTIVE DOCUMENTS

ON SEPTEMBER 4, 2003, shortly before the two-year anniversary of the at¬

tacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon, the U.S. Department of
Homeland Security (dhs) released an official advisory to security personnel.
Citing ongoing concerns about potential attacks by Al-Qaeda operatives,
the advisory’s final paragraph emphasizes that terrorism is everywhere in
disguise: “Terrorists will employ novel methods to artfully conceal suicide
devices. Male bombers may dress as females in order to discourage scrutiny.”'
Two years later. Congress signed into law the Real ID Act, which proposes
amajor restructuring of identification documents and travel within and
across U.S. borders. Central components of this process include anew na¬
tional database linked through federally standardized driver’s licenses and
stricter standards of proof for asylum applications. In response to both the
advisory and the Real ID Act, many transgender advocacy organizations in
the United States quickly pointed to the ways that such policies would target
transgender people as suspicious and subject them to new levels of scrutiny.
Criticizing what they read as instances of transphobia or anti-transgender
discrimination, some prominent organizations offered both transgender
individuals and government agencies strategies for reducing that discrim¬
ination. While attending to the very real harm that government policies
for identification documents cause for many transgender-identified people,
these organizations’ approaches tend to leave intact the broader regulation
of gender, particularly as it is mediated and enforced by state agencies. More¬
over, they tend to address concerns about anti-transgender discrimination
in ways that are disconnected from the central questions of citizenship and
race that have long structured government surveillance through identifica¬
tion documents. This chapter puts current debates over transgender-specific
identification documents in the broader context of national anxieties about

race, gender, sexuality, and citizenship that form the impetus for state-
regulated identity documents. Ishow how gender-nonconforming bodies and
identities reveal inconsistencies in the U.S. government’s control of identity,
even as certain state-assigned documents produce transgender identity as a
recognizable category. This process of recognition and legitimation marks
other forms of gender transgression as deviant against the legal classification
of transgender. In considering different transgender advocacy organizations’
responses to increased state regulation of identification documents, then, I
demonstrate how many of these strategies reconsolidate U.S. nationalism
and facilitate the increased policing of deviant bodies and identities.

Producing Contradictions

Although documents such as passports and birth certificates are commonly

understood simply to report observable identifying characteristics such as
race or gender, they actually construct these characteristics through the pro¬
cess of codification. For instance, we might consider avery early example
in which government agencies specifically formalized identity documents
as tracking measures: the standardization of manumission papers in the
eighteenth-century United States occurred as aresponse to enslaved people’s
efforts to circumvent patrols by forging written passes and emancipation
documents. The new combination of printed forms and physical descrip¬
tions marked adistinct shift in power over identity construction, “from the
realm of oral culture, individual assertion, and community practice to the
apparatus of the state and the capital-intensive technologies of literacy and
printing.”^ Recalling Foucault’s model of power as productive, this process
shows how state power might use formal identity documents to produce free
or unfree subjects: documents generate acertain truth about individuals,
and so they do not merely attest to one’s identity but also create it.
The production of national identity through records such as driver’s li¬
censes and passports becomes particularly clear when we consider the ways
that dominant groups use those documents to regulate race, gender, and
sexuality. For instance, the documentation of enslaved people’s mobility
responded not only to white desires to monitor those people that the law
designated as commodities, but also to white anxieties about racial purity.^
Similarly, passport applications have historically emphasized questions of

DECEPTIVE DOCUMENTS 2-5

paternity, including requests fot data about children classified as both le¬
gitimate and illegitimate. The collection of this information indicates the
extent to which the surveillance of identification documents links race, gen¬
der, and sexuality, as marital and parental data help determine citizenship
status, aprocess that Mark Salter also links to colonialist fears of miscege¬
nation: “National belonging is policed by acknowledgement of the father, a
clear echo of imperial and postimperial worries about racial integrity.”"* The
desire to track paternity in relation to nationality is persistent: as recently
as 1961, U.S. passports still assumed aheteronormative male-assigned ap¬
plicant, with standardized lines for data about his wife and minors, which
were simply marked out with an Xfor women applicants or those without
children.’

Identification documents need not always be so overt in the ways that

they create classificatory schemas through which to sort populations. For
instance, in her analysis of the formation of apassport system in early
twentieth-century Canada, Radhika Mongia shows how state actors’ desire
to selectively discriminate among immigrants led to extensive debates about
how the passport system could “effect racial exclusion without naming race.”^
To accomplish this feat, the Canadian government framed anti-immigrant
legislation in terms of the protection of women, astrategy grounded in fears
of miscegenation and racial impurity that in turn required white women to
be safeguarded. Race, gender, and sexuality thus converge as rationale for a
passport system that helped the government generate and collect informa¬
tion about certain immigrant groups that were then sorted into categories;
at the same time, this system also shored up the category of white citizen-
subjects. In this way, “the passport not only is atechnology reflectingctn^m
understandings of race, nation/nationality, and state, but was central to or¬
ganizing and securing the modern definitions of those categories.”^
Because identification documents help produce the very categories they
appear merely to record, they are far more malleable and problematic mecha¬
nisms than government framings of them typically suggest. The Chinese
Exclusion Act of i88i, one of the earliest uses of formal documents to regu¬
late the U.S. population, illustrates this point. We can trace today’s U.S.
passport system back to this act, in part because it “constituted the first
serious attempt in American history specifically to exclude members of a
particular group whose relevant characteristics were knowable only on the
basis of documents.”** The legislation required anew system of identification

16 CHAPTER ONE
and sorting, to determine which Chinese immigrants were in the country
legally (having entered prior to this legislation) and which were not. Notably,
the act depended on paternity and marital status as key factors for determi¬
nation of citizenship, with women and children receiving the classification
assigned to their husbands or fathers.
But the provisions for identification proved difficult to maintain. The
strategic use of “paper sons,” by which Chinese immigrants reported false
family ties to obtain citizenship papers, demonstrates one of the many ways
in which documents could be manipulated. The inclusion of photos on iden¬
tity documents served as apreventative measure against illegal selling and
trading of IDs, yet in order to gain entry into the United States, Chinese
immigrants often altered their identification photographs. As aresult, what
government officials initially considered clear evidence of identity came to
expose the subjective nature of visual identification, prompting officials to
more strictly regulate the types of allowable photos and the conditions under
which they could be taken.
Current debates about the role of identity documents in immigration
regulations and antiterrorism measures incorporate the notion that false
documents reflect afundamentally deceptive personality and that this per¬
sonality trait is shared across certain marginalized groups, ideas that can
be traced back to some of the earliest uses of identification documents in
the United States. Government officials came to believe that Chinese im¬

migrants and their photographs shared “a particularly treacherous artifice:

on the surface both appeared honest, but this apparent honesty concealed a
deeper duplicity.”^ While US. state agencies formally considered identifica¬
tion documents an effective method for restricting both immigrants and
the criminal behavior they associated with immigrant populations, these
documents were shown again and again to be fallible and subjective. The
alteration of photographic identification demonstrates the failure of these
documents to provide airtight evidence of identity, afailure that, for offi¬
cials, reflected the inherent dishonesty of those holding the documents. In
this way, immigrant registration papers offer an early example of the ways
that state regulation of documents is inconsistent and porous, even as state
agencies continually revise attempts to contain identity (and populations)
through such regulation.
More recent struggles over voter identification processes in the United
States exemplify the many complexities and contradictions still embedded

DECEPTIVE DOCUMENTS 17
in government-issued identification documents. In June Z013, the U.S. Su¬
preme Court struck down Section 4of the Voting Rights Act, which had
required states and counties with ahistory of discriminatory practices to
be approved at the federal level before making changes to their voting laws.
Progressivemediaoutletsandracialjusticeorganizations,amongothers,ar¬
gued that this legal change creates (or, perhaps more accurately, re-create.s)
severe vulnerability for many people in terms of both the denial of their
right to vote and the broader effects of gerrymandering.'" Within two days
of the Court’s decision, six of the nine states directly affected by the tuling
had already put forward new voter ID legislation, rationalized as amethod
for reducing voter fraud."
Restrictions based on identification documents most severely affect mar¬
ginalized populations, for whom obtaining state-tecognized identification
can be asignificant burden, if it is possible to begin with. Many people who
rely on public services—often including poor people, veterans, people with
disabilities, people of color, and seniors—do not have approved identifica¬
tion such as adriver’s license, passport, or college ID, and encounter substan¬
tial difficulties when they attempt to obtain such documents. Several wit¬
nesses in the loii case against Pennsylvania’s voter ID policy explained that
even their requests for their birth certificates were futile; one witness said of
her failed birth certificate request, “They say Idon’t exist.”'^ Such cases high¬
light the material effects of state agencies’ reliance on documents to prove
identity, showing how that reliance creates hardships for particular groups.
At the same time, these debates also throw into relief government agencies’
own inability to comply with their policies for documentation. For instance,
the identification requirement in Pennsylvania obliges that state to provide
free photographic voter ID for any resident without another approved form
of identification. Yet the state “can only loosen its rules but so much without
breaching federal and state security concerns,” creating acontradiction in
which Pennsylvania must provide the voter ID card to anyone who needs it,
yet cannot do so unless applicants provide other official documents attesting
to their identity, such as birth or marriage certificates.'^
Moreover, if identification documents help produce identities rather than
merely recording them, then the voter ID cases helpfully illustrate how docu¬
ments produce certain groups as recognized, legitimate citizens, while other
groups appear simply not to exist. In this sense, missing or incorrect identity
documents suggest not only fraudulence but also acertain impossible sub-

18 CHAPTER ONE
Figure i.i Portion of cover art from True the Vote’s loiz observer training
manual for Virginia.

jecc. Consider, for example, materials published in zoiz by True the Vote, an
organization emerging out of alocal Texas Tea Party group in zoo8, which
describes itself as training “average, everyday citizens to research the voter
rolls in their home districts and to report inaccuracies to their County and
State, to identify instances of vote fraud,” and to act as observers at polls.
As part of the organization’s nationwide outreach duringthe loiz elections.
True the Vote’s Virginia observer training manual featured acartoon draw¬
ing of abroad-shouldered figure with facial and body hair wearing adress
and carrying apurse, pictured next to avoter ID card for afigure with a
feminine name (Maryjane Jones) and no facial halt (figure i.i). The drawing
urges trainees to “Prevent voter fraud!,” which is signaled here by gendered
disguise.
The National Center for Transgender Equality (ncte), self-defined as
“the nation’s leading social justice advocacy organization” that is focused
o n
ending discrimination and violence against transgender people,” con¬
structed aformal response to this page of the manual.'’ The organization
asserts that “until this point, the concerted effort by right-wing, tea party
groups to restrict voting rights with new Voter ID laws only inadvertently
affected transgender voters. Only days away from Election Day, the discov¬
ery of True the Vote’s training manual marks ashift by right-wing groups to
explicitly target transgender people and deny them aright to vote.”"’ Given
the heightened scrutiny of identification documents of all sorts, it is not
unlikely that some transgender people experienced difficulty at the polls; as

DECEPTIVE DOCUMENTS zj
 Ishow in the next section of this chapter, state-regulated identity documents
pose particular problems for many transgender and gender-nonconforming
people. But the manual works on amore pernicious level than the direct
targeting of transgender people that NCTe’s interpretation suggests.
The image intended to tead as aman in adtess symbolizes deceit in this
case, but it does not necessarily or deliberately create suspicion about trans¬
gender people per se; nor does the manual necessarily use this figure be¬
cause it is explicitly transgender. Rather, the figure stands here as the subject
that cannot be correct, particularly when contrasted with the voter ID card
at its side, which signifies the legitimate citizen-subject. Pitted against the
government-approved document that connotes fundamental truthfulness,
the gender-nonconforming figure functions as arecognizable and basic sym¬
bol of something gone wrong, in need of further inspection. This is not to
say that the image is entirely disconnected from transgender populations: it
may well exacerbate already existing suspicion ditected at many transgender
people, at the polls and elsewhere. Yet many transgender-identified voters
may feel the image’s effects not because it is explicitly anti-transgender, but
because of the ways that voter ID efforts overall create greater vulnerability
for marginalized groups, particularly along lines of race and class. In fact,
given that voter identification restrictions historically and currently central¬
ize race—while also denying that race is afactor—then particularly if the
image’s gender-nonconforming figure reads as white, we can understand it
less as away to target transgender people as aspecific group than as astrat¬
egy for conveying and playing on racial anxieties about voter fraud without
explicitly referencing race.
In this context, NCTE’s claim that previous voter ID programs only in¬
advertently affected transgender people elides the ways that race and class
marginalization work with transgender status to increase risk of scrutiny
(and denial of voting access) and to complicate how state agencies produce
and interpret gender through identification documents. Efforts to raise
suspicion about false identities and documents need not explicitly mark
out transgender people in order to significantly affect them; likewise, as
the True the Vote manual illustrates, efforts that can appear to specifically
target transgender-identified people may do so unintentionally, and may
have their broadest effects on those populations already most vulnerable,
whether transgender or not.'" The ways that medicine and law produce trans¬
gender as arecognized category offer some insight into this category’s re-

30 CHAPTER ONE
lacionship with race, class, and citizenship, as well as the administrative
conflicts it reveals.

Normalizing Gender

The relationship between transgender identity and government-ordered

identification documents provides aparticularly clear example through
which to understand how medicine and law converge to produce and regu¬
late identity categories, as well as how such categories fluctuate, pushing
back against the regulatory mechanisms that create them. The production
of “the transsexual” through Western medical discourse can be clearly traced
through sexologist Harry Benjamin’s Standards of Carefor Gender Identity
Disorders, first published in 1979. The Standards, continually revised and
circulated by the World Professional Association for Transgender Health
(wpath), define the criteria by which health care professionals should as¬
sess their clients in order to determine whether they are “true transsexuals”
(in early versions of the document) or experience gender dysphoria (in later
versions).'* Clients fitting the profile can then be formally diagnosed and
allowed to proceed with medical transition in the form of hormones, surger¬
ies, and other medical procedures. Central to this standardized definition
of transgender identity, however, is the expectation that transgender people
will, through the process of transition, eliminate all references to their birth
gender and essentially disappear into anormatively gendered world, as if
they had never been transgender to begin with.
Thus two major forms of surveillance operate relative to transgender
people in medical and psychiatric institutions. The fitst is the monitoring
of individuals in terms of their ability to conform to aparticular medical-
ized understanding of transgender identity and observable behavior.'’ But
more salient to my discussion here is the second component, which is the
construction of medical transition primarily as amethod to rid oneself of
any vestiges of nonnormative gender: to withstand and evade any scrutiny
(visual, auditory, social, or legal) that would reveal one’s transgender status.
Medical science relies on astandardized, normative gender presentation as
its benchmark, monitoring transgender individuals’ ability to pass seam¬
lessly as non-transgender. Medical surveillance thus focuses first on indi¬
viduals’ legibility as transgender, and then, following medical interventions,
on their ability to conceal that transgender status.

DECEPTIVE DOCUMENTS 31
 But medical science itself detetmines notmative gendet through apar¬
ticular form of raced, classed, and sexualized body. Western medicine has
consistently linked race, gender, and sexuality such that the norm of white
heterosexuality becomes amarker against which deviance is constructed.
Scientificstudiesfromtheearlynineteenthcenturyonhelpeddesignatepar¬
ticular bodies—typically those that were racially or sexually mixed—as de¬
generative threats to Western norms and national security.^® To be classified
as normatively gendered is also to adhere to norms of racial and economic
privilege. Under this logic, marginalized gender identities can approximate
the norm in part through clinging to ideals of whiteness and class status.
Likewise, concealing gender deviance is about much more than simply eras-
ing transgender status. It also necessitates altering one’s gender presentation
to conform to white, middle-class, able-bodied, heterosexual understand¬
ings of normative gendering.
The notion of concealment via medical intervention structures legal gen¬
der as well, alink made clear by the fact that most state and administrative
agencies deny changes of gender on identity documents without proof of
irreversible medical procedures. United States law depends on medical evi¬
dence to verify gender identity in almost every case involving transgender-
identified people. Importantly, Dean Spade argues that medicine—and thus
also law—continues to rely on an ideal of success in diagnosis and treatment
plans for transgender people, where success is typically defined as “the ability
to be perceived by non-trans people as anon-trans person.”^' Spade’s work
points to the ways that medicine and law work together to correct individu¬
als whose bodies or gender presentations fall outside of the expected norm,
promoting the concealment of transgender status in order to reestablish
that norm.

The discourse of concealment haunts transgender populations across a

number of cultural sites. The impossibility of fully erasing one’s sexed and
gendered history is evident in the fact that many U.S. states either refuse to
change gender markers on birch certificates or allow only apartial change in
which the original gender marker is merely crossed our and replaced.^^ Legal
gender in these cases cannot be changed, but only cloaked. At times, even
proof of irreversible surgery cannot overcome the characteristic of fraud at¬
tached to transgender persons: in loii, adistrict judge in Oklahoma refused
to grant legal name changes for two transgender-idencified women, writing
in an order that “a so-called sex-change surgery can make one appear to be

31 CHAPTER ONE
che opposite sex, but in fact they are nothing more than an imitation of the
opposite sex.”^^ Citing DNA as evidence that one’s sex and gender can never
really change, the judge concluded that “to grant aname change in this case
would be to assist that which is fraudulent,” and he worried that it could lead

to dishonest marriages, undermine state laws against same-sex marriage, or

hinder DNA-based criminal investigations. The decision was reversed in an
appeals case later that year, but the language in the initial denial illustrates
the extent to which transgender bodies and identities may be considered
inherently duplicitous.
Similarly, cultural representations of transgender people often depend
on the popular notion that with enough scrutiny, one’s true gender can be
revealed at the level of the body. Consider the abundance of talk shows, real¬
ity television programs, and episodes of medical and crime dramas that run
on the presumably simple premise of uncovering—often in the most literal
sense—a transgender person’s “real” gender or sex. These frameworks tend
to link gender concealment with harmful or dangerous deception in the cul¬
tural imagination, for example in numerous cases revealing che transgender
person’s birth-assigned sex not only to the audience but also to ashocked
and horrified sexual partner. The constant repetition of this narrative struc¬
ture locates violence not in the institutional practices of media, medicine,
or law, or in the rigidly gender-normative behaviors and relationships they
uphold, but instead in individual transgender people’s fraudulent bodies and
identities.

Echoing this perspective, legal cases dealing with violence against trans-
gender people often revolve around the victim’s responsibility to disclose
their transgender status or birth-assigned sex. Such cases imply or outright
claim that the individual’s dishonest concealment of their sex was the root

cause of violent actions taken against them. This approach is clearly dem¬
onstrated, for instance, in che narratives constructed around transgender
teenager Gwen Araujo’s murder (and sexual relationships) in zooi. Legal
arguments, news media, and made-for-celevision movies converged to situ¬
ate Araujo’s murder in the context of a“trans panic” defense, centralizing
the shock of discovery and frequently faulting Araujo for not revealing her
assigned sex.^'* In this and many other instances, the interplay of medical,
legal, and cultural representations of transgender populations helps associate
transgender identity with secrecy, precisely because it is understood that the
secret can and should eventually be discovered.

DECEPTIVE DOCUMENTS 33
 With such apervasive cultural emphasis on concealment, it may come
as no surprise that the slang used by many transgender-identified people to
describe nondisclosure of transgender status is “going stealth.” Those living
stealth are unknown as transgender to almost everyone in their lives. The
term itself invokes asense of going undercover, of willful secrecy and con¬
cealment, perhaps even of conscious deception. The resonance of militarism
in this term suggests the extent to which going stealth entails acertain com¬
plicity with state agencies, which demand compliance with specific legal and
medical procedures and ostensibly offer in return official documentation
that helps make stealth status possible.
Yet by granting medical and legal changes of gender, government offices
also maintain detailed records of these changes, producing apaper trail of
past identity markers that threatens to expose one’s stealth status. At the
same time, these documentation practices can inadvettently create new
spaces through which transgender people might slip; hundreds of state agen¬
cies and jurisdictions across the United States produce avariety of policies
governing gender changes, put into practice by many different individual
state officials. Adriver’s license clerk in one office may allow agender change
merely based on the applicant’s claim that the current gender marker is a
clerical error, while aclerk in aneighboring office may insist on filing docu¬
mented evidence (such as abirth certificate or aphysician’s letter) to change
the marker. Other factors such as race, citizenship, criminal record, and lo¬
cation can further facilitate—or limit—the possibilities of skirting these
types of inconsistent administrative practices.
The very linguistic construction of “going stealth” depends on the con¬
stancy oigoing-, of continuing to conceal one’s transgender status, even if
that concealment can never be airtight. Although the legal procedures used
to document transgender people’s gender status frequently conflict with one
another, they collectively work toward stricter regulation of legal gender.
Some state agencies and programs refuse to change the gender marker on
birth certificates, while others do so only with documentation of specified
surgeries. Other institutions first require amended birth certificates in order
to change the gender marker on other documents, and in some cases state
and city regulations contradict one another in their medical requirements
for documentation changes.These inconsistent requirements and contra¬
dictory methods for determining gender and administering identification
documents can create ahost of difficulties for transgender people, given the

3 4 CHAPTER ONE
ways that such documents ate central to housing, employment, ttavel, access
26
to public benefits, and other daily life activities.
Such difficulties reflect not transgender people’s inability to fit into cate¬
gories, but rather the fundamentally normalizing function of state-regulated
identity documentation. The creation of an official third gender category
exemplifies this point. Although sometimes imagined as a helpful a n s w e r

to the administrative problems Ihave outlined so far, such acategory shows

how state classification systems produce and reinforce normative gender,
frequently in ways that support surveillance practices. For instance, Nepal’s
Supreme Court established athird gender category in zooy for government
paperwork including citizenship certificates, voter registration, and the na¬
tional census. The U.S. news media widely reported the new category as
intended for those who “do not wish to be identified as male or female”

and suggested that it would simplify bureaucratic processes and basic life
tasks for such individuals.^" Similarly, U.S. news media reported Pakistan’s
1009 creation of athird gender category on national identity cards as one in¬
tended for hijras, transvestites, eunuchs, and hermaphrodites, and typically
included interviews lauding the category as astep toward rights, respect,
and recognition as human beings.^'* This kind of formalized category might
well ameliorate some of the problems created by state institutions built on a
binary gender system. At the same time, the introduction of acatchall third
gender category meant for those who do not fit into the first two groups
reconsolidates the normative status of male and female as standard options,
from which other identities deviate.This is not to speculate that the third
gender category is always understood this way in practice throughout Nepal
or Pakistan: rather, U.S. news reports on the new policies demonstrate how
such categories circulate transnationally in ways that can strengthen and
naturalize aWestern gender binary. Notably, U.S. news media almost never
link the third gender category in these two countries to the gendered ad¬
ministrative conflicts pervasive in the United States, an omission that might
help locate gender deviance elsewhere, beyond the modern Western state.
At the same time, the establishment and tecognition of third gender
categories can come to seem indicative of amodern, liberal sense of toler¬
ance grounded in rights discourse. This point was clarified for me as Ispoke
about identification documents at avariety of U.S. universities and academic
conferences: not infrequently, audience members—including faculty, un¬
dergraduates, and community members—expressed surprise that Pakistan

DECEPTIVE DOCUMENTS 35
in particular had implemented astate-recognized third gender category.
These reactions suggest, in part, ageneral conception of Pakistan as an op¬
pressive state with outdated gender norms, anotion apparently at odds with
the country’s formal recognition of gender-nonconforming people. But they
also suggest acontrasting (and failed) expectation that the United States
should be aforerunner in that recognition. Moreover, these responses point
to how tightly identification documents and state-regulated categories are
ideologically linked to the notions of both rights and national progress.
It is perhaps no surprise, then, that a2011 California law easing the re¬
quirements for legal change of gender is titled the Vital Records Moderniza¬
tionAct.Afact sheet jointly issued by LGBT advocacy organizations Equal¬
ity California and the Transgender Law Center explains that the former
processforchanginglegalgender“wasfirstestablisheddecadesago,”creat¬
ing an “outdated state policy” that conflicts with “current medical under¬
standing of what is required for obtaining identity documents that reflect
the appropriate gender.”^® In this way, the new law comes to tepresent more
advanced thinking about gender, which aligns with modern medical stan¬
dards to expand rights for amarginalized group. The California state gov¬
ernment’s treatment and formal recognition of transgender people likewise
become ameasure of its progress toward liberal ideals of tolerance and rights.
Like the third gender categories, this law certainly has material benefits for
many transgender-identified people harmed by the dichotomous gender
system structuring most institutions and government programs. But these
benefits arrive through classification schemas and record-keeping practices
that both discipline individuals and regulate the health and security of the
population overall. The very fact that the California law concerns vital re¬
cords (a government registry holding records of life events such as birth,
death, and marriage certificates) and is part of the California Health and
Safety Codes reflects the ways that identity documents are deeply embedded
in surveillance practices.-^'
This dual-function system in which care and discipline operate at once
with surveillance and broad classification—the intertwined workings of dis¬
ciplinary and populational power that Foucault terms biopower—means
that the restructuring of formalized gender categories does not merely
change individuals’ access to state institutions or benefits but also merges
with state surveillance practices that take up and reinforce those categories.
For instance, in 2013 Australia created anew gender marker of Xas athird

36 CHAPTER ONE
option alongside Fand Mon government records. While this category un¬
doubtedly alleviates some of the problems created by the former system, it
also produces anew gender category through which state agencies can ap¬
ply normative standards, collect data, and track groups of people. It makes
sense, then, that the Australian attorney general’s press release on the policy
change ends by explaining that “increased consistency in the way the Aus¬
tralian Government collects and records gender under the Guidelines will
” 3 2
strengthen Australia’s identity security system.
Identification documents thus come to play amajor role in security ef¬
forts, particularly in the kind of “anticipatory surveillance” so central to the
war on terror and related programs implemented by the U.S. DHS.^^ Govern¬
ment officials explain increased tracking and closer scrutiny of documents as
preventative measures that distinguish between safe and dangerous people.
The monitoring of U.S. Social Security records offers an especially clear
example of the ways that state agencies’ own contradictions are magnified
through gender and race to position certain groups as particular objects of
state surveillance, even if they are not explicitly named as such. That the So¬
cial Security number has been considered and rejected as aform of national
ID card several times since the early 1970s is telling of the ways that it has
long functioned as asurveillance mechanism, particularly in relation to race
and class.Its use in this capacity has been reinvigorated by post-9/11 efforts
to prevent both terrorism and undocumented immigration.
The monitoring of Social Security numbers, benefits, and the data used
to issue both of these reveals stare agencies’ own conflicting policies of clas¬
sification as well as their drive to ferret out these inconsistencies. Since 1994,
the Social Security Administration (ssa) has sent “no-match” letters to em¬
ployers in cases where an employee’s hiring paperwork contradicts employee
information on file with the SSA. Ostensibly in place to alert otherwise law-
abiding employers to the possibility that they are unwittingly hiring un¬
documented immigrants, the no-match policy intensified dramatically after
9/11, with 2002. seeing more than eight times the typical number of letters
mailed than in 2001.^^ The no-match letters and related data can now also be

accessed by the DHS, which sends employers guidelines about how to correct
the problem and avoid legal sanctions.
These policies help construct unregulated immigration and terrorism as
interlocking concerns and illustrate how surveillance of gender contributes
to the violence of these policing systems. The no-match policy aims to locate

DECEPTIVE DOCUMENTS 37
 undocumented immigrants (and potential terrorists) employed under false
identities, yet it casts amuch broader net. Because conflicting legal and med¬
ical regulations can prevent transgender people from obtaining consistent
gender markers across all of their identity documents, transgender individu¬
als are disproportionately affected by the policy, whether they are undocu¬
mented immigrants or not. The NOTE website notes that the organization
“receives calls regularly from transgender people across the country who
have been ‘outed’ to their employers by the Social Security Administration’s
unfair gender ‘no-match’ employment letter policy.”^^ The no-match policy
exemplifies several interrelated characteristics and effects of state-regulated
identification documents: how scrutiny of these documents targets specific
groups as unruly, thus normalizing other groups, yet can also affect those
beyond the explicitly named targets of surveillance; how state agencies’ own
conflicting classification systems produce the very troublesome identities
they purport to merely locate; and how these practices can appear newly
instituted in the wake of 9/11, yet build on much longer histories of clas¬
sification and surveillance.

The Threat of Ambiguity

It is in this cultural landscape of long-standing but intensified medical, legal,

and social surveillance that the DHS advisory appears. By warning security
personnel of the gendered pretenses that terrorists might use, the advisory
neatly fuses the threat of terrorism in disguise with perceived gender
transgression, marking particular bodies as deceptive and treacherous.
Three days after the advisory’s release, aNew York Times article reported
the Pentagon’s recent screening of the classic 1965 film The Battle of Algiers.
The film examines the early years of the Algerian War of Independence,
as the guerrilla insurgency resisted colonial French rule. The Times piece
suggests that the Pentagon screening was held in part to gain tactical insight
into the U.S. war against Iraq.^^ Algiers is afilm filled with depictions of
guerrilla warfare tactics, including those that rely on the links between
gender and national identities. Algerian women pass as French to deliver
bombs into French civilian settings, while Algerian men attempt to pass
as women in hijabs, their disguises undone when French soldiers spy their
combat boots. Though neither the DHS advisory nor the Pentagon’s study
of the film explicitly reference transgender populations, both nevertheless

38 CHAPTER ONE
invoke the ties between gender presentation, national identity, and bodies
marked as dangerously deceptive.
That the advisory does not specifically name transgender populations in
its text does not make it any less relevant to those populations. The focus on
nonnormative gender presentation certainly raises questions about how this
framing of security affects transgender-identified people. But it also raises
questions about how state institutions might view gender nonconformity
as an act not limited to—perhaps not even primarily associated with—
transgender identities. In the context of security rhetoric related to the war
on terror, transgender individuals may not be the primary target of such
advisories, particularly if those individuals are understood to be conform¬
ing to normative presentations of race and citizenship. Transgender people
who conform to adominant standard of dress and behavior, for instance,

may be legible to the state not as transgender at all, but instead as properly
gendered and safe.
But not all gendered bodies and identities are so easily normalized. Dom¬
inant notions of what constitutes proper feminine or masculine behavior are
grounded in ideals of whiteness, class privilege, and compulsory heterosexu¬
ality, and individuals might be interpreted as nonconforming depending
on particular racial, cultural, economic, or religious expressions of gender,
without ever being classified as transgender. For example, racialized physi¬
cal difference has been understood in both medical and cultural contexts as

asignifier of gender and sexual difference. Comparative racial anatomy in

the nineteenth-century United States drew on public displays and scientific
studies to classify African and Black women’s womanhood as abnormal pre¬
cisely through racialized readings of their genitals.^* Similarly, race regularly
marks certain bodies as threatening and others as threatened: white panic
about the supposed sexual danger white women experienced at the hands
of Black men served to justify public lynchings of Black men throughout
the United States, particularly in the late nineteenth and early twentieth
centuries. The genital mutilation and castration frequently involved in
these practices emphasizes the links between racialization, anxieties about
masculinity, and violent sexual deviance. Joy James draws on this history to
analyze contemporary racialized state violence, arguing that state practices
of surveillance and discipline read sexual and social deviance through racial¬
ization processes. She explains, “some bodies appear more docile than others
because of their conformity in appearance to idealized models of class, color.

DECEPTIVE DOCUMENTS 39
and sex; their bodies are allowed greater leeway to be self-policed or policed
without physical force.”'’ These examples demonstrate that gender norma-
tivity is not limited strictly to gender itself but works through other identity
categories as well. Thus individuals need not be transgender-identified to be
classified as gender-nonconforming. Bodies and identities may be perceived
as abnormal or deviant because of gender presentations read through sys¬
tems of racism, classism, heterosexism, and, particularly in the case of the
DHS advisory’s focus on Al-Qaeda, Islamophobia.
Amplified attention to immigration and national security in the early
2000S, justified by the war on terror’s racist rhetoric, spurred the passage of
the Real ID Act in 2005. The 9/11 Commission, created to detail the events
of September n, 2001, and assess the United States’ response to terrorist
attacks, endorsed the Real ID Act as away to strengthen national security
through identity verification and border fortification. The commission de¬
termined that “for terrorists, travel documents are as important as weap-
o n s , an assertion that helps explain how the major changes proposed in the

Real ID Act were approved so swiftly.’" The legislation establishes minimum

standards for U.S. driver’s licenses and nondriver ID cards, with the inten¬

tion that eventually any ID card that is not compliant with these standards
will be invalid at the federal level, including activities such as air travel, ac¬
cess to government buildings, and access to federal funding such as Social
Security.’* Stricter standards are to be used to verify identities, citizenship,
names, and birth dates. Draft regulations also specify that Real ID cards and
all supporting documents used to create them (e.g., birth certificates. Social
Security cards, court-ordered name changes, etc.) will be linked through a
federal database and stored there for seven to ten years. Although anum¬
ber of states and organizations ranging from the American Civil Liberties
Union to the conservative Christian American Center for Law and Justice
have publicly opposed the legislation, and despite several proposed alterna¬
tives at the congressional level, the Real ID Act remains in place.
John Torpey distinguishes between passports and identification cards by
noting that while passports regulate movement and support state control of
borders, ID cards typically affirm an individual’s identity for state records
and distribution of state benefits.’^ The Real ID Act combines these two

functions in many ways: it imposes stricter standards for asylum application

and provides funds for border security projects, in addition to collecting and
sharing data about U.S. citizens overall. In a2007 congressional hearing on

40 CHAPTER ONE
the Real ID Act’s ability to ensure safety, Senator Arlen Specter (then R-PA)
echoed the logic of the Social Security no-match letters, stating that “one of
the issues that we are struggling with [in immigration legislation] is, beyond
securing borders, to have employers know who is legal and who is not legal.
And we are wrestling with the costs of foolproof identification.”^^
But the government’s own definition of “foolproof identification” works
hand in hand with the constant potential for documents to be forged, inac¬
curate, or otherwise inconsistent, as is evident from former special agent
Michael Johnson’s statement in a2006 congressional hearing on the U.S.
passport system and antiterrorism legislation. Johnson, who served in the
U.S. State Department’s Bureau of Diplomatic Security for eighteen years,
explained that most passport fraud is committed not by those seeking to
immigrate but by individuals already within U.S. borders. His testimony
contends that the passport “provides ironclad proof of an individual’s iden¬
tity. The value of this document to an individual trying to conceal his iden¬
tity or blend into American society is obvious, given the post September ii
scrutiny placed on non-US citizens inside the United States.”'*’* In this logic,
ironically, the purported accuracy and stability of documents like passports
are precisely what make them desirable objects to falsify. Similarly, the very
value of an “ironclad” ID here lies in its own potential to be cracked open.
The notion that identification documents can be simultaneously ironclad
and undermined is particularly clear in government officials’ anxiety over
the possibility of multiple identities, in which one person might hold two or
more different identification cards, as when the 9/11 Commission warns that
terrorists can easily evade current travel restrictions “by tossing away an old
”45
passport and slightly altering the name in the new one.
But this anxiety, and lawmakers’ leverage of it to pass more restrictive
parameters for identity documents, is not new. Nor can it be understood
as distinct from state regulation of gender. For instance, increased concern
over fraudulent identities proved amajor argument in favor of continuing
the compulsory national identity documents instituted in Britain during
World War II. Efforts to maintain individual identity converged with ef¬
forts to regulate sexual practices and gendered relationship structures, as
postwar attempts to shore up the nuclear family took the form of public
outcry against bigamy, viewed by the British government and much of the
public as aforeign practice that enabled both sexual deviance and multiple
identities. In this sense, “bigamy starkly highlighted the extent to which

DECEPTIVE DOCUMENTS 41
social institutions depended on individuals living under one, and only one,
identity,” fueling desires not just to continue the cards, but to expand the
amount of intormation they contained.'**’ For many, compulsory ID cards
recalled totalitarian governing practices associated with Nazi Germany and
thus conflicted with British ideals of privacy and individualism. Yet the pos¬
sibility that such cards could eradicate bigamist practices—securing indi¬
vidual accountability alongside normative sexuality and family structure—
provided its own form of national differentiation. Moreover, because the ID
cards were promoted as preventative measures against stolen identities, state
regulation of identity was encouraged as apersonal right and civil liberty; a
method of increasing lawful citizens’ security. The British government thus
implied that those who had nothing to hide had nothing to fear from the
implementation of national identification cards.
TheRealIDActandthediscoursessurroundingitechomuchofthisrhet¬
oric, which helps explain how and why Congress passed the legislation with
little debate (and unanimous final approval from the Senate), four years after
9/11. In fact. Real ID was tacked onto an emergency spending bill to fund
the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. In the context of U.S. nationalism that
seeks to eradicate the foreign, the act most overtly targets the figures of the
immigrant and the terrorist, categories that frequently overlap in both public
discourse and government policy. To address the threat that these figures
pose, the Real ID Act increases state surveillance of identity by requiring and
storing asingle identity for each individual. But the administrative systems in
place mean that maintaining asingular, consistent, and legally documented
identity can be quite complicated. For instance, common-law name changes
do not depend on acourt order that would then be filed with aReal ID card,
creating agap in the paper trail that state discourse frames as airtight. Simi¬
larly, this chapter demonstrates how administrative processes make asingle
gendermarkeracrossallrecordsdifficultifnotimpossibleformanytransgen¬
der and gender-nonconforming people. This is especially clear, for example,
in the ways that different state agencies define change of sex differently, with
some requiring one surgery and some another, while other agencies require
nonsurgical medical evidence or other forms of medical approval. Ironically,
then, state agencies’ own contradictory methods of designating legal gender
and sex render Real ID cards ineffectual. Although the Real ID Act creates
and enforces singular, static identities for individuals, it also exposes the flu¬
idity and confusion characterizing state policies on identity documents. Thus

42- CHAPTER ONE

“the very multiplicity of these documents may... disrupt the state’s ostensibly
monolithic front.”"*^ In this way, state regulation of ambiguous gender actu¬
ally reveals ambiguities within state practices and agencies.
Moreover, such policies point to the ways that the practices of concealing
and revealing transgender identity actually depend on one another, unrav¬
eling the notion that these actions are binary opposites. To conceal one’s
gender status within the parameters of the legal system requires disclosure,
since administrative agencies keep on public record the steps taken toward
changing one’s legal gender marker. Those same records are later invoked
when individuals seek to prove their transgender status through medical
and legal documents that ostensibly serve to obscure or even disappear such
status. These interdependent relationships illustrate that concealment nec¬
essarily entails disclosure, and vice versa.
That the Real ID Act, created as part of awar funding bill and approved
in aclimate of exceptionalized (if not actually exceptional) militarization
and nationalism, seeks to maintain individual identities and make them
more accessible to state agencies speaks to the ways that multiple, ambigu¬
ous, or shifting identities register as menacing and risky on anational scale.
Alongside more overt statements like the DHS advisory, the Real ID Act
and SSA no-match letters function as significant administrative policies
that link gender ambiguity to national security threats. Like other new se¬
curity measures, the Real ID Act can appear benign and even beneficial for
chose citizens with nothing to hide. But the notion of concealment remains
strongly associated with the category of transgender and with perceptions of
gender nonconformity, fueled by cultural associations of transgender decep¬
tion and by medical and legal processes that aim to normalize transgender
bodies while also meticulously documenting gender changes. As transgender
activist and advocacy organizations respond to and resist new state security
measures, then, they do so in the context of these cultural and legislative
constraints.

Nothing to Hide

Dean Spade notes that despite the significant problems that the Real ID Act
poses for the most marginalized LGBT people, many high-profile and well-
resourced gay organizations initially failed to take it up as acentral concern.
In assessing this fact. Spade notes that “choices about what to put on the ‘gay

DECEPTIVE DOCUMENTS 43
agenda’ are actually choices about who the constituency of the gay rights
movement is and about the ultimate visionary goals of this movement.’
The Real ID Act, DHS advisory, and no-match lettets did emerge as major
concerns, however, for many advocacy and lobbying organizations with a
specific focus on ttansgendet politics and for many grassroots-based queer
and transgender organizations. And although all of these groups .shared an
opposition to the policies’ harmful effects on transgender individuals, their
different strategic responses reflect the choices that Spade references.
Organizations with aprimarily legislative focus on inclusion did not tend
to consider these security measures’ implications for state regulation of gen¬
der presentation more broadly, particularly as the policies might resonate
for people perceived as gender deviant who are not transgender-identified or
linked in any obvious way to transgender communities or histories. Nor did
these organizations address the ways that particular groups of transgender-
identified people may be targeted differently by such policing. For example,
in a2006 public statement to DHS regarding the no-match letter policy,
NCTE recommends that gender no longer be one of the pieces of data used
to verify employees, arguing that employers are not legally required to sub¬
mit gender classification to SSA, and therefore any exchange of information
about employees’ gender is “an invasion of private and privileged medical
information.”"*^ In an effort to protect transgender employees, the NCTE
statement suggests limiting the amount of information that can be shared
between SSA and DHS. But it also implicitly supports no-match letters as a
form of regulatory state surveillance, by stating clearly the importance of
avoiding fraud through Social Security number confirmation. The state¬
ment does not oppose state surveillance measures more broadly, but rather
seeks to optimize them, offering recommendations on behalf of transgender
employees “in order for the employee verification system to be efficient and
'50
equitable.
An argument based on privacy rights may benefit some gender-noncon¬
forming employees, but in assuming equal access to privacy and legal re¬
course for all transgender people, this strategy fails to address the ways that
privacy is compromised or nonexistent for many. Because the medicolegal
system governing transgender identity tracks gendered changes to identi¬
fication documents, ttansgendet people’s medical and legal information is
never really private or privileged. Likewise, many groups of people—such
as those who apply for disability benefits, use certain social services, or are

4 4 CHAPTER ONE
incarcerated—must routinely make their medical information available to
state agencies, whether they are transgender-identified or not. In addition
to this absence of medical privacy in the everyday, NCTE’s argument must
also be considered in the specific context of post-9/11 surveillance practices.
Diminished rights to privacy are particularly evident in the wake of the
2.001 USA PATRIOT Act, legislation that provides much of the ideological
and legal foundation for more recent surveillance measures.This legislation
builds on earliet policies such as the 1996 Antiterrorism and Effective Death
Penalty Act, which in part removed certain restrictions on state surveillance
of suspected terrotists and dramatically increased government scrutiny and
deportation of immigrants, and the FBI’s COINTELPRO activities in the
1960s, which monitored and eradicated domestic organizations and indi¬
viduals considered subversive national security threats, ranging from Black
and American Indian resistance groups to antiwar organizers. The USA
PATRIOT Act furthet limits privacy rights by expanding the fedetal gov¬
ernment’s ability to sectetly search private homes; collect medical, financial,
and educational records without showing probable cause; and monitor in¬
ternet activity and messages. Passed as part of the anti-immigrant national¬
ism and overt racial profiling that followed 9/n, the act bolsters particular
understandings of the relationships between citizenship, race, privacy, and
danger that undetpin surveillance measures like the Real ID Act and SSA
no-match policy. This context, absent from the NOTE statement, demon¬
strates the frailty of any claim to privacy, particularly for those transgender
and gender-nonconforming people who are immigrants, poor people, and
people of color.
Other advocacy organizations more explicitly rely on the network of le¬
gal and medical policies governing transgender identity to offer protective
strategies, by advising transgender individuals to make themselves visible
as transgender to authotities that question or screen them. In response to
the DHS advisory, the National Transgender Advocacy Coalition (ntac)
released its own security alert to transgender communities, warning that
given the recent advisory, security personnel may be “more likely to commit
unwitting abuses.”’' The organization suggests that transgender travelers
bring their court-ordered name and gender change paperwork with them,
noting that “while terrorists may make fake identifications, they won’t carry
name change documents signed and notarized by acourt.”^^ The organiza¬
tion recommends strategic visibility as asafety ptecaution, urging those who

DECEPTIVE DOCUMENTS 45
might otherwise be going stealth to openly disclose their transgender status
53
tostateofficialsandtocomplywithanyrequestedsearchesorquestionings.
Calling the potential violence and violations against travelers “unwitting
abuses” suggests that authorities enacting these measures cannot be blamed
for carrying out policy intended to protect the general public from the threat
of hidden terrorism. Such aframework neatly sidesteps any broader criticism
of the routine abuses, especially against immigrants and Muslims, that have
been justified in the name of national security. It implicitly supports the
policing of individuals or groups perceived as dangerous, so long as they are
not transgender-identified. The advice for transgender people to make them¬
selves visible as such is couched in terms of distinguishing the good, safe
transgender traveler from the dangerous, deviant terrorist in gendered dis¬
guise. Moreover, by avoiding any larger critique of state surveillance or polic¬
54
ing, NTAC also positions itself as agood, safe, even patriotic organization.
Torpey argues that “our everyday acceptance of ‘the passport nuisance’
and of the frequent demands from state officials that we produce ‘ID’is asign
of the success with which states have monopolized the capacity to regulate
movement and thus to constrain the freedom of ordinary people to come
and go, as well as to identify and constrain possible interlopers.”^’ But the
framing of this as merely capitulation to the state’s monopoly on power be¬
liesFoucault’smodelofpowerasdispersedandfragmentary,neversimplyex¬
erted in one direction. On one level, state institutions coerce the calculated

revealoftransgenderstatusthatNTACencourages.Yetonanotherlevel,that
reveal functions as an example of the confession, which Foucault explains
as aritual understood as critical for the production of truth. He argues that
“the obligation to confess is now relayed through so many different points,
is so deeply ingrained in us, that we no longer perceive it as the effect of
apower that constrains us.”’^ Moreover, he suggests that the confession is
made all the more powerful and privileged through the careful concealment
of what is to be confes.sed.’' Thus while ostensibly forced by state agents and
institutions, the confession that NTAC urges affords the confessor asense of
58
pleasure as well, of presenting oneself as patriotic and willingly compliant.
In this way, the relationship between the figure of the compliant transgender
traveler and state surveillance programs exemplifies Foucault’s concept of
“perpetual spirals of power and pleasure,” such that the concealment and
unveiling of transgender status in response to state pressure form aseductive
59
circle of evasion and discovery.

46 CHAPTER ONE
 The recourse to strategic visibility remains grounded in assumptions that
invisibility was ever possible. Which individuals and groups can choose vis¬
ibility, and which are already visible—perhaps even hypervisible—to sur¬
veillance mechanisms? For whom is visibility an available strategy for either
social advancement or personal safety, and at what cost? Moving well away
from the approach taken by NCTE and NTAC, other queer and transgender
organizations accounted for these questions as they addressed the Real ID
Act and related surveillance measures. The Audre Lorde Project (alp), a
community center based in New York City and focused on support and mo¬
bilization in communities of color, held two community meetings about the
war on terror and released an open letter in January 1003 that explains why
the war on terror is an LGBTST issue and urges fellow organizations to op¬
pose the war. This letter directly addresses the question of visibility by high¬
lighting the increased violence, racial profiling practices, and surveillance
measures after 9/11.“ More than adecade later, the organization continued
to explicitly address the Real ID Act as part of anti-immigrant policies that
it articulates as central to LGBTST struggles. For the tenth annual NYC
Trans Day of Action for Social and Economic Justice in 2014, ALP released
a“Points of Unity” statement demanding, among other things, safety in
public spaces including public transit, an end to police violence and harass¬
ment, and the “full legalization of all immigrants.”'’' This last point names
the Real ID Act alongside other policing programs and the increased power
of DHS, maintaining solidarity with all groups targeted by these policies
and specifying transgender and gender-nonconforming people of color as
particular targets.^^ These approaches clarify that not all transgender people
can occupy the role of the good, safe transgender traveler that NTAC recom¬
mends, and that increased visibility simultaneously places one under greater
scrutiny and surveillance. Those made visible as abnormal or unruly and in
need of constraint or correction may experience increased vulnerability, such
that visibility wields more damage than protection. The statements by ALP
explain that some bodies and identities would be read under the DHS ad¬
visory’s warning as gender deviant, dangerous, or deceptive even if they did
produce paperwork documenting their transgender status. While this docu¬
mentation may lessen suspicion of some, it compounds scrutiny of others.
The Transgender Law Center in San Francisco also released aset of rec¬
ommendations for transgender people, including one statement jointly is¬
sued with NCTE in 2003, which discusses new security measures including

DECEPTIVE DOCUMENTS 4 7
the DHS advisory and Real ID Act. They note that although these measures
were originally conceived in response to “legitimate security concerns” re¬
garding terrorists’ use of false documentation, they ultimately create undue
burdens for transgender individuals who seek to “legitimately acquire or
change identification documents.”'^-’ Like NTAc’s concern that nonthreat¬
ening transgender travelers could be mistaken for terrorists, the response
from NCTE and the Transgender Law Center omits critical engagement
with the rhetoric of terrorism used to justify state regulation of gender, race,
and citizenship more broadly. Instead, the organizations’ statement asks for
rights and state recognition on the basis oflegitimacy, aclassification already
infused with the regulatory norms produced and maintained by medical sci¬
ence and government policy. In the case of transgender people specifically,
formal legitimacy is based on legal documents that typically require some
medical evidence for change of gender marker. In almost all cases, medical
professionals depend on aformal diagnosis of gender identity disorder or
dysphoria, which itself turns on the language of correction and normaliza¬
tion. Circularly, then, legitimate status requires identity documents, while
identity documents simultaneously require legitimacy.
Organizational responses like those produced by NCTE and the Trans¬
gender Law Center are unable to address the ways that pervasive surveillance
of gender is inseparable from that of racial difference. New shifts in—and re¬
newed attention to—racial profiling practices in the aftermath of 9/11 offer
important context through which strategies of visibility must be considered.
Within the framework of these organizations’ statements, for which bodies
is legitimacy attainable, and for which is it already foreclosed? The Sylvia
Rivera Law Project provides an analysis of this approach based on its com¬
mitment to anonhierarchical liberation movement in which gender is “inex¬
tricably related to race and class.”^"* The organization argues that the current
political climate of “us vs. them” contributes to the polarization of com¬
munities that could otherwise work in coalition, as some targeted groups
attempt to divert surveillance and policing onto others.® Assimilation—
going stealth, or claiming status as agood transgender citizen—becomes
atactic for escaping state surveillance or persecution, and understandably
so. But these assimilation strategies are regularly used in conjunction with
the scapegoating of other marginalized groups, such chat the good citizen
and the normatively gendered person are produced against the terrorist, un¬
documented immigrant, and gender deviant. In fact, these two seemingly

48 CHAPTER ONE
contradictory groups mutually constitute and require each other: “docile
patriots” and good citizens claim normalcy precisely through distinguishing
66
themselves from other marginalized groups figured as dangerous intruders.
The terrorist figure thus makes possible the construction of anational iden¬
tity and image of citizenship, providing anecessary contrast against which
67
the citizen is formed in opposition.
The repeated advice to reveal one’s transgender status, proving that trans¬
gender people are good citizens with nothing to hide, suggests adifferent in¬
terpretation of going stealth. Here, such apractice means not simply erasing
the signs of transgender identity, but rather maintaining legibility as agood
citizen and patriotic American, providing evidence of legitimate transgender
identity that erases any signs of similarity to the deviant, deceptive terror¬
ist figure. Yet because normative, nonthreatening gender is read through
ideals of whiteness, economic privilege, able-bodiedness, and heterosexual¬
ity, this form of going stealth is an option available only to certain people;
in fact, going stealth in this way requires the simultaneous maintenance of
anonnormative and suspicious category that can produce the safe citizen as
its contrast. The specific reliance on identification documents as aprimary
measure of legitimacy intensifies that polarization. This is not only because
approved documents are not available for certain groups, or because even
approved documents might compound scrutiny for other groups (such as
documentation showing that one’s country of origin is on aterrorism watch
list). More fundamentally, an investment in identification documents as
evidence of credibility reconsolidates nationalist policing of deviance and
illegitimacy. As documentation produces new and refines existing categories
of legitimacy, it also shores up those nonnormative categories that make the
normative possible. In this way, identity documents produce and refine clas¬
sification schemas that support biopolitical regulation of bodies and popula¬
tions as well as the categories of race, gender, sexuality, and citizenship.

DECEPTIVE DOCUMENTS 4 9
CHAPTER TWO

F LY I N G UNDER THE RADAR

ON DECEMBER 25, 2009, apassenger aboard acommercial airplane at¬

tempted to detonate aplastic explosive en route from Amsterdam to De¬
troit. The passenger, Nigerian citizen Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab, had
concealed the explosive device in his underwear; accordingto FBI reports in
late 2012, he had worn the explosives-rigged underwear for three weeks prior
to the flight in an effort to be comfortable enough to pass easily through
airport security. When the device failed to detonate as planned, he suffered
second-degree burns to his hands, inner thighs, and genitals. News media
accounts linked Abdulmutallab to Al-Qaeda, and he was soon commonly
known as the underwear bomber. By October 2011, he had pleaded guilty to
eight charges, including attempted use of aweapon of mass destruction, and
was sentenced to life in prison.
The attempted bombing and its attendant anxious discourse about dan¬
gerous bodies’ threats to national security and public safety functioned
as leverage for U.S. state efforts to increase formal surveillance measures.
In particular, security agencies called for more thorough screening proce¬
dures for air travel. The Transportation Security Administration (tsa), an
agency within the Department of Homeland Security (dhs), installed new
advanced imaging technology (ait) machines in many U.S. airports. These
machines, some using X-rays and others using radio waves, allow security
ofScials to see beneath travelers’ clothing, producing sketch-like images of
the physical body and any objects attached to it. More recent versions of the
scanners include pink and blue scan buttons that require TSA agents to input
each traveler’s gender in order to begin the scanning process.' Thorough,
individual pat-downs serve as an alternative to the scanners for travelers who
voluntarily opt out and as asecond round of screening for travelers whose
» 2

scans appear suspicious or produce what TSA terms “anomalies.

Much public apprehension accompanied these screening procedures.
Anxieties about privacy underlay asignificant portion of the public conver¬
sation, including questions about what the scanned images look like, who
can view them, and how they circulate; about the health effects of repeated
X-ray scans when traveling; and about maintaining bodily privacy while being
patted down by aTSA officer. Echoing these concerns, prominent trans¬
gender advocacy organizations such as the National Center for Transgen¬
der Equality (ncte) and the Transgender Law Center released statements
warning that the new screening processes could incorrectly target transgen¬
der people as terrorist suspects by revealing prosthetic breasts, genitals, or
binding materials that might be misinterpreted as explosives. Like several
other organizations, they called for more accurate screening processes, or
failing that, for transgender people to clearly identify their prosthetic ma¬
terials as medically necessary and therefore safe.^ Notably, these organiza¬
tions focused on the effects of the screening technologies but almost never
addressed their apparent catalyst, the case of the underwear bomber in the
broader context of the war on terror. This is acurious omission: after all,

the question of what precisely is in one’s underwear is—however crude—

arguably the most basic form of policing for those bodies perceived as
gender-nonconforming. These amplified security measures—pat-down pro¬
cedures and X-ray scanners new to most U.S. airports, if not to state security
practices more broadly—emerged in aspecific cultural and political mo¬
ment concerned with the dangers to national security and public health that
could be concealed with, or perhaps as part of, the genitals.
Paying close attention to the questions of privacy and health in state
agencies’ preoccupation with dangerous genitals and bodily prosthetics,
this chapter considers the X-ray scanner not primarily in terms of its ability
to accurately distinguish bad bodies from good ones, but in terms of the
broad effects produced by the circulation of AIT images, especially regarding
the interplay of race, gender, and disability. Iposition the medicalized tech¬
nologies central to airport security debates in abroader cultural and polit¬
ical context to argue that efforts to objectively distinguish between bodies
that are worthy of care and bodies that are inherently harmful displace the
violence of state policies and practices onto individual bodies marked as

FLYING UNDER THE RADAR 51

threats. Analyzing the discourses of vulnerability and violence that circu¬
late through the airport scene, this chapter demonstrates how the common
recourse to medical legitimacy taken up by many transgender advocates
helps naturalize not only ideals of normative bodily health, but also security
screening practices themselves.

On Medical Necessity

Given the key role medicine has played in producing the category of trans¬
gender, it is perhaps no surprise that prominent advocacy organizations es¬
tablish prosthetics as amajor site of contention in airport screening proce¬
dures. Likewise, their concerns about TSa’s treatment and interpretations of
transgender travelers’ bodies—for instance, whether the presence or absence
of certain body parts in AIT images will incite suspicion because they con¬
flict with agents’ perceptions of the gendered body in front of them—follow
from the notion that modern medicine helps produce transgender bodies
as such. This pervasive belief appears in arange of scholarship suggesting
that transgender identity emerges primarily in relation to medical develop¬
ments that enable physical sex reassignment, positioning the transgender-
identified person (and body) as unique to modernity, produced through a
modern West’s sex/gender categories and its technological and medical ad¬
vances.'* As Iexplained in chapter i, contemporary medical and legal insti¬
tutions continue to rely heavily on the presence of medical technologies as
evidence of legible transgender identity.
Much discussion of transgender people and medicalization focuses on
the processes through which transgender-specific medical care, including
surgeries and hormones, can or should be accessed. Typically, such care is
available only after aformal diagnosis of gender dysphoria (formerly gender
identity disorder). Many critics of this process argue that transgender iden¬
tity is not adisorder and accordingly should be removed from the Diagnostic
and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, allowing access to hormones and
surgery through informed consent, as with most non-transgender-specific
medical care. Those favoring the current process often contend that the di¬
agnosis provides ameasure of legitimacy that makes health care available to
transgender people, particularly for those populations with the least access
to care, including youth, poor people, and incarcerated people.^ Advocates
have accomplished several expansions of transgender people’s access to med-

51 CHAPTER TWO
ical care by arguing chat care such as surgeries and hormones is medically
necessary, following abroader framework in health coverage that supports
physicians’ decisions for diagnosing and treating illness, disease, or injury.^
In other words, naming certain medical technologies as medically necessary
treatments for aclinically diagnosed condition can justify the coverage and
administration of such care. In some cases, the medical necessity argument
has won crucial access to medical care. For example, since 2.011, U.S. federal
prisonsandfederalhalfwayhouseshavebeenrequiredtoprovideincarcer¬
atedpersonsappropriateevaluationandtreatment(includinghormones)for
gender dysphoria; similar requirements for carceral institutions on the state
level are still under debate. Likewise, several major cities and public univer¬
sity systems in the United States, along with Medicare, now cover certain
transgender-specific forms of care deemed medically necessary.’^
The rhetoric of medical necessity need not turn only on the notion of
treating aphysical or mental disorder. In fact, the term is sometimes ex¬
plained in ways that locate disorder in social systems rather than in indi¬
vidual bodies: for instance, several public health and medical organizations’
statements on the topic note that access to transition-related care may help
alleviate the mental and physical pain caused by pervasive rransphobia in the
form of harassment, assault, or employment and housing discrimination.*
This approach echoes the development of a“social model” of disability in
disability studies and activism, which eschews amedical framework that
“defines disability in terms of individual deficit” and instead seeks broad
structural change in social and political systems that disable certain bodies
and groups.’ Yet while the concept of medical necessity can be strategically
beneficial, particularly in the realm of law, it also fundamentally grounds
transgender identities and bodies in Western medicine and particular forms
of medical technologies. As Ishow below, commentators invoke these tech¬
nologies as the very things that allow transgender people to pass or appear
unmarked as transgender, amedicalized ability that can be interpreted as
both freeing and damning. On one hand, certain bodily technologies are
said to grant transgender people the ability to move more freely in public
space and to escape the more overt scrutiny applied to transgressive gender
presentations. On the other hand, that same supposed ease of movement
can mark these bodies as dishonest and deceptively threatening, able to hide
deviance and bodily abnormalities until they are actively revealed.
Consider for example awidely circulated fact sheet that NCTE released

F LY I N G U N D E R T H E R A D A R 53
in June 2009. Addressing new airport X-ray scanners, NCTE implicitly re¬
affirms the idea that medical technologies not only are part and parcel of
inhabiting atransgender body, but also offer the freedom to move through
the world without scrutiny—except in special cases where state surveillance
impinges on individual rights to privacy. The document lists prosthetics and
binding materials alongside other body parts that the new X-ray machines
will record, noting that “if atransgender person’s [X-rayed] body looks dif¬
ferent from what the TSA agent considers ‘normal,’ the passenger may be
subjected to further searches and/or humiliation under the auspices of secu¬
rity measures.”"’ The fact sheet suggests that were it not for these new imag¬
ing techniques, many transgender people would not be noticeable to security
personnel as different or not “normal” because they would otherwise be able
to pass freely through security checkpoints.
Of course, only certain transgender bodies can fully achieve or approxi¬
mate the idealized image of normative gender. The fact sheet bypasses this
point by reassuring readers—in asection titled “What Should IDo to Avoid
Problems at the Airport?”—that the new X-ray scanners are “used primarily
for passengers who are flagged for further screening after passing through
ametal detector.”" The document further encourages travelers to “make
their own decisions” about whether to opt for apat-down instead of go¬
ing through the scanner, based on what feels most comfortable and safe
to them.”‘^ These statements assume that most transgender travelers would
not be flagged for reasons beyond clearly marked transgender status, such as
race, nationality, or citizenship status, and that these factors would not in¬
fluence whether security officials interpreted their gender presentation and
gendered body as normal or not normal. At face value, NCTE’s declaration
that “transgender people have as much right to travel as anyone else and we
have aright to express any gender we want, any way we want while traveling”
is admirable.’-’ Yet it also privileges amobile U.S. citizen who can take rights
as agiven, and for whom the choice between AIT screening and pat-down
appears in the guise of freedom and personal safety rather than as afalse
choice between related forms of militarized surveillance. Medical necessity
can serve as recourse only for certain bodies and certain bodily technologies.
This legitimating rhetoric classifies particular types of bodies as in need of
and worthy of care, so that the concept of medical necessity helps construct
the line distinguishing health promotion from health endangerment. Like
all classificatory systems, this process simultaneously extends recognition

54 CHAPTER TWO
and legitimacy to some groups while it withholds them from others, either
by specifically marking certain groups as illegitimate or by failing to name
them at all.

Many advocacy organizations’ own reliance on medical validity illus¬

trates how that logic of care produces and reinforces conceptions of health
and safety by creating specific—if constantly fluctuating—categories of
legitimacy. For example, NCTe’s air travel resource guide for transgender
people, released in late zoiz, begins with advice for packing luggage; “Gel-
filled prosthetic items such as breast forms are not included in the three-
ounce liquid limit for carry-ons, as they are considered medically necessary,
but their presence in your carry-on luggage may result in extra screening.”''*
This guidance suggests that although they technically exceed TSa’s current
parameters of safety, certain prosthetics can achieve medicalized approval;
at the same time, those approved prosthetics may also provoke increased
scrutiny to ensure that they are worn or carried in the interest of health
rather than harm.

In response to multiple official complaints and public concerns about

TSA treatment of various forms of disability, TSA implemented anew
program clarifying the process of amplified scrutiny that leads to medical
approval. Launched in December zoii and titled TSA Cares, the program
consists of ahelp line and related website that specifically address travel¬
ers with disabilities or medical conditions. It offers personalized phone or
email responses as well as general website assistance explaining government
policies and helping travelers prepare for security screenings. The TSA Cares
website lists several types of disabilities and medical conditions, each linking
to further details about what the related screening process entails. Notably,
during most of zoiz the category “Breast Prosthetics” linked directly to an
article titled “What to Expect at the TSA Checkpoint If You Are aBreast
Cancer Survivor.”'^ Although in practice one may assume that the informa¬
tion provided here applies to any use of breast prosthetics, the identification
of such prosthetics specifically and only with breast cancer survivors con¬
structs alimited range of prosthetic use, marking some bodies as legitimate
users and failing to recognize others. In this framework, NCTE’s assurance
that transgender travelers’ breast prosthetics are “considered medically nec¬
essary” appears somewhat more tenuous, particularly considering common
gendered expectations about which bodies experience breast cancer and use
related prosthetics. Under what circumstances and by what measures of

FLYING UNDER THE RADAR 55

proof can TSA approve as safe those breast prosthetics that ate unrelated to
breast cancer? Put another way, what imagined putposes might such pros¬
thetics have outside of the approved context of breast cancet?
This is not really aquestion of practical procedure, especially since TSA
subsequently included on its website an article covering “special consider¬
ations” for transgender travelers, indicating that this too is apopulation
that the agency now recognizes.'^ Rather, it is aquestion of discursive effect:
what undetstandings of normative bodies—of health, of gendet, of medical
necessity—are reconsolidated by defining breast prosthetics as those pros¬
thetics used by breast cancer survivors? This question is of particular import
when such definitions underwrite state surveillance practices that already
sort bodies and populations according to their perceived threat to national
security. That TSA’s policy formally recognizes breast prosthetics use only
in relation to breast cancer does not mean that in ptactice TSA agents deem
all othet uses suspicious. Rather, this policy is exemplary of how narrow the
process of recognition can be and how regulatory norms shape it. In this
sense, the formal inclusion of breast prosthetics use in other contexts might
expand the range of legitimate uses but would simultaneously expand and
refine the classificatory system that produces healthy and dangerous bod¬
ies. As TSA’s policies and public materials reinforce the lines between these
categories, the claim to medical necessity can become astrategy of claiming
certain bodily technologies as healthy and reparative, in contrast to those
framed as violent and damaging. The process of making these distinctions
displaces violence onto those nonnormative bodies and bodily technologies
that cannot otherwise be recuperated through the rhetoric of care or med¬
ical necessity. This process also effaces the violence of state agencies such as
DHS, not only in material practices such as forced searches and detentions,
but in the act of classification and the naming of certain bodies as dangerous.
More broadly, the very existence of TSA Cares signals the limits of med¬
ical necessity as aconceptual sttategy for legitimacy; although the program
helps distinguish between bodies that must be scrutinized in the name of
care and those that must be scrutinized as thteats to national health and

safety, both groups are nonetheless marked out as populations requiring

greater or more specific forms of surveillance than those unmarked bodies
that are seemingly free from technological components or somatic anoma¬
lies. The particular screening methods in place fot ttavelers with disabili¬
ties or medical conditions address material concerns for groups that can be

56 CHAPTER TWO
vulnerable to violence and discrimination. Yet framed in the language of
care, the program also helps more fully incorporate those groups into the
biopolitical management of health and risk, via surveillance technologies.
By positioning certain types of bodies as in need of this care, TSA Cares
naturalizes the screening process overall, which comes to seem normative
and routine except in those cases requiring particular forms of care. Ad¬
ditionally, it naturalizes aform of able-bodied health, defined as one that
needs no special screening techniques. In this way the program draws aline
between able-bodied and disabled, health and medical condition.

But no body fully aligns with ideal health, and no body is untouched by
medicine or technology. Lennard Davis observes that perhaps now more
than ever, care of the body is understood as “a requirement of citizenship,”
such that no body is perceived as complete without consumption of med¬
ical, technological, and hygienic products.'^ Suggesting that the categories
of disability and impairment are productively unstable, Davis proposes em¬
bracing chat instability to unseat classificatory distinctions between bodies
along lines of health, dependence, and wholeness. In contrast, the TSA Cares
program invests in these distinctions, relying on the broad title of “disabili¬
ties and medical conditions” that implies an easily recognizable category
with clear and fixed parameters. Yet TSA’s own continual editing of that
category—which conditions can be included, how they are grouped together
or separated out, and what specific bodily states constitute each of them—
illustrates just how unstable and permeable such divisions are. It is not that
certain bodies exist as anomalies within astable system of health, but rather
that this very system and its attendant technologies reinforce and rework
deeply embedded conceptions of normative bodies that can be interpreted
as healthy and safe.

X-Ray Specs

Beyond the bodily technologies under scrutiny, there is another medical

technology at work in these airport scenes: the X-ray machine itself Used
by avariety of state institutions to see beyond the capabilities of the naked
eye. X-ray machines enable adifferent form of vision and visual surveillance.
Unlike photography. X-ray imaging (radiography) records variations in den¬
sity and composition, penetrating some layers of matter and being absorbed
by others. The most well-known form of X-ray imaging, generally used in

FLYING UNDER THE RADAR 57

 explicitly medical contexts, makes visible the skeletal system and other ob¬
jects in the body’s interior that are otherwise visually inaccessible without
physically opening the body.
Despite public concerns about privacy and safety when such technology
appeared at the airport, radiography has long been promoted as central to
national health and security, and its use in medical imaging and military
contexts—beginningjust after the X-ray’s discovery in 1895—has frequently
helped it cast off the shadow of intrusive state policing. Folded into the
broader context of military preparedness structuring World War I, radiol¬
ogy equipment and training programs gained extensive military support in
the early twentieth century. In these early incarnations, the X-ray machine
was key to concepts of mobility on multiple levels, foreshadowing its install¬
ment in major travel hubs: it assisted military physicians in more efficiently
assessing injuries that affected bodily mobility and also helped regulate the
spread of disease and movement of infectious bodies by visually identifying
them as such. World War Ialso saw the development of the first X-ray units
that were themselves mobile, as portable units moved between army hos¬
pitals and battle sites.'* In these cases, military use lends X-ray technology
credibility as amedical advance that helps save wounded soldiers, strength¬
ening the health of the nation itself
The status that the X-ray machine gained through use in medical and
military settings paved the way for its extension into other institutional sites,
including local U.S. policing practices. For example, avariety of handheld
battery-powered devices built on X-ray technology, which allow users to see
through walls just as the medical X-ray machine allows one to see through
flesh, were developed for military use in the 1980s but later marketed to do¬
mestic law enforcement agencies as part of alarger trend of finding civilian
uses for militarized technology. In an April 1000 report to the U.S. Depart¬
ment of Justice, researchers from Georgia Tech describe the development
and applications of one such device, the RADAR flashlight, according to their
DOJ-funded study. They explain that the flashlight would serve two main
purposes: identifying the presence of suspected criminals during searches,
and tracking vital signs ofhostages not otherwise visible.'® Throughout, the
teport frames the device as atool that will increase police officers’ safety, but
principal researcher Eugene Greneker elsewhere described the flashlight as
“a force multiplier [as well as] asafety enhancement tool,” suggesting that
this X-ray-based instrument might be used for more than merely preventa-

58 CHAPTER TWO
tive measures.^“ Bur the potential damage such technology might cause (not
only for those bodies directly targeted by law enforcement, but for all bodies
and populations under state scrutiny) tends to be muffled by commonsense
beliefs in the necessity of policing technology to ensure safety, beliefs sup¬
ported here by the X-ray’s long-standing reputation of health promotion.
Law enforcement use of X-ray equipment can offer away of testing po¬
tentially damaging technology on atargeted population before it is imple¬
mented more broadly. Backscatter X-ray machines were in use in several
prison systems in the United States during the late 1990s, more than ten
years before their introduction to most commercial U.S. airports. Correc¬
tional facilities lauded the machines as amore efficient and effective way
to screen both incarcerated people and visitors for concealed weapons and
other prohibited items. Backscatter manufacturers and prison officials alike
described the technology as safe, locating danger not in the radiation dosage,
but rather in the incarcerated body that might be hiding harmful objects.^'
Not until the early zooos, when the U.S. government began to consider
extending backscatter screenings to the general public, did the FDA begin a
series of health risk assessments, which similarly characterized X-ray tech¬
22
nology as beneficial to bodily and national health.
Just as with claims to medical necessity, defining and securing public
health necessarily entails delineating specific threats to that health status.
The X-ray machine’s reputation as an objective medical technology that re¬
veals bodily truths has long positioned it as acentral tool for this sorting
process. An 1896 New York Times article announcing the discovery of the
X-ray concluded that it would revolutionize modern medicine because it en¬
abled surgeons to “detect the presence of foreign bodies.”^^ In this case, the
foreign bodies in question were bullets and other material objects lodged in¬
side human bodies. But “foreign bodies” also came to mean other things. For
instance, Lisa Cartwright shows how public health campaigns about the use
of X-rays to detect tuberculosis in the early twentieth-century United States
visually represented the disease as aliteral foreign body, in one case figuring
tuberculosis as acartoon Japanese soldier invading the otherwise healthy
American citizen.^"* Produced just four years after the closing of the last
Japanese American internment camp, the film carries forward white fears
of an enemy within: in this depiction, the racially unmarked individual body
symbolizes the American social body, and the racial other stands poised to
penetrate national health and safety. The campaign positions X-ray tech-

FLYING UNDER THE RADAR 59

nology as key to locating this hidden danger—and in doing so, constructs
disease as apatticularly racialized threat to the nation.
This cultural resonance carries over to more recent contexts, such as

the use of X-ray images in immigration enforcement, formally practiced in

the United States since at least the late 1990s and strongly considered in the
United Kingdom in 1009 and again in 1012.. In the United States, undocu¬
mented immigrants under age eighteen are treated differently from adults:
they are not subject to immediate deportation and may gain asylum under
aspecial juvenile provision. AZ004 memorandum from U.S. Immigration
and Customs Enforcement (which like TSA also falls under DHS oversight)
explains that dental and wrist-bone X-ray images are to be used to help de¬
termine age for those subjects suspected of lying about their birthdates in
order to be classified as minors. Although the document specifies that such
images must be “considered among other available and credible evidence of
age” such as identification documents and do not necessarily “constitute
conclusive evidence of age,” aspokesperson for the agency noted in 2.000
that the practice “is awidely accepted process within forensic medicine to
accurately, within agiven range, determine an individual’s age.”^^ Agree¬
ing with this, one dentist employed by the agency explained in aNew York
Times interview how he assesses dental X-tay images, invoking biological
determinist understandings of racial and gender difference: “When all four
molars have erupted in aCaucasian male, this means the patient is between
18 and 21. In black males the person is between 17 and 21. In females the
molars erupt about six months later.”^^ This approach, framed as objective
science, links X-ray imaging with taxonomies of race and gender to identify
the deceptive immigrant body.
State agencies like DHS need not actually employ the X-ray machine it¬
self to invoke its power of penetrating vision in locating threatening bodies.
For instance. Camp X-ray, which housed detainees at the Guantanamo Bay
detention center between January and April 2002, takes its name from the
NATO phonetic alphabet and does not necessarily indicate the literal use of
X-ray screenings. The camp held individuals believed to be connected to
Al-Qaeda or the Taliban in rows of chain-link cages, fully visible to guards
at all times. This architectural emphasis on vision as key to the identification
of danget and the maintenance of national safety underwrites the camp’s
primary purpose beyond mere detainment: to serve as asite of informa¬
tion gathering later revealed to involve complex torture scenes, through

60 CHAPTER TWO
which detainees were expected to reveal hidden truths about their links to
and knowledge of terrorist organizations. These interviews, as guards and
military officials named them, frequently relied on medical expertise for le¬
gitimacy, incorporating physicians to ensure the safety of various torture
27
techniques and psychiatric experts to determine the processes’ efficacy.
Thus the X-ray, even without literal use of its technology, suggests here the
uncovering of information that cannot be identified or extracted by more
superficial tactics. Used against the terrorist figure, it is the X-ray that deftly
seeks what is concealed.

These aspects of X-ray technologies and the discourses surrounding

them may seem rather far afield from the concerns expressed by transgender-
specific organizations, blogs, and news media pieces. Many of these com¬
mentaries address the use of such technologies in commercial airports since
1009, and they primarily focus on questions of accuracy, repeating the basic
concern chat cransgender bodies will be wrongfully marked as dangerous
merely because they do not appear aligned with the gendered characteristics
that TSA agents expect. In public statements and resource documents like
the fact sheet discussed above, for example, NCTE implies that TSA policies
and X-ray security screenings are new, unique, and shocking measures, rather
than articulating them as an extension of ongoing surveillance over bodies
that are designated as outside the boundaries of the normal. This approach
tends to efface the profoundly racialized nature of bodily surveillance: the
transgender traveler imagined in NCTe’s publications does not seem to con¬
front bodily scrutiny through racial profiling or anti-immigrant measures,
despite the fact that such practices characterized U.S. airport security long
before September ii, 1001.^* As such, the X-ray machine appears in these
discussions as asudden intrusion into the lives of the general public, rather
than as atechnology thoroughly embedded in routine policing practices.

Private Parts

State agencies and media outlets produced and circulated ahandful of of¬
ficial images demonstrating how AIT scans of travelers appear to TSA agents.
The TSA website hosted two such images: one depicting the results of a
backscatter machine, which uses X-ray technology (figure i.i), and one of a
millimeter wave scan, which uses radio waves (figure z.z). Each image depicts
the front and back of two different bodies that appear white against adark

F LY I N G U N D E R T H E R A D A R 6 i
Figure z.i Image produced by X-ray backscatter technology and circulated by
TSA (above). Figure z.z Image produced by millimeter wave scan and circulated
by TSA (facing page, above). Figure 2.3 “Whole Body Imaging FAQ_” circulated
by the National Center for Transgender Equality (FACING PAGE, below).

background; TSa’s website describes the grainy backscatter image as resem¬

bling achalk etching, and the more detailed millimeter wave scan as “a fuzzy
photo negative.” Athird widely circulated image appeared in aFebruary
zooy New York Times article addressing the introduction of new scanners
at U.S. airports, and in aslightly different form in NCTEs 1009 fact sheet
(figure 2.3). This image shows the front and back of abody in white and blue
against adark background, and its clarity is far greater than those images on
TSA’s website: the Times article notes that it depicts an X-ray image “before
‘29
software was used to blur bodily contours.’
Despite the popular notion that the X-ray machine objectively sees beyond
social categories to produce neutral images of bodies, it is not difficult to
read sexed characteristics onto these three images. Even in the least detailed
examples, such as the backscatter image, genitals are clearly recognizable,
indicating for many viewers that one image is male and the other is female.
Infact,genitalsmaycometoseemthemostcompellingcomponentofthese
images, in part because AIT seems to strip away so many other markers of
social categories. For instance, the body scans purportedly do away with
racial profiling: their images may appear essentially deracialized because

6z CHAPTER TWO
 /"'/ National Center for
I/.TRANSGENDER WHOLE BODY IMAGING FAQ
EQUALITY Tr a v e l i n f o t m s t l o n ● J u n e 2 0 0 9

Whole Body Imaging scanners produce athree-

dimensional image of the passenger's nude txxly,
including breasts, genitals, buttocks, prosthetics, binding
materials, end any objects on the person’s body, In an
attempt to kJentily contraband. These scanners may out
transgender people to TSA staff and potentially subject
transgender people to further screening at the airports.

they are absent the most common surface markers of race, such as skin color.
As the next section of this chapter contends, racial meanings can profoundly
shape these images and their interpretations, but the imagined absence
of racial difference in the X-ray’s gaze shifts public anxieties about such
screenings onto identities and bodily components that may be more overtly
present in the circulated images.
Major concerns about airport screenings—regarding both AIT scans
and pat-down procedures—tend to focus on the forced exposure of bodies
along lines of gender and sexuality and, to alesser extent, age and disability.
These anxieties coalesce around the question of vulnerability, and as such
the model complaint cases tend to be those bodies envisioned as most vul-

FLYING UNDER THE RADAR 63

nerable: young children, the very elderly, and those with visible disabilities.
After U.S. senator Rand Paul (R-KY) refused to undergo apat-down and
was consequently denied passage through an airport security checkpoint
in early zoiz, his father, U.S. representative Ron Paul (R-TX), used these
three categories to bolster his repeated atgument that TSA exemplifies a
“police state,” asserting that the agency “gropes and grabs our children, our
seniors, and our loved ones and neighbors with disabilities.”^® Likewise, U.S.
representative Jason Chaffetz (R-UT) said of the X-ray scanners in loio,
“We don’t need to look at naked 8-year-olds and grandmothers to secure
airplanes.”^' These recurrent concerns frame airport screening practices
as questions of gender, vulnerability, and individual privacy rather than of
citizenship and structutal racism. But this is an illusoty displacement, as
evidenced by Rand Paul’s own response to TSA’s policies. Contending that
“regular, ordinary citizens don’t need to be put through this,” Paul suppotts
instead “selective risk assessments done on people [who] are international
travelers [and] people who have ties to groups that may be terrorists.”^^ In
this racially coded framework, normative citizenship connotes an unjustly
exploited personal vulnerability, conttasted against those imagined to ex¬
ploit national vulnerability, who thetefore require airport scrutiny.
This defense of ordinary citizens’ ptivacy butts up against the broader
antiterrorism rhetoric that posits individual ptivacy as anecessary sacrifice
for the good of the nation. In the binary logic summed up by George W.
Bush as “you’re either with us or against us,” to resist or question TSA scru¬
tiny is to disregard or even undermine national security. The TSA policies
work to ease the tension between these two positions by offering travelers
the choice to request apat-down conducted in aprivate room, an option
meant to alleviate individual apprehension about being touched or exposed
through more public screening procedures. Yet this option may actually feel
less safe for some people, and for reasons beyond gendered discomfort or
sexual modesty. When consideted in the context of indefinite detention and
related secutity practices that increasingly operate outside of public view,
many people—including immigrants, transgender people, and people of
color—may feel far more vulnerable entering aprivate room alone with a
govetnment agent than undergoing ascreening in the more public space of
the security line, where other travelers could serve as witnesses to possible
state violence.

Compared to the still unclear procedures for taking, transmitting, and

64 CHAPTER TWO
viewing AIT images, the pat-down can seem quite straightforward. Yet be¬
cause it relies entirely on individual TSA agents’ interactions with travelers,
it can be equally opaque. Although TSa’s website does not provide an offi¬
cial detailed description of the enhanced pat-down that has been in practice
since 2.010, the procedure is relatively standardized; some airport security
lines even have clearly posted statements that TSA agents read verbatim to
travelers who request apat-down.^^ But the fact that this is only the case in
some locations indicates how variable the process can be. The basic ritual of
the pat-down proceeds as follows: the traveler assumes aspecific stance (feet
shoulder-width apart, arms outstretched with palms facing up), and an agent
of the same gender explains the procedure; asks about injuries, disabilities,
and any desire for aprivate screening; and then physically searches the pas¬
senger. Public anxiety has focused primarily on the enhanced pat-down’s
requirement that agents touch travelers’ breasts, buttocks, and (ofparticular
concern) genitals, actions specified in agents’ scripted statement that they
will move their hands up the traveler’s legs until they meet resistance.
Though routine enough that it follows codified standards and scripts, the
pat-down process also changes significantly depending on airport, specific
security line, individuals involved, and ahost of othet variables. The TSA it¬
self records feedback and complaints not only about the fact of the enhanced
pat-down (that is, complaints about its very existence), but also about the
unpredictable ways in which it is carried out.’’* These reports range from
confusion about different standards in different airports to multiple accusa¬
tions of sexual assault, molestation, and racial and sexual profiling of the
travelers selected for pat-downs. In addition to the many variations in how
the pat-down is physically conducted, individual agents regularly add their
own questions and conversation to the process, such that the pat-down is
simultaneously arepetitive, uniform state practice and aunique interaction
between individual bodies. The divergence that occurs between the formal
physical routine codified by TSA and the spontaneous, diverse range of ver¬
bal interactions produces moments of slippage in which the TSA agent both
carries out standardized state practices and disrupts those practices. These
unpredictable interactions built into pat-downs can position the AIT scans
as routine—indeed, mechanical—by contrast, supporting the illusion of an
objective surveillance practice that is removed from the social or political.
The coerced act of choosing between these two forms of surveillance in¬
volves complicated negotiations of privacy, which is made available to some

FLYING UNDER THE RADAR 65

bodies through being overtly foreclosed for others. For instance, it is easy to
understand the sustained focus on genitals—as asite of dangerous secrets
and as aparticular marker of invasions of privacy—as linked to anxieties
about gender and sexuality. But these body parts in particular are always
fraught with questions of race. In popular and scientific discussions about
race, gender, and sexuality, genitals have been acentral object of analysis
in the West since at least the early nineteenth century. White sexologists
and anatomists specifically studied and documented the bodies of people
of color, focusing on sexual and reproductive organs as evidence of these
bodies’ inherent inferiority and abnormality. In the context of evolution¬
ary theory and early eugenics movements, such studies played akey role in
popular media as they attempted to distinguish civilized, advanced bodies
from primitive ones. Images and descriptions of these bodies circulated as
part of alarger effort to secure white heterosexuality against the threats of
immigration, miscegenation, and sexual ambiguity.^’ This history informs
more recent efforts, both subtle and overt, to identify the bodily truth of
transgender people. That truth frequently relies on the classification of one’s
genitals and is sought on the grounds that the concealment of nonnormative
gender and genitals threatens public health and safety. In this sense, certain
“private parts” have never really been private, but have intentionally been
made public as part of ongoing efforts to maintain anational health charac¬
terized by racialized sexual difference.
To argue—as Ron Paul and Jason Chaffetz do, for instance—that cer¬
tain airport screenings are unacceptable because they undermine individual
privacy assumes auniversalized right to privacy, eliding the fact that state
and public scrutiny of bodies, and perhaps of genitals especially, is anew or
newly alarming invasion of privacy only for some groups. Routinely mak¬
ing certain bodies public produces agroup of normative bodies for whom
privacy seems attainable. The installation of backscatter X-ray machines in
U.S. prisons, years before their broad installation in commercial airports,
is instructive here. When the California prison system began using such
machines to screen visitors in 1997, strong opposition emerged, ultimately
resulting in alawsuit that forced the state to terminate the practice. Critics
of the X-ray scans repeatedly invoked privacy and health concerns, represent¬
ing the screening process as an inherent infringement upon visitors’ rights.
For instance, one attorney told the San Francisco Chronicle, “for the state
to subject us to this is just unconscionable.”^'^ In the same article, ahealth

66 CHAPTER TWO
instructor who regularly visited her incarcerated son likened the compul¬
sory screenings to “living in apolice Gestapo state” and continued, “this is
ahazard to the general public. Ithink we’re guinea pigs.” While these state¬
ments may well have some validity, they gain it in part through the natural¬
ized oppositional relationship between “the general public” and incarcerated
people. Because the prison is understood to void bodily privacy for chose
bodies that are incarcerated, as apractice built into the very concept of im¬
prisonment, these statements need not attend to the ways that prisoners al¬
ready live in apolice state, as do wide swaths of criminalized populations,
whether literally imprisoned or not.^' Thus it is not deemed unconscionable
CO subject prisoners to the public exposure ofX-ray scans, anotion clarified
by asenior staff member at amaximum-security facility in North Carolina,
where backscacter X-ray machines were being used to screen prisoners rather
chan visitors: “We wouldn’t use it on our staff because it is very intrusive
If afemale stood in front of it, it would show her bra, her panty line; [with]
amale it would show just about everything he’s got.”^* Debates over such
surveillance measures in the context of the prison starkly highlight the ways
chat bodies that are compelled to be public sustain the concept of privacy
for other bodies; because bodily privacy loses purchase within the prison, it
appears natural (if at times endangered) outside of it. We can see the residue
of these discourses in the repeated critical description of both the pat-down
and AIT scan as prison-style searches, rhetoric that secs the free, rights-
bearing citizen against the incarcerated person for whom privacy is fore¬
closed as amatter of course.

This does not mean, of course, that all those not formally incarcerated
are in fact naturally imbued with aright to privacy, for bodily privacy rests
on aconstellation of factors ranging from economic status to disability to
age. (Reproductive justice advocates, for example, have made this clear in
their analyses of the limitations of bodily privacy for pregnant or poten¬
tially pregnant people under increasingly restrictive policies governing re¬
productive decisions, which curtail bodily privacy for all pregnant people
but particularly for those who receive public assistance, who are disabled,
who are minors, or who have criminal records.)^^ Rather, these imagined
clear distinctions between the inside and outside of the prison occur in part
through basic understandings of the prison as aspace of unquestioned and
thoroughly rationalized loss of privacy, so that violations of privacy register
as such only when they touch those for whom privacy otherwise appears so

FLYING UNDER THE RADAR 67

obvious as to go unspoken. In this sense, it is telling that anxieties about po¬
lice states and public health hazards immediately and persistently saturated
public discourse when airports required X-ray screening even for those who
are most mobile and privileged, rather than when such technology was ap¬
plied in the specific scrutiny of criminalized bodies by law enforcement or
prison officials. Concerns about the public exposure of bodies thus emerge
in relation to the ways that privacy is unevenly dispersed through structures
of race, gender, class, and disability.

Violence and Repair

In addition to their depictions of physical anatomy, the AIT scans also show
various types of objects attached to bodies. Of course, the machine itself
can only record these images; TSA agents operating the scanners must then
interpret them to determine whether individual bodies warrant further ex¬
amination. In the three primary images that circulated as examples of AIT
scans, some of the objects shown are fairly readily recognizable. For instance,
the image reproduced in NCTE’s fact sheet depicts ahandgun on the rear
hip, suggesting that this figure is hiding adangerous weapon. Yet the fig¬
ure also has avariety of other objects on the hips and waist, and these are
more difficult to interpret. This is precisely the concern articulated by many
transgender and disability rights advocates.'*® Within the “nothing to hide,
nothing to fear” logic of the war on terror, the images’ vagueness may work
in favor of bodies that TSA agents perceive as normative and innocent; these
travelers already have greater access to privacy and may be given the ben¬
efit of the doubt in order to maintain that privacy. But for more troubling
bodies—those that are difficult to classify or are already classified as poten¬
tial threats based on perceived race, nation of origin, or citizenship status,
for example—vague images may intensify scrutiny. Yet to remain focused
on the machines’ accuracy coo easily accepts the prevailing parameters of
state surveillance, militarized safety measures, and good versus bad bodies.
The constant reproduction of the same handful of images entices viewers
to examine the depicted bodies again and again. The TSA released the im¬
ages ostensibly to clarify the inner workings of these surveillance practices,
agesture toward full disclosure on the part of state agencies. In fact, the TSA
website offered these images in the context of several pages of information
about what passengers can expect when asked to go through the scanners

68 CHAPTER TWO
and what they can do to assist officials and ensure efficient security lines, all
information intended to make the process perfectly clear. At the same time,
the images themselves are rather less than clear, functioning as invitations
fot extensive inspection. The production and circulation of these images
encourages focused examination of patticular bodies that come to seem out
of the ordinary or difficult to define. Furthermore, the very repetition of
such images naturalizes the process of visual scrutiny and of X-ray imaging
specifically. One may even feel acertain pleasure in the act of studying these
vaguely defined bodies, which begin to stand in for the terrorist body, the
dangerous body, the body that attempts to deceive.
Likewise, these images work closely with the racism embedded in anti¬
terrorism policies and practices. The literal whiteness of these ubiquitous
figures—ghostly white bodies set against black space, with dark shadows
indicating potentially threatening objects—may visually suggest that the
figure under inspection represents anormative white traveler. But because
antiterrorism discourse so persistently locates violence outside of white¬
ness and attaches it instead to Black and Muslim people in particular, these
white figures and their attendant signs of violence (weapons, indeterminate
objects, and as the next section of this chapter suggests, even genitals) are
more likely to signal racial categories other than white. Leti Volpp explains
that particularly since 9/11, public discourse and government actions in the
United States construct the category of the terrorist as one inhabited by
certain racial groups, forming the constitutive outside to the category of the
American citizen. Arguing that these categories are productive of and thus
dependent on one another, she writes that the events of 9/11 “facilitated the
consolidation of anew identity category that groups together persons who
appear ‘Middle Eastern, Arab, or Muslim.’ This consolidation reflects ara-
cialization wherein members of this group are identified as terrorists, and
are disidentified as citizens.”'*' If the scanned images produced and circu¬
lated by TSA are imagined to represent dangerous or terrorist bodies made
available for inspection, then already these images and their meanings are
produced through anti-Muslim racism. For many viewers, race may come
to mark these bodies in ways that are at odds with their literal whiteness,
even without visual reference to other surface features through which race
is routinely read.
The repetition of images may also support the notion that an identifi¬
able terrorist body exists to be sought out by certain technologies. In this

FLYING UNDER THE RADAR 69

 sense, for the projected audience of compliant citizens, there may be plea¬
sure in distancing oneself from these images, through imagining that one’s
own body is distinctly unlike certain others and through learning to inspect
other bodies that might be dangerously deceptive, as the images themselves
instruct. In the case of transgender travelers and others using “good” medical
technologies, this would entail distancing one’s bodily technologies from
their militarized histories or from questions of war and violence more gen¬
erally, in order to see technology linked to violence only in the figure of the
terrorist. That is to say, certain types of bodily technologies can be folded
into the normal as they are undersrood to be medically necessary and thus
health promoting, in contrast to those framed as harmful to both individual
and national health.
/
In his extended analysis of Western conceptualizations of terrorism and
suicide bombings, Talal Asad points to the contradictory framework in
which the modern liberal state discursively positions violence and killing as
criminal and morally abhorrent when located in the terrorist figure, yet as
an organized and authorized means of securing freedom when accomplished
by the citizen-soldier at war. The latter understanding of violence positions
it as anecessary caretaking function of the state, so that “violence is there¬
fore embedded in the very concept of liberty that lies at the heart of liberal
doctrine.”'*^ Because it is cast as absolutely oppositional to the backward and
corrupr violence of terrorism, rhe U.S. government and military’s own vio¬
lence can appear not only legitimate but protective and beneficial. In this
way, Asad demonstrates how colonialist and Orientalist discourses mask the
violence that is foundational to the Western state, perhaps especially when
that violence is understood as aform of care.

At the same time, Ghassan Hage examines the case of Palestinian suicide
bombings, often described as “the worst possible kind of violence,” against
the mass killings wrought by the Israeli state.^^ He considers the possibil¬
ity of reading acts explicitly classified as terrorism—suicide bombings in
particular—not as the most abhorrent form of violent death, as they are
so commonly interpreted, but as “a sign of life” in populations otherwise
ravaged by the structural and material violence endemic to colonialism:
“for what better sign of life is there, in such violent conditions, than the
capacity to hurt despite the greater capacity of the other to hurt you?’”*"* The
seemingly clear boundaries between life and death, violence and care, break
down and become interdependent when understood through these broader

70 CHAPTER TWO
frameworks. Extending Hage’s analysis, Ja.sbir Puar posits the figute of the
suicide bomber as a“queer assemblage” that exposes these binary systems as
false, producing “a systemic challenge to the entire order of Manichaean ra¬
tionality that organizes the rubric of good versus evil.”'*^ It is this rubric that
animates and rationalizes the war on terror, in which the twin violences of

war and terror can be articulated as fundamentally oppositional, the former

imagined as necessary for health and security precisely because the latter
46
transgresses the boundaries of legitimate violence.
Asad unpacks the ways that the legitimating rhetoric of war intertwines
violence with care in part by examining how military technologies are mu¬
tually constitutive with medical advances, noting that modern warfare has
produced “improved techniques for destruction, of course, but also for the
restoration of human life.”'*^ In this way, we can understand harmful and
healthful technologies not as binarily opposed, but tather as fundamentally
intertwined: the development of war-making technologies occurs alongside
medical advances to treat injuries incurred in war, in acontinuous cycle.
Jennifer Terry explains, “plenty of medical knowledge results from bodily
wounds inflicted in human conflict, indicating amutual provocation of
might and medicine that lays to waste the cherished idea chat violent conflict
”48
and humanitarianism are mutually exclusive.
The X-ray machine serves as an apt example for this point, in part be¬
cause it is an ostensibly medical technology regularly employed in milita¬
rized contexts and thus also amilitarized technology taken up in medical
settings—for instance, the desire for aportable radiography machine dur¬
ing World War Iinfluenced the transition from glass places to film, and
then to increasingly fast film, improvements implemented on the battlefield
and later extended to civilian medical insticutions.”*^ But further, the X-ray’s
ability to heal occurs precisely through acts of harm: the use of X-rays to
diagnose, prevent, and treat various ailments necessarily entails exposing
the body to the damaging effects of radiation. Early physical evidence of
radiation’s potential for destruction and disease—including the decompo¬
sition of scientists’ own bodies during the research process—was typically
downplayed through public health campaigns chat figured X-ray imaging
as preventing rather than creating illness.^" Aversion of this rhetoric lingers
intheairportscreeningprocess,asTSAassuresconcernedtravelerschatthe
radiation used in AIT scans poses only minimal threat to individual bodies
while guarding against broader threats to the nation itselff ‘

FLYING UNDER THE RADAR 71

 The relationship chat Asad and Terry discuss, between medical advances
and the violence of war, also returns us to the question of genital prosthet¬
ics, which featured so prominently in the initial rationale for AIT airport
screenings. Like most medicalized prosthetics, genital prosthetics and im¬
plants developed largely in response to injuries sustained in war, and they
functioned both to reconstitute manhood and masculinity for wounded vet¬
erans and to help maintain areproductive citizenship chat could continue to
serve the nation through military force.’^ The demand for and refinemenr of
these medical technologies accelerated with the introduction of new com¬
bat weaponry such as land mines and grenades during World War I, which
caused explosions directly underneath soldiers’ bodies and increased the rate
of injury to genitals.” Many reports suggest that this rate continues to rise
for U.S. military personnel in Afghanistan.’’* Even while advances in body
armor as well as trauma care in the field may lead to adrop in the casualty
rate for U.S. soldiers, the increase in particular types of injury and the con¬
current development of new treatments illustrate the biopolicical function
of war chat is concerned not merely with “advanced technologies for death
55
dealing,” but with the maintenance of aparticular form of life.
Eliding this mutual relationship between medicine and war, many trans¬
gender advocates seek to clearly distinguish between the prosthetic genitals
of the cransgender citizen and the explosive genitals of the foreign terrorist.
This rhetorical feat also involves navigating the contradictory posicioningof
the terrorist figure as technologically inferior to the West, even while more
primitive technologies—the shoe bomb, the box cutter—evade the U.S.
government’s cutting-edge surveillance techniques. In the context of the war
in Afghanistan, the status of genitals exemplifies this conflicted logic: U.S.
officials praise their military’s high-tech weaponry as superior to Taliban
arsenals, yet military physicians report arise in genital injury rates for U.S.
soldiers (loss of testicles may be considered the war’s signature wound), citing
Taliban forces’ targeting of the legs and genitals through improvised explo¬
56
sive devices that outwit U.S. body armor’s focus on head and torso regions.
Thus Abdulmutallab—or at least the discursive figure he is made to
represent—can be both mocked as the underwear bomber, whose failed at¬
tempt to explode his own genitals serves to cement the foreign, racialized
figure as primitive and backward, and reviled as the terrorist threat to U.S.
freedom and safety, whose explosive genitals legally function as weapons of

71 CHAPTER TWO
mass destruction. These complicated positionings speak to the ambivalent
waysthatwhite,heteronormativeU.S.nationalismnavigatesracialandsex¬
ual difference. The focused anxiety about genitals in this case recalls what
Kobena Mercer, following Frantz Fanon, observes as “the primal fantasy
of the big black penis [that] projects the fear of athreat not only to white
womanhood, but to civilization itself.”^^ This threat is then managed in part
through positioning the racialized figure as sexually perverse and primitive
and therefore inferior, even while the persistent emphasis on and anxiety
about this figure (particularly as represented through genitals) reaffirms the
power of the perceived threat. Relatedly, the ways that genitals come to sig¬
nify racial, gendered, and national identifications echo David Eng’s concept
of racial castration, apsychic and political framework through which racial
and sexual difference are both produced and managed always in relation to
one another. Importantly, Eng contends that these identifications not only
construct racialized subjects within narrow frames but also “produce against
these particularized images the abstract national subject of aunified and
coherent national body.”^*
In this sense, the explosive/failed genitals of the underwear bomber
contrast with the exploded/repaired genitals of U.S. soldiers, who are at
once emasculated by the foreign enemy and restored by the West’s modern
medicine and technology.” Legitimated violence thus merges with medical
advancement in the figure of the loyal citizen-soldier, whose genital trauma
signals not perverse failure but patriotic sacrifice, not foreign threat but
national progress and renewed masculinity. The determination of many
transgender advocates to classify transgender-related prosthetics as medi¬
cally necessary—as enabling the modern, mobile citizen—thus has little
room for consideration of the underwear bomber, or the ways that those
genitals (both as literal body parts and as symbolic concepts) become asite
of anxious scrutiny. In fact, the logic of classification here buttresses efforts
to more effectively and accurately demarcate the dangerous figure, whose
body must ultimately differ from those of ordinary citizens. Obscuring that
figure’s historical and ideological resonances with the broader scrutiny of
nonconforming bodies created as threatening, many prominent advocacy
efforts highlight instead the reparative function of medically legitimated
prosthetics, which purport to fold otherwise deviant bodies into the norm
by portraying them as inherently safe, legible, and nonviolent.

FLYING UNDER THE RADAR 73

Reading the Anomalies

In early 1013, partly in response to sustained public concern about the use
of X-ray technology in airports, TSA began replacing backscacter machines
with millimeter wave scans.“ (Notably, the machines were scheduled to be
moved from airports to other government agencies, and by mid-2014, more
than 150 such scanners had been transferred to local law enforcement agen¬
cies, including jails and prisons.)'^' The new machinery does not rely on ion¬
izing radiation, and it does not produce images specific to individual travel¬
ers but instead uses ageneric outline of abody (figure 2.4). Anything that
the scanner records as suspicious is marked on this outline, and in these cases /

the traveler must undergo additional screening, such as apat-down. If the /

machine does not detect any problems, agreen screen stating “OK” indicates
/
that the traveler may proceed through the checkpoint. Because every trav¬
eler’s body is depicted through the generic figure, TSA describes the software
as increasing privacy. Yet images of the upgraded machines show pink and
blue buttons marked “scan,” indicating the requirement that security agents
assign each traveler one of two genders to begin the scan, aclassification
process that many transgender organizations and commentators critique
as disproportionately affecting gender-nonconforming travelers.^ Beyond
this concern, however, the use of astandardized, generic bodily image, while
potentially offering acertain kind of privacy, also supports normalization
processes by which certain bodies are marked as deviant and dangerous. In
fact, we might understand such images as intensifying those processes, such
that the image of the generic body comes to mark the norm in the most
reductive way possible. The generic “OK” body, for example, is one with
four limbs and alegible gender presentation, and it is absent any additional
materials or objects.
These standardized figures build on alonger history of circulating images
that depict an idealized, normative body in the context of national health
and safety. They echo, for instance, the Norma and Normman statues first
displayed in New York’s American Museum of Natural History in 1945 and
circulated as replicas during the height of the U.S. eugenics movement. Ju¬
lian Carter explains that the statues, created through anthropometric studies
of thousands of “native White Americans,” facilitated eugenicist efforts to
promote the superiority of the white, heterosexual, able body as that which
exemplified American health and citizenship, and could be contrasted with

7 4 CHAPTER TWO
Figure i.4 Marketing material for ProVisionz security scanner, showing generic
body image and pink and blue scan buttons.

the perceived physical and psychological deficiencies of immigrants, people

of color, queer people, and people with disabilities, all of which represented
threats to the nation.® Notably, Carter contends that the figutes helped
forward these ideas without explicitly referencing race or sexuality at all; it
was in fact theit standard, generic quality, seemingly devoid of rematkable
characteristics, that helped solidify whiteness and heterosexuality as the nor¬
mal. This is not to suggest that current airport screening technologies are
consciously designed with eugenics in mind. Rather, their attempts to stan-
datdize bodies—both through the explicit marking out of anomalies and
through the creation of ageneric standard framed as abenevolent, protective
gift from the DHS—must be understood in the broader context of scientific
efforts and interpretive practices that sort bodies along lines of tace, gender,
and disability toward agoal of national health and security. In this way,
even though TSA frames the new software as less subjective (because each
individual body is depicted through the same basic image), the generic fig-

FLYING UNDER THE RADAR 75

ure produces new, further standardized understandings and expectations of
bodies that are safe and normative.

The circulation of certain screened images, ostensibly intended to clarify

the screening process and to demonstrate the objectivity of X-ray technol¬
ogy, actually makes clear that such imaging techniques are rooted in racial-
izing and gendering processes that produce and distinguish the categories
of citizen and terrorist, normative and deviant. These images circulate in
political contexts that necessarily cast certain bodies as violent or as threat¬
eningly anomalous in an effort to stabilize the notion of healthy, safe bod¬
ies. In this sense, to call for amore accurate or objective mechanism of sur¬
veillance serves not to undo the profiling strategies at work but to reinforce
them by seeking ever more careful scrutiny of difference and by reaffirming
public understandings of what athreatening body—and the technologies
it takes up—must look like.
Likewise, more refined surveillance programs attuned to the “special
considerations” of certain populations can solidify expectations about how
normative and safe bodies ought to appear, creating more categories of classi¬
fication that can then be scrutinized anew. Mara Keisling, executive director
of NCTE, argues, “any security system that relies on gender and ‘anatomi¬
cal anomalies’ will always disparately affect transgender and gender non-
conforming people. The TSA must act to bring their screening practices up
” 6 4
to speed with social norms that value transgender people and our privacy.
In one sense, these statements are accurate; certainly those bodies that do
not comply with dominant understandings of sex and gender will be espe¬
cially vulnerable in security screenings, even if for some that vulnerability is
mitigated by recourse to whiteness, wealth, or U.S. citizenship. And altering
screening practices to account for transgender bodies and identities would
likely decrease risk of scrutiny for many. Yet by what measures will bod¬
ies be identified as transgender, and how might they apply (or not) to non¬
transgender bodies interpreted as gender-nonconforming? What parameters
should state agencies use to delineate safely medicalized transgender bodies
from threatening anomalies? How will bodily anomalies be redefined, as
bodily normality is incrementally expanded through these alterations? Like
claims to medical necessity, this call to modernize airport security practices
aims to incorporate (some) transgender people more fully into TSA’s em¬
brace and gaze, amove chat, while potentially lessening vulnerability for
some, also strengthens the efficacy of screening measures.

76 CHAPTER TWO
 At the same time, perhaps there is something productive—even if un¬
intentionally so—in the anxiety and confusion provoked by these security
procedures and surveillance images, anxiety that can extend even to the
most normative of bodies and identities. That is to say, there is acommon
narrative even from many people who are rarely or never singled out for
scrutiny that they feel anxious approaching security personnel, that they
fear their identification documents may not look enough like them, that
they are concerned their body may be misread by the AIT scanners. As this
chapter shows, certain types of bodies and identities, routinely represented
as security threats, historically bear the brunt of state policing practices,
making it possible for others to imagine that they are free from such prac¬
tices. This is no less true at the airport, of course; one reason that new air¬
port screening procedures draw so much attention is that they overtly scru¬
tinize those bodies that may seem otherwise outside of surveillance systems’
critical gaze. This more widespread anxiety has the potential to open up
different questions about nonnormative bodies and about bodily anomalies
that position them not as fixed, ahistorical, or easily read markers of devi¬
ance, but rather as active interpretations that—like the images from AIT
scanners themselves—can shift according to context. And while certain
people might more easily argue that the screening process has wrongfully
misinterpreted them, the growing awareness that such misreadings occur
at all might usefully make clear the fragility of any surveillance program’s
grasp on bodily norms.
Even this potential disruption can be adjusted for, though. In ZO13, TSA
expanded its Precheck program for “trusted travelers,” allowing any U.S.
citizen to apply for this preapproved status. First piloted in zoii, when it was
available only to certain frequent flier members and those already enrolled
in similar programs through Customs and Border Protection, Precheck re¬
quires abackground check, an in-person interview, fingerprinting, and afee
of $85 for five years of enrollment. In exchange, TSA provides “a more conve¬
nient and efficient screening experience,” with expedited security lanes and,
during the screening process, permission to keep shoes and jackets on and
to keep laptops and liquids in carry-on luggage; byjune Z017, the agency an¬
65
nounced that more than five million people had enrolled in the program.
Given chat Precheck status also typically routes travelers through ametal de¬
tector rather than afull-body AIT scanner, it is perhaps no coincidence that
TSA expanded this program during the same period that it implemented the

FLYING UNDER THE RADAR 77

new generic image machines: both changes can be understood as responses
65
to public disapproval of AIT scans.
Precheck represents awilling participation in surveillance that may seem
at odds with the widespread resistance to invasive airport screening mea¬
sures. But TSA markets its trusted-traveler program as advantageous to both
national security efforts and to individual travelers who can claim this vet¬
ted status. ATSA promotional video describes Precheck as abenefit: short
interviews with three enrollees (all ofwhom are legible as white, able-bodied,
and normatively gendered) emphasize the convenience and even superiority
of being preapproved, with one person explaining that her envy of Precheck
travelers motivated her to enroll.®^ Moreover, TSA encourages enrollees to
understand themselves as crucial participants in national security, rather
than as suspects who must submit to the intrusions of the body scan and
pat-down. After all, the video explains, “a one-size-fits-all security approach
no longer applies,” because most travelers are not actually risky and TSA must
focus its resources on genuine threats. The program can be imagined as away
to avoid invasive scrutiny, even as it entails actively inviting surveillance by
other means, including providing one’s biometric data through fingerprint¬
ing. But this submission of data helps restore distinctions between healthy
and harmful bodies that AIT machines had threatened to erode at the air¬

port, just as they did when extended to visitors in prisons years before. These
screening measures puncture the illusion of privacy for many travelers who
must now, with AIT scans, confront overt physical scrutiny in the manner of
prisoners or terrorists. Precheck reaffirms that bodily privacy—for instance,
through permission to remain fully clothed during screening—while simul¬
taneously undermining it through biometric data collection. The program
thus layers several sorting processes: it tracks the voluntary relinquishing of
data to apply, inspects fingerprints and identification records of enrollees,
and determines whose bodies will undergo which type of screening at the
airport itself (It should come as no surprise that TSA’s Precheck website in¬
cludes information for “disabilities and medical conditions.”) The promo¬
tional video concludes by noting that TSA “continues to adapt for an ever-
evolving threat.” Though this statement positions Precheck as evidence of
more refined antiterrorism programs, it also speaks to the process by which
state agencies become attuned to variations in bodies and bodily technolo¬
gies, continuing to revise somatic norms and folding new differences into
surveillance practices themselves naturalized as healthy and safe.

78 CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE

B AT H R O O M S , BORDERS,

AND BIOMETRICS

IN EARLY 2013, Phoenix, Arizona, prepared to expand its nondiscrimina¬

tion ordinance to include sexuality and gender identity. The revised law,
which passed after alengthy and controversial public hearing, explicitly in¬
corporated LGBT people into basic city protections against discrimination
in employment, housing, and public accommodations. In otder to reframe
the law from one that sought to protect certain marginalized groups to
one that would actively endanger other groups, the ordinance’s opponents
dubbed it the “bathroom bill” and described it as primarily changing city
policy governing public restrooms. For instance, the conservative nonprofit
organization Center for Arizona Policy reduced the bill to one that “would
allow ‘transgendered’ men to use the women’s restroom in public accom¬
modations like restaurants, schools, and churches—the same restroom that

your child uses.”' This tactic makes use of the basic rhetoric of dangerous
deception, suggesting that the bill condones transgender fraud and assists
the inherently deceptive transgender person in preying on vulnerable (non¬
transgender) women and children. The scare quotes around “transgen¬
dered” position transgender women as men, while also implying that many
such people in the restroom are not actually transgender. In the organiza¬
tion’s logic, then, the transgender figure signifies not only the deviant or de¬
luded transgender-identified person, but also the perverse and threatening
non-transgender perpetrator who—in afantasized revetsal—falsely puts on
atransgender identity as astrategy to avoid scrutiny. Soon after the Phoenix
law passed, the Arizona stare legislature introduced two bills seeking to
align bathroom use with birth-assigned sex.
 Arizona represents only one of many U.S. legislative struggles over gen¬
dered bathrooms at the state and local levels. And as in Arizona, many le¬
gal challenges follow closely on the heels of new antidiscrimination laws.
For instance, abroad equal-rights ordinance passed in Houston, Texas, in
May 1014 covered arange of identity categories (including race, national
origin, and age) and addressed employment, housing, and city contracting
practices. Yet public discourse regularly framed it as essentially about gen¬
dered public bathrooms, with some opponents referring to it as the “Sexual
Predator Protection Act.”^ The ordinance was overturned by popular vote
in 2015. Other legislation operates preemptively, as when Utah representa¬
tive Michael Kennedy proposed a2014 bill that both defines gender based
on aphysician’s examination of genitalia and explicitly prohibits students
/
/
in Utah public schools from using abathroom that does not correspond to /
their (genitalia-based) gender.^ These are just three moments of contention
about the regulation of bodies entering the public restroom, each of which
illustrates the powerful anxieties that space commonly provokes. So pressing
and incendiary are these anxieties that broad legislation can be reduced to
the single threatening specter of the unregulated public bathroom and the
deceptive interlopers it hosts.
The basic concerns present in these debates are not new in themselves.
For four decades, advocates have worked to pass nondiscrimination ordi¬
nances at the state and local levels that cover transgender people’s use of
public accommodations, and bathrooms regularly emerge as asticking point
in these efforts. For example, St. Paul, Minnesota’s policy first included
transgender people in 1975, and local transgender activists recall that it
faced considerable resistance for decades, with opponents “attempting to
exploit fears about trans people and bathrooms” to overturn the ordinance.^
Increasingly, though, legislative and public responses to bathroom debates
reflect the anti-immigrant and antiterrorism frameworks that intensified
after 9/11. In particular, this chapter shows how adiscourse of deception
and an investment in biometric surveillance practices shape public and legal
approaches to gendered bathrooms.
Beginning with Arizona state legislators’ challenge to the Phoenix ordi¬
nance in 2013, bathroom policies not only explicitly criminalize those deter¬
mined to have entered the bathroom improperly, but also base that determi¬
nation on specific body parts—such as genitals or chromosomes—framed

80 CHAPTER THREE
as natural and unchanging. This chapter argues for understanding such
bathroom scrutiny in the context of biometric surveillance, which promises
objective identification of individuals through the assessment of presumably
immutable physical characteristics. Biometric data are typically considered
harder to falsify and therefore more objective than ID documents. While
fingerprinting has long been afamiliar form of biometric data collection
to track and identify criminalized persons, biometric surveillance practices
garnered renewed state and public interest after 9/11. Government officials
vigorously pursued an array of biometric technologies as strategies to guard
against terrorism and to track people crossing U.S. borders. By insisting on
the primacy and factuality of the physical body for identification, criminal¬
izing bathroom surveillance employs the basic logic of biometrics. More¬
over, because public bathrooms have always been sites through which good
citizenship is produced and access to public space managed, that surveil¬
lance functions as one component of the anti-immigrant and antiterrorism
biometric programs intended to reinforce spatial boundaries and identify
threatening outsiders in the name of public safety.
Bathroom surveillance often appears as amatter of public safety rather
than as surveillance per se, and rationalizing bodily scrutiny in this way al¬
lows concepts like “the general public” and “safety” to stand unquestioned
as common sense; those bodies understood as wrongly moving into certain
spaces are discursively disassociated from the public because they jeopardize
safety. In this way, surveillance of public bathrooms helps produce ideals of
good citizenship and determine the parameters of citizenship by delimit¬
ing access to public space. The space of the bathroom may seem quite mi¬
nor in relation to the vast scope—and effects—of antiterrorism and anti¬
immigration projects, but Ishow here how bathrooms can highlight the
relationship between those larger projects and the everyday surveillance
practices that regulate citizenship and participation in public life. If, as
Isaac West observes, use of the public bathroom is “one of the most, if not
the most, quotidian practices of citizenship,” then this chapter argues that
surveillance criminalizing public bathroom use is one element of alarger
effort to secure citizenship and spatial belonging through the apprehension
of physical difference.^

BATHROOMS, BORDERS, AND BIOMETRICS 8l

Civilizing Spaces

As incencional public spaces, bathrooms in the United States emerged out of

growing investments in cleanliness and public health in the late nineteenth
century, and they were meant to project ideals of modernization and civi¬
lized social practices. Because they were initially created for men, early pub¬
lic bathrooms implicitly coded those ideals (and public space more generally)
as masculine. At their core, these two concepts supported one another: if
civilized, respectable womanhood—an idealized gendered position built on
whiteness and class privilege—entailed detachingwomen from the dirtiness I
and sexualization so often associated with excretion, and if it also entailed

linking women to the domestic rather than the public sphere, then the ab¬
sence of public bathrooms for female-assigned bodies aligned with both of
these social standards.^

Yet white middle-class women entered public space in greater numbers

during this period, in part via new roles in factory labor. Sex separation in
public spaces, including workplace bathrooms specifically designed to sepa¬
rate men from women, developed “as akind of cure-all for the full range
of social concerns surrounding factory women” and as support for stricter
sanitation policies.^ Business owners and legislators framed gendered bath¬
rooms as protective measures for white women, whom they positioned both
as the virtuous, civilizing backbone of Victorian society and as especially
vulnerable to the immoral world outside of the domestic realm. But be¬

cause gendered bathrooms were constructed to alleviate the social upheaval

provoked by white women’s increased participation in public space, these
bathrooms actually protected the social hierarchy that designated the public
arena as white men’s domain. In this way, such spatial boundaries respond to
and reinforce broader investments in the purity of not only individual bod¬
ies, but also social morals and national identity. The residue of that initial
moral framework for public bathrooms lingers in more recent arguments
that these public spaces must be rigidly sex-segregated and policed accord¬
ingly to protect vulnerable citizens—commonly portrayed as white women
and children. While the gendered public bathroom may make possible a
fuller form of citizenship and greater public participation for certain groups,
it does so through protectionism that reiterates those groups’ unfitness for
general public space, and it implicitly and explicitly casts others as threats
to public safety.*

Si CHAPTER THREE
 S|

'WOMEN «(!'i;Vi<-

Figure 3.1 Lauren Quock, White/Colored, Men/Women (zoii).

Acrylic on wood, 10 x14 inches. Courtesy of the artist.

Sex-segregated bathrooms in the United States emerged roughly concur¬

rently with the institutionalization of racially segregated bathrooms and
other public spaces, as part of Jim Crow laws intensifying after the 1896
Plessy V. Ferguson decision. Work that considers these historical links often
positions raced and gendered bathrooms as parallel boundaries rather than
as mutually constitutive ones. For example, California-based visual artist
Lauren Quock created azoii series titled Modified Bathroom Signs, which
the artist’s statement describes as “deconstructing antiquated definitions”
to “transform sites of tejection into sites of resonance and affirmation for
people who exist across the gender spectrum.”^ The series revises standard¬
ized “men” and “women” bathroom signs typical of public testroom doors in
the United States, and produces new signs such as butch,” “fabulous,” and
“queer.” The final piece in the series, titled White/Colored, Men/Women, re¬
makes a1931 race-segregated drinking fountain sign from Alabama by paint¬
ing over the entire sign in black (figure 3.1). With the original raised letters
now only vaguely visible, new lettering in white overlies them: Restroom over
the words Drinking Fountain, Men over White, and Women over Colored.
The pieceworks to bring race and gender together: the vaguely visible words
of the original sign indicate that racially segregated public space is fading
away though its fundamental remnants linger in more clearly marked gen¬
der divisions. This imagined decline of racial segregation suggests that the
construction of racialized space informs current gendered divisions, with

BATHROOMS, BORDERS, AND BIOMETRICS 83

 racial difference always present in gender difference. At the same time, the
artwork’s format relies on one sign taking precedence over another, aclaim
highlighted by the color scheme, in which white words about gender liter¬
ally write ovet ablack background obscuring words about tace. The near
erasure of the original words may imply that racially segregated spaces are
relegated to the past, and the substitution of nouns suggests that gendered
bathrooms have taken the place of raced ones. The dace and location marked
on the original sign are painted ovet in black but not replaced by new words,
situating race-segregated spaces in apast time and aspecific location, while
evoking atimelessness and omnipresence of gendered bathrooms.
In making these moves, the sign cannot account foe the continued racial
division of public space: while perhaps not overtly marked in the same way
as drinking fountain signs, the routine surveillance and criminalization of
people of colot in public spaces ranging from sidewalks to public schools
makes clear chat spatial boundaries have not simply shifted away from race
onto gender."’ This is true even in the specific case of public bathrooms,
since racial segregation by neighbothood temains enttenched throughout
the United States.” Because racial divisions of public space encompass pub¬
lic bathrooms, those bathrooms are informally racially segregated as part
of larger patterns of raced spatial boundaries. The White/Colored, Men/
Women piece literally glosses over these conditions, teptesenting tace and
gender as related but sequential categories of difference such that gender
divisions are the new version of spatial segregation.'^
In ways that ate pethaps less starkly drawn, much scholarly work also
tends CO conceptualize raced and gendered bathrooms as two different but
patallel spaces. Philosopher Richard Wasserscrom argues chat racially seg¬
regated bathrooms, like gendered bathrooms, fundamentally depend on
anxieties about hygiene and purity, both materially and metaphorically:
the point of separating these spaces by race was not so much to prevent dif¬
ferent taces from using each other’s toilets, he contends, but to ensure chat
Black people “would not contaminate bathrooms used by whites.”'^ This
rationale both drew on and developed perceptions of Black people as inhet-
encly unclean, set in contrast to whiteness as the purest and most advanced
cacial category. It is no sutprise that the space of the bathroom—chat space
hosting avariety of behaviots and bodily functions associated with diet,
waste, and disgust—plays akey cole in marking certain groups as more or
less civilized than others.'^ Despite drawing these connections in his dis-

84 CHAPTER THREE
 cussion of racially segregated bathrooms, Wasserstrom argues against their
influence on gendered bathrooms. He attributes the latter’s creation instead
t o the importance of inculcating and pteserving asense of secrecy concern¬
ing the genitalia of the opposite sex,” an analysis that, as Ishowed in chaptet
1, assumes as universal asexual privacy that actually depends heavily on
whiteness.'’

These notions of gendered bodily difference are fundamental to tacial

and national formations, apoint made particularly clear in the way that
segregated bathrooms developed to help construct public space as clean,
modern, and civilized. Writing about the concept of civilization in the late
nineteenth-century United States, Gail Bederman describes it as an “explic¬
\ itly racial concept” that “denoted aprecise stage in human racial evolution”:
one that had evolved past primitive or barbaric characteristics.''^ Dtawing
on Darwinism, this logic tationalized white suptemacy through claims that
people of color simply had not developed in the same ways or at the same tate
as white people, situating civilization itself as aracial characteristic and pro¬
ducing and solidifying distinct racial categories.''' Bederman notes that gen¬
der was crucial in distinguishing civilized societies from the less advanced,
with the fotmer identified in part by clear binary gender divisions.'* Greater
differences between men and women—in social roles, behaviors, appear¬
ances, and adherence to sepatate sphetes—indicated further advancement
along the evolutionary scale. In the context of this ideological framewotk,
the institutionalization of sepatately gendered spaces for public bathrooms
in the late nineteenth-century United States is inseparable from the devel¬
opment and maintenance of dominant tacial and national identity in that
period.
Moreover, in the era of formal Jim Crow, while bathrooms marked for
white people wete typically separated into men’s and women’s spaces, those
labeled “colored” were often unmarked by gender at all, apractice that aligns
with civilizational discourse.'® If we understand the overt racial segregation
of bathrooms in this period to also inherently produce and maintain hier¬
archies of gender—in which only white people are civilized enough to war¬
rant distinctly gendeted spaces, and those gender distinctions likewise cast
white people as civilized—then we must also consider how today’s gendered
bathrooms continue to rely on racist conceptions of amodern, civilized so¬
ciety, even if these spaces are no longer formally segregated by tace. Even the
repeated claim that criminalizing bathroom legislation makes transgender

BATHROOMS, BORDERS, AND BIOMETRICS 85

people second-class citizens—which strategically invokes antiracist and civil
rights movements of the mid-twentieth-century United States—relies on an
understanding of the U.S. as otherwise socially and politically advanced, by
relegating racial segregation to the past and implicitly aligning transgender
identity with an unmarked whitenessd" The second-class-citizen argument
works by recalling ashameful racism of the past that is at odds with ideals
of the present-day United States as amodern, civilized nation that treats
all citizens equally. It warns against returning to that less civilized time in
which public bathrooms marked some citizens as less than others, and it
implies that the only problem with current bathrooms is anew restriction
affecting transgender people. The history of segregated bathrooms and its
useinmorerecentsecond-class-citizenargumentsreflectscomplicatedanxi¬ /

eties about citizenship as both aformal legal status and as asocial status
that turns on idealized understandings of propriety, morality, and legibility.
Strict legal definitions of citizenship are inextricable from the development
of ideals of good citizen.ship that arise through both state actions and “social
policies and practices beyond the state that in myriad mundane ways sug¬
gest, define, and direct adherence to democratic, racial, and market norms
of belonging.”^' Rather than resting on the national progress narrative built
into transgender advocates’ use of “second-class citizen,” the invocation of
citizenship in this claim should prompt consideration of how gendered pub¬
lic bathrooms are always sites through which struggles over citizenship and
belonging play out.

Bathrooms and Citizenship

Shortly after Phoenix’s nondiscrimination law passed in 2,013, Arizona state

representative John Kavanagh introduced anew statewide bathroom bill,
which would criminalize any individual who intentionally entered gendered
public spaces—such as restrooms, locker rooms, or dressing rooms—that
did not align with the gender marker on that person’s birth certificate. The
proposed bill, SB 1432, would add such behavior to the state’s definition of
disorderlyconduct,makingitaclassonemisdemeanorsubjecttosixmonths
in jail and a$2,500 fine. The National Center for Transgender Equality and
the Transgender Law Center (tlc) dubbed Kavanagh’s proposal the “pa¬
pers, please” bill, and broad opposition by these and other organizations led
Kavanagh to withdraw his original proposal, only to introduce arevised

86 CHAPTER THREE
version (SB 1045) specifically protecting business owners from being legally
22
required to allow transgendet people into gendered restrooms.
Although Kavanagh and othet opponents’ vehement response might sug¬
gest that Phoenix’s law was the first to include transgender people in public
accommodations nondiscrimination policy, in fact, many such otdinances
have been in place at the city and state levels since the late 1970s. Several
of these policies ate remarkable for their legal definitions of sex and gen¬
der, which understand these categories as processes, feelings, or expressions,
rather than as obvious facts of birth or body. For example, nondiscrimina¬
tion ordinances passed in Champaign (1977) and Urbana, Illinois (1979),
define sex as “the state of being or becoming male or female or transsexual,
or pregnant.”^^ Ordinances in other locales can be interpreted as addtessing
transgender identity undet other terms; the ordinance for LosAngeles, Cali¬
fornia (1979), defines sexual orientation in terms of “emotional or physical
attachment” to another person, but also includes here “having or projecting
aself-imagenotassociatedwithone’sbiologicalmalenessorone’sbiological
femaleness.”^'* Some ordinances explicitly name bathrooms in their defini¬
tions oipublic accommodations, while some include single-sex public bath¬
rooms as possible exceptions to nondiscrimination policies. For example, St.
Paul, Minnesota’s otdinance (1988) states that “nothing in this chapter shall
prohibit discrimination on the basis of sex in such facilities as rest rooms,
locker rooms, and similar places.” But this line need not be understood as
requiring people to use gendered bathrooms according to the sex they were
assigned at birth, ot according to any single physical attribute. Instead, be¬
causetheordinancedefinesJ'ex:as“havingorbeingperceivedashavingmale
orfemalecharacteristics,”theexceptioncanbeinterpretedascoveringevery
person’s use of the bathroom that aligns with their gendered characteristics,
which, like all bodily or behavioral characteristics, might be self-defined or
perceived in any number of ways.^^ In such cases, then, the exceptions for
gender-segregated facilities may not tighten control over these spaces but
actually open them up to more gender possibilities.
In later years, it was precisely these nuanced and expansive definitions
that opponents pointed to as creating problems for gender-segregated public
spaces, especially bathrooms. Such was the case in 2,008 when Gainesville,
Florida, amended its nondiscrimination ordinance to include gendet iden¬
tity. The new law defines this term as “an inner sense of being aspecific
gender, or the expression of agender identity by verbal statement, appear-

BATHROOMS, BORDERS, AND BIOMETRICS 87

ance, or mannerisms, or other gender-related characteristics of an individual
with or without regard to the individual’s designated sex at birth.”^^ For one
city commissioner who opposed the ordinance, this was the central point of
contention: “The heart of the definition is not on any type of objective or
measurable criteria,” he told alocal newspaper. “It simply goes on how some¬
one feels, so that is sort of ripe for abuse.”^^ This commissioner’s statement
prefigures the connection between public safety and objective assessment of
sex/gender that just five years later would become the hallmark of criminal¬
izing bathroom bills.^* Yet despite recurring concerns, until 1013 no other
state or local public accommodations legislation encompassing transgender
identity was met with the kind of explicitly punitive legal response that Ka-
vanagh’s Arizona bills proposed.
Because criminalization is fundamental to these bills, so too are questions
of citizenship, through which Arizona politics and public life had already
been framed. The state’s highly controversial anti-immigrant legislation, co¬
alescing in zoio under the title SB 1070, originally made it amisdemeanor
to be in Arizona without valid immigration paperwork, all but requiring
immigrants and those who might be perceived as immigrants to carry that
paperwork or proof of citizenship with them at all times. The legislation also
dramatically increased local law enforcement’s power to arrest and detain
people perceived as undocumented or deportable. Although the U.S. Su¬
preme Court struck down several components of the law in June zoii, one
section temains in play: Section z(B) mandates that Arizona law enforce¬
ment officers check citizenship status of anyone they arrest or detain, and
allows them to stop and arrest anyone they suspect may be undocumented.
This section of the law became widely known as “show me your papers,”
and several other U.S. states promptly proposed similar legislation.^^ Many
immigrant advocacy and racial justice organizations criticized the law as a
30
codified form of racial profiling.
The criminalizing bathroom bill, which demands that bodies match
birth certificates to justify their presence in certain public spaces, echoes and
reinforces anti-immigrant legislation requiring bodies to align with docu¬
ments evidencing their citizenship status. While Kavanagh’s bills may be
prompted by the nondiscrimination ordinance, their strategic reliance on
identity documents merges with Arizona’s broader criminalizing prac¬
tices against immigrants. But these cases are not only about documents
as classificatory tools. In each case, deceptive bodies themselves must be

88 CHAPTER THREE
identified, marked as deceptive in the act of traversing particular spatial
boundaries. The birth cettificate and immigration paperwork act almost as
afterthoughts, with documents legitimating the policing of bodies already
deemed unlawful threats.^' Moreover, since all such identification docu¬

ments might be falsified, misread, or otherwise deemed unreliable, these

policing practices fundamentally rely on the body as the primary and most
accutate form of identification.

It is easy to imagine these connections between citizenship and gender as

simply analogous, because the metaphors of travel, citizenship, and mobility
are so common in descriptions of transgender identities. These discussions
tend to rely on the transgender figure as awhite and Western one, narrating
transgendet travel in the abstract or metaphorical sense: while the immi¬
grant figure may travel between countries, the transgender figure journeys
across genders.^^ Even projects seeking to highlight important connections
between anti-immigrant and anti-transgender discourse often hinge on a
parallelism that attempts to bring two separate sets of regulations together.
For example, in 2,013 the TLC produced an educational web-based slide show
titled “Crossing Borders: Connections between Transgender Equality and
Immigrant Rights” that seeks to clarify the ovetlaps between and “tactics
used to divide” these two movements.Several slides with the subheading
“Crossing the Border” use asplit-screen approach to detail similarities be¬
tween nationality on one side and sex/gender on the other. In this formu¬
lation, the slides instruct that “everyone has alegal nationality” typically
determined by place of birth, and “everyone has alegal documented sex”
typically determined by the body at birth.^”* More pointedly, “many people
are murdered for crossing the border,” and “many people are murdered for
transitioning,” an analogy that reads gender transition as ametaphorical
border crossing, if one that may incur the same material punishment as for
literally crossing national boundaties.^^
This TLC project clearly seeks to emphasize the relationship between im¬
migrant and transgender politics, and it ultimately focuses on conditions
facing transgender-identified immigrants. But throughout, the slides refer¬
ence two different sets of policing practices that correspond to two distinct
groups in analogous ways. In asplit-screen slide explaining how immigrants
and transgender people are each made scapegoats for broader social con¬
cerns, “homeland security” and threats to neighbothoods appear on the im¬
migrant side, with “deconstruction of family values” and bathroom panic

BATHROOMS, BORDERS, AND BIOMETRICS 89

on the transgender side. The larger point made here—that particular so¬
cial panics attach to different marginalized groups and can pit those groups
against one another—is an important one. Yet citizenship status and gender
status cannot be pulled apart in any of the slide’s examples: just as the pre¬
vious two chapters of this book traced specific aspects of the Department
of Homeland Security that produce and rely on agendered citizenship, we
might consider how campaigns for neighborhood safety and family val¬
ues regularly invoke akind of good citizenship that is determined in parr
through gender attributes.^* Similarly, public bathrooms are sites in which
citizenship and gender are mutually constituted, even if public and legal dis¬
course largely foregrounds gender and sexuality in those spaces.
Multiple media sources set Arizona’s criminalizing bathroom bill in the
broader context of the state’s stringently punitive immigration legislation,
but only in terms of bathroom bills being analogous and sequentially related
to immigration laws. In a1013 TLC blog post, attorneyAbigail Jensen writes
that “instead of our country’s immigrant community, SB 1432. has anew
target—transgenderpeopleandanyoneelsethatpolice,businessownersor
other restroom users think isn’t ‘man’ or ‘woman’ enough to be in arestroom
or other sex-segregated facility designated for that sex or gender.”^' She re¬
states this claim in the closing paragtaph of her post: “First,Arizona targeted
people who look different in terms of race or ethnicity. Now, ttans people
and anyone else who violates gender norms are in the ‘bull’s-eye’of theAri¬
zona Legislature.” The Daily Wildcat, astudent-run University of Arizona
newspaper, characterizes SB 1431 as “another ‘papers’bill,” noting that “this
time it is policing gender identity.”^* National progressive news outlet Col-
orLines reports, “first Arizona lawmakers went after the immigrant com¬
munity with SB 1070. Now they’re going after transgender people with SB
1045.”’^ In all of these analyses, the bathroom bills repackage early immi¬
gration legislation, so that two separate marginalized populations—the
presumed noncitizen and the gender-nonconforming person—experience
similar surveillance, but each in turn.

Arizona legislators may well have strategically copied the SB 1070 model
in their efforts to weaken nondiscrimination orders. That their public state¬
ments about bathroom policies do not reference the state’s immigration laws
suggests that they too might view these two sets of legislation as addressing
wholly separate issues of citizenship and gender, their only connection the
political rhetoric emphasizing deceptive threats to the general public. But

90 CHAPTER THREE
the text of the bathroom bills themselves demonstrates how they delimit the
practice of citizenship precisely through creating and responding to gender
anxieties. Kavanagh’s initial bill, SB 1432., proposes amisdemeanor offense
under disorderly conduct for entering gendered facilities at odds with one’s
legal sex classification. In restricting use of gendered public space, this leg¬
islation helps define citizenship by granting or limiting full participation in
the public sphere. But perhaps most telling are the bill’s specific exceptions,
including bathroom entrance required by “job responsibilities” or to pro¬
vide “aid or assistance to another person,” including achild.‘^“ Under these
exceptions, certain behaviors that the law would otherwise define as illegal
gendered transgressions are excused because they align with an ideal of good
citizenship. That is, the gainfully employed and the responsible assistant/
parent can cross these gendered boundaries in their role as good (re)pro-
ductive citizens. In its explicit efforts to address gender, the bill constructs
good citizenship as astatus marked by characteristics such as productivity,
personal responsibility, and family formation.
Athird exception in SB 1432. applies to those who are “physically dis¬
abled.” Although listed alongside the previous two exceptions as if easily
equivalent, disability does not signal good citizenship in the same way that
(presumablyable-bodiedandnormativelygendered)workersandparentsdo.
On the contrary, disability has historically served as arationale for denial of
citizenship in both the legal and cultural senses."*' In particular, disability
has served as akey exclusionary category in legislation purporting to keep
public space safe, especially for women and children.^^ The disability ex¬
ception specified in SB 1431 therefore works differently from the other two
exceptions and might be understood in several different ways. It may be an
attempt at compliance with the Americans with Disabilities Act, to expand
or ensure accessibility and presumably affirm citizenship through public
accommodations. It may be areflection of the common structure of pub¬
lic restrooms in the United States, in which the symbol for disability (and
for legal compliance) typically appears on single-user, gender-nonspecific
bathrooms. Or, particularly since the bill is part of asocial and motal panic
about sexualized threats in bathrooms, this exception may be influenced by
long-standing dominant perceptions that people with disabilities are non-
sexual; such perceptions could frame disabled bathroom users not as threats
to childten, but as themselves children, whose bathroom use requires aid or
assistance from good (and able-bodied) citizens.^^ The explicit inclusion of

B AT H R O O M S , B O R D E R S , A N D B I O M E T R I C S 91
disability might both ensure and limit access to the category of citizenship
here, demonstrating how regulations like the criminalizing bathroom bills
actively construct that category rather than simply protecting it.
The bill’s specification of physical disability may be astrategic effort to
avoid loopholes that could grant transgender people access to public bath¬
rooms through this legal exception; after all, many legal arguments have
positioned transgender identity as adisability to win legal protections,
and opponents have often cast transgender identity as mental illness.'*^ But
this legislative strategy may not even be needed, since the exceptions as a
whole already work in at least two contradictory ways regarding transgen¬
der people. On one hand, they could nullify the criminality of entering
the “wrong” bathroom, provided atransgender person falls under one of
the citizen-marking exceptions at the time of entry. On the other hand, they
might assume and imply that good citizens are wholly distinct from those
whom the bill characterizes as athreat to the general public, such that the
exceptions never apply to transgender people at all. Additionally, because
the law would typically be invoked only on the basis of individual com¬
plaints, it is unlikely to be applied in cases when atransgender-identified
person is not perceived as athreat, such as when one’s bodily characteristics
are read as markers of non-transgender status, of legal citizenship, of mem¬
bership in the general public. The law attempts to draw clear boundaries, but
in practice, interpretations of deceptive threat would surely vary according
to context, including abathroom’s location and size, the time of day, and
the user demographics, among ocher factors. So while the exceptions in SB
1432 help define citizenship, they also destabilize that concept: they create
allowances for and reiterate the presumed characteristics of good citizenship,
acategory that can then be put to use in any number of ways.
There is no doubt that the criminalizing bathroom bills in Arizona and
elsewhere target gender, but they do not neatly substitute gender for earlier
legislation’s focus on citizenship. Public bathrooms emerged in the United
States as spaces that helped construct the boundaries of citizenship through
restrictions that explicitly named race, gender, and disability. This history
informs later efforts to restrict access to those public spaces, even when the
specific language of such efforts shifts away from citizenship and onto gen¬
der. Attending to the citizen-making function of the public bathroom can
clarify why this particular form of bathroom bill first appeared in Arizona:
not because legislators adapted anti-immigrant laws to address awholly sep-

92 CHAPTER THREE
arate marginalized group, but because questions of citizenship are central to
public bathrooms, and so these spaces are already contentious in the context
of statewide struggles over identification of citizens and noncitizensd^ We
need only consider the emphasis on birth certificates to understand the ex¬
tent to which anxieties about citizenship undergird these bathroom scenes,
since those documents mark not only state-approved sex designation, but
also legal citizen status. In the most formal sense, birth certificates purport¬
edly confirm citizenship and thus one’s legal belonging to the nation-state.
At the same time, they can serve as evidence of citizenship in amore infor¬
mal or cultural sense; if producing appropriate paperwork is one way of com¬
plying with state regulations and requests, then doing so performs good citi¬
zenship. These two conceptions of citizenship work in tandem, since those
who cannot or do not produce the required documents appear both to resist
the law’s demands and to demonstrate their lack of legal citizenship status.
Moreover, the bathroom bills’ focus on documentation can overshadow

the bodily scrutiny that they ultimately rely on, asomatic assessment per¬
formed in order to identify safe or risky individuals, which follows awell-
established method of surveillance. After all, the demand for birth certifi¬
cates as evidence of proper bathroom use is primarily directed at those vi¬
sually perceived as trespassing in gendered public space. And because state
agencies’own conflicting policies already position that paperwork as unreli¬
able, the desire for birth certificates is less arequest for appropriate paper¬
work than an assessment of the body itself, with birth certificates acting as
placeholders for sexed bodies."** The documents stand in for the physical
bodies at the heart of these bathroom scenes, acting as confirmation of the
deception already attached to particular bodies. This close attention to the
body as objective evidence of belonging (or of danger) draws on the basic
logic of biometric surveillance, which, as we will see, is likewise rooted in
anxieties about citizenship.

The Bathroom’s Biometric Logic

Biometric identification, an approach to the body developed through an¬

thropometry studies and eugenics programs of the nineteenth and early
twentieth centuries, eschews unreliable ID documents in favor of linking
identity to unique aspects of the physical body, and it has along history
in medical and state surveillance programs."*^ Biometric programs gener-

B AT H R O O M S , B O R D E R S , A N D B I O M E T R I C S 93
ally treat physical characteristics such as fingerptints, irises, and facial bone
structure as immutable. Once catalogued, these physical features serve as
comparative data to verify identity as bodies move through different se¬
curitized spaces. Because it relies on data recorded directly from the body,
biometric identification is often characterized as more accurate and reliable

than acorruptible paper trail of ID documents. This assumption lay at the

heart of aNovember zooi congressional hearing. Biometric Identifiers and
the Modern Face of Terror, which singled out biometrics as acrucial tool
in identifying terrorists and regulating immigration. Senator Dianne Fein-
stein (D-CA) introduced the hearings by claiming chat the individuals who
carried out the airline hijackings of September ii, zooi, were able to do so
because “we could not identify them,” and by suggesting that biometric tech¬
nologies like facial recognition software, fingerprint databases, and retinal
48
scans are vital for U.S. national security.
As asec of technologies and identification techniques that had already
been steadily integrated into U.S. border control and immigration programs,
biometrics gained renewed state and public support after 9/11, when govern¬
ment officials repackaged them as central to counterterrorism efforts.'*® In
fact, antiterrorism and anti-immigration discourses merged in part through
this support of biometric surveillance: in chat same congressional hearing,
senator Strom Thurmond (R-SC) called for biometric identifiers for all non¬
citizens entering the United States, arguing that this practice would help im¬
migration officials identify “terrorists who attempt to cross our borders.”®”
So as biometric technologies were folded into the war on terror, their role
in regulating immigrant populations and U.S. borders also further solidi¬
fied. Some of the most high-profile applications of biometrics in the United
States are those used to identify terrorist suspects at airports and other travel
hubs, or to determine citizenship status at immigration checkpoints.®' Bio¬
metric technologies sort physical characteristics to identify bodies that move
across boundaries and into spaces otherwise imagined as secure, promising
control over these improper movements.®^ Senator Orrin Ffatch (R-UT)
argued in 2001 that with the increased use of biometrics as part of border
security, “impersonation would be dramatically curtailed, if not eliminated
altogether.”’® Likewise, the U.S. Defense Advanced Research Projects
Agency, which develops new military technologies, justified its post-9/11 bio¬
metric surveillance projects through claims that “terrorists are able to move
freely throughout the world, to hide when necessary.”®"* These statements

9 4 CHAPTER THREE
fuse terrorism with unregulated immigration by raising the possibility that
surveillance systems “cannot clearly differentiate bodies that might bear a
close resemblance,” aconcern fueled by abelief that certain racial groups
are not readily distinguishable as individuals.” In Lisa Cacho’s terms, in the
post-9/11 context terror is “grafted” onto illegality, requiring fresh evalua¬
tion of those bodies regularly imagined as illegal. “Because Latina/o bodies
have rendered the status of illegality recognizable,” she writes, “differently
racialized unauthorized immigrants unsettle this racial coupling, producing
considerable anxiety over not being able to distinguish ‘illegal’ immigrants
from ‘fraudulent’ foreigners.”’^ Biometric surveillance programs respond to
this anxiety by emphasizing the body as proof of individual identity, with
biometric identification guarding against fraud and securing spaces such as
airports and government buildings.
In addition to policing spatial boundaries, biometric surveillance also
produces and reinforces the boundaries around categories such as race, gen¬
der, sexuality, and citizenship. Notably, it does so by insisting that it operates
outside of such categories. Backed by Western science’s claim to aneutral
gaze and the supposedly unambiguous truth of the physical body, biomet¬
ric technologies engage bodies as objective data points untouched by social
and political influence. But biometric efforts to scientifically distinguish be¬
tween safe and threatening bodies, or citizen and noncitizen bodies, must
account for how these categories are already shaped by gendered and racial¬
ized viewing practices. For example, the familiar fingerprinting process can
seem utterly disconnected from questions of race or gender because it focuses
on unique individual characteristics rather than on groups of people. But
Simone Btowne shows how “prototypical whiteness” drives fingerprinting:
a2001 fingerprint study detetmined that people “of Pacific Rim/Asian de¬
” 5 7
scent” ate likely to have “faint fingerprint ridges—especially female users.
In this framewotk, some types of fingets will produce prints that are less
legible than others. Marking bodies belonging to certain races and genders
as inherently difficult to assess natutalizes the process by which white and
male prints can appear neutral, easily read, and therefore compliant. Simi-
latly, multiple researchers have undertaken studies to categorize fingerprint
samples by gender, pointing out patterned differences that might be used to
distinguish between male and female prints.” Because such investigations
ptesumefixedanduniversalizeddefinitionsofmaleandfemale,whenbodies
do not confotm to such definitions, the studies may regard them as funda-

BATHROOMS, BORDERS, AND BIOMETRICS 95

mentally disruptive or suspicious. In these ways, biometric technologies do
notmerelyrecordpredeterminedphysicalfactsbutactivelygeneratemean¬
ings about the bodies they analyze: certain raced and gendered bodies can
serve as normative standards because they are legible and compliant, while
59
others resist the technician’s gaze.
Utah’s HB 87, proposed in 1014, exemplifies biometric logic in its at¬
tempts to regulate gendered bathrooms in the state’s public school system.
It first revises the Utah Code throughout, replacing the term sex withgene/er,
yet it relies on sexed terms to explicitly define gender as “the either male or
female phenotype designation of an individual.”^ Although the bill cites
abirth certificate as acceptable evidence of phenotype designation, it also
notes that this document may not exist or may be unreliable. Anticipating
the failure of identification documents, HB 87 turns to arather rudimentary
bodily assessment as the final word on gender: without abirth certificate,
gender is to be documented by aphysician, “based on aphysical examination
of the individual’s genitalia, designat[ing] the individual as either male or
female.” As part of an effort to maintain strictly segregated bathrooms, this
bill ties the space of the bathroom to adichotomous sex-gender system that
relies on legible and stable external bodily characteristics.
But even as the legislation cites auniversalized definition of gender in
which bodies can be sorted solely by genital appearance, its own labored
definitions destabilize that framework. In the section pertaining to public
schoolbathrooms,HB87definesgenderidentityassomethingseparatefrom
gender: it “means an individual’s own opinion of whether the individual is
male, female, neither male nor female, both male and female, or another
designation.” By crafting two separate definitions, the legislation can make
allowances for public school students whose “consistently asserted gender
identity does not strictly correspond to the student’s gender.”These students
may request “alternate bathroom accommodations,” even while the bill’s
purpose is to align bathroom use with genital appearance. Here, then, the
bill itself creates space for mu ltiple gender possibilities, yet recognizes only
two—male and female—as valid throughout the Utah Code. It conceptu¬
alizes gender as “an unchanging biometric characteristic” that depends on
physical attributes as its best evidence, but also acknowledges that gender
might change both in individual lives (else why specify a“consistently as¬
serted” gender identity?) and in broader social understandings (since the
bill’sownlanguageimagineswaysthatgendermightbeunderstoodoutside

96 CHAPTER THREE
of male and female).^' The more the bill attempts to circumscribe gender, the
more expansive it becomes.
Arizona’s SB 1045 similarly defines “gender identity or expression” as “an
individual’s self-identification as male, female, or something in between,”
including “appearance, mannerisms or other characteristics only insofar as
they relate to gender with or without regard to the individual’s designated
sex at birth.”“ The last phrase gestures to the contingent nature of sex (as
something that must be designated), but it does so in the context of ale¬
gal document intended to further naturalize and enforce dichotomous sex
categories. These categories apply not only to physical bodies but to those
material spaces that the bill terms “privacy areas,” defined as “places of public
accommodation where access is restricted based on sex.”'^^ Even as the bill

itself references sex not as simple fact but as something produced through
medical and legal discourse, it also refuses this in its claim that privacy oc¬
curs not through one’s solitude in aspace, but through one’s sexed sameness
with other bodies sharing aspace that can be neatly restricted by the very
binary sex characteristics that the bill suggests are contingent. The language
choices here are curious, since the bill explicitly addresses gender identity
and expression in ways that are not necessarily dependent on an assigned sex.
This means that although the legislation is presented as astraightforward
measure to protect children from being exposed to “naked men in women’s
locker rooms and showers” (as Kavanagh explains it), its own definitions
position these categories as perhaps even more subjective and slippery than
would abill focused solely on the assessment of sexed bodies.^^ In fact, it
is difficult to determine what might constitute evidence of improper bath¬
room use in SB 1045: although the bill specifies that scrutiny of bodies in
genderedspacesconcernsappearanceandmannerismsratherthanthe(con¬
tingently) sexed body itself, its reliance on the dichotomous sex/gender sys¬
tem structuring public bathrooms suggests that transgressions of gendered
65
space are fundamentally based on bodily difference.
These kinds of legislative efforts generate and teproduce gendered mean¬
ings about bodies that they insist can be assessed as straightforward bio¬
logical facts, all while simultaneously undermining the very definitions they
themselves construct, thus illustrating some of the contradictions inher¬
ent in biometric surveillance. These contradictions do not necessarily un¬
dermine the programs’ efficacy; in fact, they may even further justify this
surveillance by intimating certain bodies’ wider threat. For instance, when

BATHROOMS, BORDERS, AND BIOMETRICS 97

Shoshana Magnet explains that “in general people who cannot be easily
categorized as either men or women are interpreted as biometric system
failures,” her claim suggests that bodies perceived as illegible might endan¬
ger not only notions of public safety (as in the bathroom scenes that HB 87
conjures) but the reliability of security practices themselves.^ Notably, the
threat that these troublingly out-of-place bodies pose gains traction in part
because those purportedly threatened are not neutral or standard bodies
either, but rather the bodies of particular women and children positioned
as fundamentally in need of protection. Legislative and public discourse on
the transgender threat to other gendered bathroom users draws on familiar
viewing practices that simultaneously claim bodies as objective, apolitical
data points (we can easily know which bodies are women’s bodies) and re¬
iterate adecidedly social and political meaning given to different types of
bodies(women’sbodiesarevulnerableandneedspecialprotection).Certain
women’s and children’s bodies will more readily signal vulnerability, apoint
that public bathrooms themselves underscore, since the history of bathroom
67
segregation rests largely on the protection of white women.
Although they claim objective measurement of physical characteristics,
biometrics programs cannot simply be extracted from the sociopolitical
meanings attached to the bodies they assess, nor from the ways that those
meanings shape biometrics research and development, data collection and
interpretation, and screening procedures. Like many surveillance practices,
biometric techniques have often initially focused on identifying those spe¬
cifically classified as risks, such as the noncitizen and the criminal, and
gradually expanded to track entire populations. As with national ID cards
and airport X-ray screenings, biometric data collection of noncriminalized
bodies is often initially met with opposition because it is perceived as “a
>”68
practice associating ‘good citizens’ with ‘offenders, The normalization

of fingerprinting and related archives in the late nineteenth-century United

States helped shift biometrics away from something targeting individual
transgressors, moving instead toward abroader amassing of data that sug¬
gested any citizen is potentially criminal. These blurred lines between the
categories of citizen and criminal—of safe and risky body—work in tandem
with constantly shifting definitions of crime and criminality themselves.*’^
In this context, the concept of adangerous individual must be understood
asalwaysin flux:citizenship doesnotnecessatilyguard againstthe potential
for criminality to be read onto bodies. Instead, biometric surveillance of all

98 CHAPTER THREE
bodies becomes normalized through risk management frameworks under
which “all citizens ate being reclassified as potential threats to state secu-
' 7 0

r i t y. The use of biometric data to track and sort can reshape the category
of citizenship that such surveillance purports to merely identify; as Giorgio
Agamben notes, “the citizen is thus rendered asuspect all along.” '
Even while biometric surveillance programs illustrate the instability
of divisions between citizen and criminal bodies, they are most popularly
employed as away to reinscribe those divisions by promising to identify
certain persons as threats in disguise. Following Senator Feinstein’s lament
that “we could not identify” those who carried out the attacks on 9/11, gov¬
ernment support for increased biometric data collection pointed to bodily
ttuths as safeguards against both terrorism and unregulated immigration.
Disavowing sociopolitical influence, biometric surveillance claims to objec¬
tively sort individuals along lines of safety and citizenship, reading those
qualities through the body itself The bathroom bills follow this logic, using
presumably immutable physical characteristics to determine which bodies
are deceptive interlopers. But this relationship goes beyond ashared logical
framework; criminalizing bathroom surveillance measures gain traction
precisely through their relationship to anxieties about terrorism and immi¬
gration. From their initial institutionalization forward, public bathrooms
have been amechanism for assigning citizenship and national belonging
through bodily assessment.

Commonsense Citizenship

In her blogpost critiquing Arizona’s SB 143Z, Abigail Jensen points out that
regardlessoftransgenderstatus,underthislegislationallpeoplewho“violate
societal gender norms in some way can be harassed to prove their right to
do what every other citizen takes as agiven—the right to use arestroom for
its intended purpose without harassment.”^^ In one sense, this argument
highlights how far the bathroom bills’ impact might stretch; in addition to
legislating punitive measures for those specifically perceived as noncompli-
ant, the bills’ threat of punishment also helps enforce normative gender for
everyonewhoparticipatesinpublicspace.ButJensen’sclaimalsosuggests
that gender-normative citizenship automatically includes unconstrained ac¬
cess to public space, an assumption that overlooksArizona’s newly intensi¬
fied laws regarding racialized citizenship, even though Jensen herself con-

BATHROOMS, BORDERS, AND BIOMETRICS 99

nects those laws to SB 1431 in the same post. Regulations governing use
of public space have long limited participation in public life for many who
would fall into Jensen’s category of “every other citizen.”” Regarding bath¬
rooms in particular, the creation of only men’s bathrooms in public spaces
and workplaces, the absence or disrepair of accessible bathrooms, and the
barring of homeless populations from public restrooms all illustrate how
bathrooms concretize “architectural and political assumption[s]” of certain
bodies as ideal citizen bodies.”

Askinghow SB 1431 might be enforced, Jensen notes that “every overzeal-

ous restroom patron, security guard, business owner or mere passerby” may
participate in that enforcement when confronted with abody that seems
out of place in the bathroom.” The bill illustrates how enforcement oper¬
ates not simply through legal code or official state actors, but also through
the general public. Even clear compliance with the bathroom bills’gendered
requirements cannot ensure access to these spaces, because social or infor¬
mal surveillance of bathrooms has long been in place for people considered
public safety threats or undesirable in public spaces. Those with limited or
no access to private space—homeless populations, those living in various
forms of public housing, those who spend considerable time in welfare of¬
fices and courthouses, and those who rely on public transportation—face
the brunt of surveillance of public spaces.” Meanwhile, privatization prac¬
tices incteasingly shrink the public sphere, funneling these same populations
out of public space into spaces of containment such as the prison and the de¬
tention center.” Against this backdrop, bathroom bills support acommon-
senseunderstandingofbelonginginpublicspacethataffirmsthecitizenship
of some bathroom users not only through their own bodies but through
their ability to assess the bodily attributes said to transparently mark impos¬
tors who have improperly entered that space.
Like all boundaries, those related to public bathrooms are porous and
contested rather than fixed or self-evident. Functioning as an “object of
paradoxical (im)mobility,” aspatial boundary (the door to abathroom,
the checkpoint at aborder) both allows and limits movement.” Effotts to
quell the anxieties provoked by this intermingling often focus on the bodies
moving through aspace, rather than on the sttucture of the space itself
The logic of biometrics is instructive here; just as biometric surveillance ap¬
proachesthephysicalbodyasafixedandobjectiveentity,italsoassumesan
inherent stability of geographical and categorical borders.” Biometric sur-

100 CHAPTER THREE

veillance focuses attention on identification of individual bodies, deflecting
critical assessment of the spaces in which those bodies are situated. So the
language of state-funded biometric surveillance projects highlights the con¬
cern that certain bodies might move freely within and across U.S. borders,
into government buildings, and so on, without questioning the formation
and naturalization of those borders and spaces themselves.*® Nevertheless,
state actors themselves rely on movement that disrupts the borders imag¬
ined to protect U.S. citizenship and safety. For instance, a2.008 Fox News
report considers how state security practices should respond to what the
report’s title names as the “Changing Face of Terror,” or the potential shift
from alarge centralized organization led by asingle individual to smaller
global terrorist cells. The article quotes New York City police commissioner
Raymond Kelly as saying, “We have vulnerabilities, absolutely. In an open
society, you’re going to have vulnerabilities.”*' He continues, “In an effort to
close every gap, federal, state and local law enforcement agencies across the
country are increasingly sharing their intelligence data.” Here, simplified
ideals of Western democracy suggest not an alternative to increased polic¬
ing and border fortification, but rather justification for that policing. The
space opened by democratic ideals becomes the primary reason to “close
every gap,” aclosing that itself requires another kind of opening, to more
freely distribute information and technologies between state agencies. The
relationship here between open and closed geographic borders, sociopoliti¬
cal structures, and information archives is not one of binary opposition and
fixed boundaries, but of connection and interdependence.
Public bathrooms are porous spaces formed not through permanent di¬
visions, but through interactions and movement.*’ Discourses of bathroom
contagion merge fears of “real germs” with “the fear of the other”; hence,
public toilets provoke more anxiety than other germ-riddled public objects
like computer terminals and doorknobs.*® Concerns about bathroom clean¬
liness are as much about bodily interactions and the difficulty of regulating
public space as they are about actual dirt or waste. The racial integration
of some U.S. workplaces during World War II, for example, prompted tre¬
mendous white anxiety about shared bathrooms, even as Black people had
long cleaned toilets and beds, prepared food, and cared for children as part
of their domestic work in white households. But this “private service work
reinforced racialized gender hierarchies in ways that public intimacy un¬
derminedthem.”*^Despitetheirimaginedreputationascleanlydemarcated

BATHROOMS, BORDERS, AND BIOMETRICS l o i

spaces char provide individual privacy, public barhrooms actually facilitate
the intermingling of bodies.
To manage the tenuous boundaries of the restroom, arguments against
public accommodations nondiscrimination orders imagine an audience that
takes as given the right to unconstrained and safe bathroom use: the general
public. When opponents put the broadly conceived Houston Equal Rights
Ordinance to apopular vote in 2.013, their bathroom-focused campaigns
constructed certain public bathrooms (and citizen users) as especially threat¬
ened. Avideo produced by Campaign for Houston, agroup formed in Au¬
gust 1015 specifically to counter the ordinance, depicts amultistall public
restroom with adoor sign using the standardized symbol for women and
the international symbol of access. As awhite man enters this door and uses
the sink and towel dispenser, avoice-over intones, “Houston’s Proposition
Ibathroom ordinance: what does it mean to you? Any man at any time can
enter awoman’s bathroom simply by claiming to be awoman that day. No
one is exempt. Even registered sex offenders could follow women or young
girls into the bathroom, and if abusiness tried to stop them, they’d be fined.”
At this point, ayoung white girl wearing askirt and carrying abackpack
enters the frame, walking into one of the bathroom stalls. The voice-over
continues, “Protect women’s privacy. Prevent danger. Vote no on the Propo¬
sition Ibathroom ordinance. It goes too far.” On this last sentence, the man
opens the stall door, and the girl turns around and looks up at him with an
expression of surprise and apprehension.**^ Asimilar video opposing Dela¬
ware’s Senate Bill 97 in 2013 begins with mostly white children at apub¬
lic park and depicts ayoung blonde girl entering apark bathroom marked
w o m e n .
The footage shifts from color ro black and white as awhite man
wearing sunglasses looks around furtively before following her in. Atitle
card is then displayed: “Is this what you want for Delaware?” The video’s
only audio is children’s laughter as they play in the park.
Both of these videos speak to aparticular kind of public bathroom, one
thar is understood to be private and safe unless the new law passes. By tak¬
ing bathrooms frequented by white children and families as representative,
the campaigns rely on auniversalized notion of the sex-segregated public
bathroom as safe, even naming that space as a“sanctuary.”**'’ Absenr from
these videos are the violence and harassment—often at the hands of law

enforcement—common at public bathrooms in areas with high rates of

homelessness,poverty,druguse,publicsex,orsexwork.Becausesuchspaces

101 CHAPTER THREE

are already coded as unsafe, their depiction would disrupt the sanitized vi¬
sion of bathroom as sanctuary. Yet these less ideal bathrooms and their users
shadow the videos, which reenact the quotidian surveillance practices that
hinder marginalized people’s use of public spaces. Like much of the public
and state discourse demanding sex-segregated bathrooms, the videos implic¬
itly encourage viewers to be suspicious of other bathroom users. The racist
history of both public bathrooms (including early bathrooms’ gender divi¬
sions only for white people) and sexual violence (including sexual violence
committed by white men against women of color, alongside the persistent
myth of the Black male rapist) continues to shape dominant understand¬
ings of which bodies pose threats in the bathroom.*^ The videos’ narrative
draws on long-standing anxieties about public sex and sexual purity, invok¬
ing the specter of the sex offender that endangers the childhood innocence
regularly assigned to white girlhood.*** Against the reality of sexual assault
and child abuse, this narrative displaces the statistical likelihood of domestic
and intimate partner violence onto “stranger danger” in public spaces. And
while state governments insist their primary goal is safety for women and
girls, many have simultaneously defunded the social services and political
organizations working to dismantle rape culture and directly address sexual
violence.*^

The common rhetorical turn to privacy and security for some citizens
belies the ongoing erosion of those protections for other groups.’” North
Carolina’s notorious HB z, enacted in March 1016, repeals acitywide non¬
discrimination ordinance in Charlotte and is titled the Public Facilities Pri¬

vacy and Security Act. This law is especially noteworthy because it is the
first criminalizing bathroom bill to be enacted on the state level, because it
nullifies previously existing local ordinances protecting LGBT people and
sets standards for specific groups protected under any future ordinances,
because it limits how North Carolina residents can legally pursue claims
of discrimination, and because it bars local jurisdictions from raising the
minimum wage or changing certain other work and wage laws. The bill’s
purported concern for women and children is limited at best. Although
HB 1is titled in terms of security, its prohibition against raising the mini¬
mum wage strikes directly at the security of the working class, within which
women of color are often the most economically vulnerable. Governor Pat
McCrory explained that had he not signed the bill into law, “the expectation
of privacy of North Carolina citizens could be violated.”” Of course, taken

BATHROOMS, BORDERS, AND BIOMETRICS 103

to its logical end, HB zwould require bodily exposure of all bathroom users
to ensure the kind of sexed sameness that defines privacy here. McCrory’s
claim is further undercut by the fact that many North Carolinians already
have little expectation of bodily privacy. For instance, beginning January
2016, the state required abortion providers to send ultrasound images and
fetal measurements to the Department of Health and Human Services when
performing abortions after the sixteenth week of apregnancy.^^ North Caro¬
lina is also among many states that mandate drug testing or screening for
93
public assistance recipients.
Claims of protecting privacy through requirements of public exposure
can produce complicated rhetorical maneuvers, as when Virginia state dele¬
gate Mark Cole introduced HB 663 in early 2016. The bill requires gender-
designated public facilities to “solely be used by individuals whose anatomic
sex matches” that designation, and it explicitly defines anatomical sex as “the
physical condition of being male or female, which is determined by aper¬
son’s anatomy.”^'* In response to media teports that this bill would therefore
require public school employees to check students’ genitals before allowing
entrance into bathrooms, Cole released astatement of clarification on his
professional website. His statement first emphasizes that HB 663 is “com¬
mon sense legislation designed to protect the privacy of children and adults,”
but insists, “it does NOT require genital checks.” Instead, “the legislation
would be enforced on acomplaint basis.”’’ This last clarification is impor¬
tant, because much of the rationale for criminalizing bathroom bills rests
on the “common sense” nature of sex-segregated bathrooms and of distin¬
guishing between male and female bodies, between those who belong in the
women’s bathroom and those who do not. Illinois state representative Tom
Morrison, who introduced that state’s bathroom bill for public schools, re¬
peatedly emphasizes in interviews and on his professional website that this
” 9 6
type of policy is “reasonable, its [sft] rational, its [sic] common sense.
This universal frame of recognition is central to biometric surveillance
programs, which rely on the notion of objective bodily differences to help
distinguish good citizens from dangerous threats. At the 2001 congtessional
hearings on biometrics, Joseph J. Atick testified as an industry expert on
behalf ofVisionics Corporation, amajor developer of facial recognition tech¬
nology. His statement carefully delineates between surveillance of terrorist
or criminal bodies and maintenance of privacy for citizen bodies: “The con¬
cern for privacy has to do with the misconception that this is an ID system

104 CHAPTER THREE

chat is identifying every one of us. This is not anational ID system. It does
not identify you or me. It is simply acriminal and terrorist alarm. If your
face does not match one on the database, on the watchlist, there will be no
alarm.”^^ This reassurance assumes an easily recognizable difference between
the criminal and “you or me.” It invokes asolid boundary between citizen¬
ship and criminality, yet it simultaneously demonstrates how that boundary
shifts, for the facial images captured by Visionics are legible only through
aparticular frame of reference. Atick’s statement implies that this frame is
neutral, but his own face helps illustrate its subjectivity: alooz New York
Times profile featured his work and photo as “The Face of Security Tech¬
nology,” aphrase referencing his facial recognition software and positioning
Atick—and his face—as exemplary of security and good citizen status.^** At
the same time, U.S. media and government discourse repeatedly employ the
phrase “faces of terror” to describe images of those involved in the attacks
99
on 9/11, bodies marked as utterly outside of whiteness and Americanness.
The repetition of paired visual and linguistic references to these opposing
faces—one connoting security, the other threat—helps create the common-
sense frame through which other faces can become legible in terms of risk.
Likewise, the shared commonsense perception of transgender women as
deceptive men makes possible acontinuity between the “man in adress”
rhetoric justifying bathroom bills as safeguards against deception, and the
video campaigns that depict men sneaking into bathrooms wearing trousers
(and, in the Delaware video, abeard). Yet retorts to this logic have likewise
relied on commonsense recognition of gender difference and good citizen¬
ship. In Z015, asocial media campaign against bathroom bills featured pri¬
marily white, gender-passing transgender people’s self-portraits in the public
bathrooms that new laws would require them to use. Abearded transgen¬
der man, for instance, took aphoto of himself in arestroom designated
for women, adding the caption “Do Ilook like Ibelong in women’s facili-
ties?”'°° Atransgender woman in Texas posted aphoto of herself in alow-cut
dress next to urinals, surrounded by men, with the caption “Houston, do
you really want me in the same restroom as your husband or boyfriend?”'®'
Though intended to undermine the logic of the bathroom bill, these im¬
agesalsomakeclaimsthatgenderdifferenceshouldbeobviousanduniver¬
sallyrecognized,evenifbasedhereonfacialfeaturesandbodyshaperather
thanongenitalsorchromosomes.Bothoftheseimagesdefendtransgender
people by arguing for the protection of (non-transgender) women—one im-

BATHROOMS, BORDERS, AND BIOMETRICS 105

plies women’s discomfort in sharing abarliroom with someone who does
not look like he belongs there, and one implies the threat to heterosexual
women’s monogamous relationships when some women interact with men
in the restroom—and they help construct the category of the general public
as one invested in that protectionism and made up of rational citizens who
deserve bathroom safety and comfort.
As the captions for these images suggest, gender-passing white transgen¬
der people are far more likely to be interpreted as members of the general
public than as the deceptive criminals that bathroom bills conjure. Repre¬
sentative Cole’s reassurance that enforcement is based on individual com¬

plaints is an important reminder that bathroom bills function only through

an everyday social surveillance that far exceeds the law itself. These surveil¬
lance practices rely on abelief that we know who does and does not belong,
knowledge that is in turn based on bodily characteristics presented as both
transparent and commonsense. Recall that the Delaware video includes no
spoken audio and only asingle written question (“Is this what you want for
Delaware?”), confident that its visual content will be instantly familiar to
viewers like “you or me.”
The general public—that group of citizens under the bathroom bills’
protection—develops through this everyday surveillance, which the legisla¬
tion codifies and encourages. As anti-immigrant and antiterrorism programs
take up biometric surveillance tactics with renewed fervor, criminalizing
bathroom bills carry those ideological and material practices into the quo¬
tidian space of the public restroom, relying on objective physical characteris¬
tics to define spatial belonging. Investment in and defense of the bathroom’s
boundaries help constitute citizenship itself: claims to good citizenship en¬
tail not only evidence of bodily stability and legibility—and therefore so¬
matic difference from the bathroom interloper—but also active scrutiny of
other bodies’ potential trespasses. The legislative positioning of transgender
bodies as threats demands complicity in bathroom surveillance as part of
non-transgender status, naturalizing the process that constructs some bodies
as standard, easily interpreted, and inherently compliant. One’s identifica¬
tion of bodily difference and illegibility in others can thus confirm one’s own
belonging.Andbecausethespaceofthebathroomiscentraltothedevelop¬
ment and maintenance of U.S. national identity, this belonging applies not
only to the bathroom itself but also to the category of citizenship that the
public bathroom helps construct and maintain.

io6 CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

SENSITIVE I N F O R M AT I O N

IN THE MANNING CASE

IN MAY 2016, attorney general Loretta Lynch announced that the U.S.
Department of Justice would file afederal civil rights lawsuit against the
state of North Carolina, based on the discriminatory nature of HB i. Like
much of the news media coverage of bathroom bills, Lynch framed HB 2,
as abacklash against liberal inclusion. “This is not the first time that we
have seen discriminatory responses to historic moments of progress for our
nation,” she stated, citing as examples Jim Crow laws, resistance to racial
desegregation, and state bans on same-sex marriage.' She continued, “Let us
not act out of fear and misunderstanding, but out of the values of inclusion,
diversity, and regard for all that make our country great.” In the final lines of
her statement. Lynch spoke “directly to the transgender community itself ...
No matter how isolated or scared you may feel today, the Department of
Justice and the entire Obama Administration wants you to know that we
see you; we stand with you; and we will do everything we can to protect you
going forward.”
For many, Lynch’s statement marked ahistoric moment of recognition
for transgender people in the United States.^ But others were skeptical of
her promise, pointing out that the Department of Justice incarcerates over
two million people in the United States and asking how Lynch’s statement
relates to the transgender people who are part of that population. “Even as
Lynch and the rest of the Obama administration say that they ‘see’ trans
people,” two activists wrote, “they are also responsible for the vast crimi¬
nal legal system that invisibilizes and victimizes so many trans people. And
when compared to the realities of detention and incarceration for trans
 people, Lynch’s historic words have adouble meaning: Once locked up,
crans people are no longer worth protecting.”^ Their argument about this
invisibility considers both Lynch’s failure to mention incarcerated transgen¬
der people and “the inconsistency between her words and the treatment of
incarcerated trans people during her tenure.”^ On this last point, they cite
in particular the case of Chelsea Manning. At the time of Lynch’s state¬
ment, Manning was incarcerated in Fort Leavenworth penitentiary, amen’s
facility, where administrators repeatedly refused her the tight to grow her
hair longer than male military standards. For these authors, Manning’s case
illustrates the Department of Justice’s failure to “see” transgender women
as women, as well as the ways that incarcerated transgender people remain
largely hidden to—and by—the very state agencies that promise protection.
Yet Manning’s case speaks to an even more complicated relationship be¬
tween transgender politics and questions of visibility. An army intelligence
analyst. Manning became awhistle-blower who leaked hundreds of thou¬
sands of classified militaty documents as well as diplomatic cables. She was
convicted in 2013 on multiple counts, including violations of the Espionage
Act. In order to speak to her state of mind at the time of the leaks, during
pretrial hearings Manning’s defense team introduced the argument that she
struggled with her gender identity. For instance, the defense asked awitness
if he recalled an email Manning had sent “with apicture of [her] self dressed
as awoman ... and how [her] gender identity affects [het],” as well as “how
it impacts [her] ability to think.”’ As media coverage amplified this legal
strategy. Manning’s transgender identity—which she claimed explicitly in
statements immediately following her sentencing—became akey factor in
an already highly publicized (if not altogether public) military trial.
The gender-nonconforming figure chat Manning represents, or is made
to represent, shifts away from those figures that the U.S. government has
most often positioned as threats to national safety, particularly in the con¬
text of anti-immigrant and antitetrorism programs. As awhite U.S. citizen
who not only served in the military but had been granted security clearance
to top secret materials. Manning departs significantly from the racialized,
covert figutes of the tetrorist agent and the undocumented immigrant that
U.S. state policy and practices most commonly cite as threatening. At the
same time, as amember of the military, she was subject to the routine forms
of surveillance overseeing all enlisted people, and particularly those work¬
ing as intelligence analysts. Because she was positioned in these two ways

108 CHAPTER FOUR

at once—already under greater oversight by nature of her military service
and not legible as one of the major types most commonly named as hidden
dangers—Manning was far less visible to military surveillance technologies
as apotential threat.
Focusing on the testimony, evidence, and social context of Manning’s
trial, this chapter considers how explicitly marking Manning as atransgen¬
der figure assists both the defense and prosecution, and ultimately helps nor¬
malize the very forms of militarized harm that Manningsought to publicize.
Ishow how the trial links the secrecy of her gender with the secrecy of her
whistle-blower actions, aprocess that guides public attention away from the
U.S. government and toward an individual who must be exposed. Although
this chapter draws heavily on Manning’s own written words and spoken
testimony, Imake no claims as to the truth of her legal case or her identity.
Rather, Iwish to show how an implicit and explicit nartative of transgender
deception supports the trial’s own focus on finding the truth—of Man¬
ning’s gender, emotional life, intentions, and actions—in order to direct
scrutiny toward aspecific individual and away from harms committed by
U.S. military forces and foreign policy.

Seeking Evidence

Manning entered the army in zoo8, and one year later was deployed to Iraq,
where she worked as an analyst. According to various testimony and mate¬
rial evidence. Manning began collecting information to leak just amonth
or two after she arrived in Iraq. Beginning in January 2010, she provided to
the whistle-blower website WikiLeaks first aset of hundreds of thousands of

SigAct logs—“significant activities,” or logs of incident reports—from the

wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, and then the video that came to be known as
“Collateral Murder,” showing a2007 army helicopter attack that resulted
in multiple civilian injuries (including two children) and deaths (including
two Reuters journalists). She also leaked over 250,000 U.S. diplomatic cables
and other classified or sensitive materials, most of which WikiLeaks subse¬
quently released in the latter half of 2010. Many other materials Manning
provided,includingoversevenhundredclassifiedandinternalfilesaboutde¬
tainees held at Guantanamo Bay, were not made publicly available until 2011.
In May 2010, Manning contacted former hacker Adrian Lamo over instant
messenging chat, reaching out to him because he had been publicly sup-

S E N S I T I V E I N F O R M AT I O N 1 0 9
portive of WikiLeaks and because she believed he was “someone who would
possibly understand.”*^ Over the course of these chats, Manning discussed
her family and childhood, her feelings of fear and isolation in the military,
and her convictions about leaking important information she had access to
as an analyst. For instance, she asked Lamo, perhaps rhetorically, “Ifyou had
free reign over classified networks for long periods of time ... and you saw
incredible things, awful things ...things that belonged in the public do¬
main, and not on some server stored in adark room in Washington DC ...
what would you do? [... matetials] explaining how the first wotld exploits
the third, in detail, from an internal perspective?”^
In her first exchanges with Lamo, Manning identified herself not by
name but as “an army intelligence analyst, deployed to eastern baghdad,
pending discharge for ‘adjustment disorder’ in lieu of‘gender identity dis¬
order.’”* Within the first ten minutes or so of their chat, Lamo reassured

her, “I’m ajournalist and aminister. You can pick either, and treat this as a
confession or an interview (never to be published) &enjoy amodicum of le¬
gal protection.”^ Yet afew days later, Lamo arranged ameeting with the FBI
and provided acopy of the chat logs to Wired magazine editor and former
hacker Kevin Poulson. By the end of May 2010, Manning was arrested, held
at Camp Liberty in Iraq for apretrial confinement hearing, and later trans¬
ferred to Camp Ariljan in Kuwait.'® Approximately one month later, she was
transferred to Quantico, Virginia, where she was designated a“maximum
custody” prisoner on “Prevention of Injury” and “Suicide Risk” statuses."
By the time of her arraignment in late February 2012, Manning had been in
pretrial confinement for over six hundred days.
Manning’s case both aligns with and breaks from the common relation¬
ship between state surveillance practices and gender nonconformity. Con¬
sider, for example, the case of Duanna Johnson, who in February 2008 was
arrested in Memphis, Tennessee, on charges of prostitution that were later
dropped. ABlack transgender-identified woman, Johnson was held in a
county jail where, according to her statements, white booking officer Bridges
McRae called her afaggot and ahe-she, using both masculine pronouns
and Johnson’s masculine birch name. When she refused to respond to these
names, McRae beat and maced her; another officer held Johnson in her seat
during part of this assault, and an attending nurse later examined McRae
rather than Johnson. Johnson’s case is not particularly unusual among the
high rates of violence against and incarceration of transgender women of

no CHAPTER FOUR
color, but it is fairly unique in that asurveillance camera installed by the
correctional facility captured these events.'^ Johnson’s attorney leaked the
surveillance footage to alocal news station, and the video quickly went viral
on the internet. Both officers involved were fired, and Johnson filed alaw¬
suit against the city. In November of that year, she was found murdered on
the streets of Memphis, with police claiming they had no suspects. After a
mistrial, McRae pled guilty to the beating and was sentenced to two years
in prison.'^
The surveillance camera in Johnson’s case, constructed to visually track
the criminalized bodies being processed at the jail, also created arecord of
physical state violence against one of those bodies, and so it potentially un¬
dermines its own intended purpose by turning on the state actors it was
meant to support.^* But the video footage cannot be understood in isola¬
tion from the power dynamics at work in this specific interaction or from
the social and political context in which these images circulate. As Judith
Butler cautioned in the aftermath of the Rodney King verdict, “to the ex¬
tent that there is aracist organization and disposition of the visible, it will
work to circumscribe what qualifies as visual evidence, such that it is in some
cases impossible to establish the ‘truth’ of racist brutality through recourse
to visual evidence.”'’ Butler’s analysis has renewed salience in the context of
national calls to mandate body cameras for police officers as preventative
measures against police killings of Black people. Critics of this proposed
solution observe that cameras worn by law enforcement “are oriented not
toward police officers, but rather toward the public” and that the resulting
footage, which must be interpreted by law enforcement and court systems,
often works against defendants and victims of police violence rather than
ensuring police transparency or accountability.'^ Though the surveillance
footage from body cameras and county jails may help make visible the in¬
ner workings of the U.S. policing system, that visibility is partial at best,
filtered through structural racism, sexism, and transmisogyny that shape
the visible and the very act of seeing.'^ This constellation of factors made it
possible for McRae to file an assault charge against Duanna Johnson, using
the surveillance camera footage as visual evidence to argue that she swung
at and verbally threatened him. While these images might illuminate state
violence, they also reenact violence against Johnson, both in their visual
repetition of assault and in their provision of repeated opportunities for
viewers to carefully examine Johnson’s body and behaviors for evidence

SENSITIVE I N E O R M AT I O N ill
of- deviance or noncompliance.'** Johnson’s case is astark reminder chat for
many people, neither surveillance practices nor explicit visibility as trans¬
gender provide protection. Instead, surveillance measures rely on and re¬
inforce the purportedly commonsense sorting between chose people in need
of protection and chose they must be protected from. So even visual evidence
that ought to clearly mark law enforcement as acting improperly can serve
to reconsolidate police power as that which always acts with necessary force:
interpreted in afield of vision wherein Johnson’s body already represents
criminality and resistance to authority, these surveillance images operate as
punitive rather than protective for her.
Complicating this framework, Chelsea Manning’s case makes state vio¬
lence visible not simply through routine surveillance footage but through
Manning’s deliberate and sustained efforts to publicize classified govetn-
ment materials (and later, the conditions of her own incarceration). Al¬
though she navigated military service during the period of Don’t Ask, Don’t
Tell, until she was identified as the source of the leaks her subject position
as awhite U.S. citizen and service member helped mitigate the possibility of
being unduly scrutinized.'^ Because as amilitary intelligence analyst she was
herself astate actor. Manning can be understood as the surveillance mecha¬
nism itself, performing that role first on behalf of the U.S. military and later
on behalf of the U.S. public by deliberately turning the government’s own
surveillance practices back onto itself The publicity surrounding her trial
necessarily increased public awareness of the leaked information, further
amplifying the material evidence of harmful military actions. But in concert
with news media reports, the trial frames Manning’s case as one primar¬
ily concerned with individual transpatency. The defense’s introduction of
Manning’s gender identity suggests abelief that it would benefit her case,
but throughout the trial gender secrets join with state secrets such that a
visible transgender identity not only helps position Manning as adeceptive
individual who is not what she seems, but also justifies intensified surveil¬
lance over that individual.

AVery Private Struggle

In June 2010, when Wired magazine initially published the Manning-Lamo

chat logs—in which Manning claimed responsibility for the leaks—those
transcripts consisted only of heavily edited excerpts. Wired writers explained

III CHAPTER FOUR

that the magazine had not published acomplete transcript because the logs
“included sensitive personal information” about Manning and also because
the editors wanted to “avoid inadvertently revealing sensitive military infor¬
mation.”-® By June, WikiLeaks had already released some of the materials
Manning leaked, including the “Collateral Murder” video, so the Wired
writers’ concerns about sensitive military information were unsurprising. It
was less clear at that time how Manning’s personal information might also
be sensitive. This information only emerged for awider audience in De¬
cember 2011, when Manning’s defense attorneys introduced her gender and
sexuality as topics during pretrial hearings, suggesting that the related emo¬
tional difficulties influenced her decision to leak classified documents.^' The

implied relationship between these two sets of sensitive information—the

classified military documents and the news of Manning’s gender identity—
helps connect Manning’s transgender status to actions that the U.S. gov¬
ernment defines as treasonous. At times used as evidence of Manning’s
emotional distress and isolation under Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, this defense

strategy necessarily tapped into protracted debates about whether the very
presence of LGBT people in the U.S. military compromises national secu-
rity.^^ In Manning’s case, these debates further dovetail with the cultural
positioning of transgender people as inherently deceptive.So although her
attorneys raised the issue of gender identity to make an argument about her
state of mind and not necessarily to suggest causality, it proved difficult to
leverage this argument without giving some credence to the theories that
transgender people—and perhaps LGB people by association—erode na¬
tional security and are unfit to serve.
From the first day of the trial, June 3, 2013, Manning’s defense team set
her leaks of classified information in the context of her inner emotional life.

Lead defense attorney David Coombs noted in his opening statement that
“Manning is not atypical soldier,” and explained that her humanist belief
25
in the value of all human life led her to struggle with her work as an analyst.
He elaborated, “The reason why [she] started to struggle was no longer could
[she] read SigActs or human reports and just see aname or number d n A
[her] struggles were public. [She] was struggling not only with the feeling
of obligation and duty to people, but also with the struggle and internal
struggle, avery private struggle with [her] gender. And this was public for
[her] unit to see.”^'’ This opening statement—a narrative setting the stage
for the trial to come—merges Manning’s concerns about U.S. military ac-

S E N S I T I V E I N F O R M AT I O N 11 3
tions with her struggle to come to terms with ttansgender identity. Notably,
it is Manning’s commitment to humanism that Coombs cites as the reason
she is not atypical soldier, suggesting that her investment in protecting hu¬
man life is atypical for the U.S. military, even though that body formally ra¬
2 7

tionalizes many of its actions as forms of protection and humanitarianism.

Coombs’s brief mention of Manning’s gender struggles stands on its
own in the opening statement, requiring no further explanation. This is
because his statement draws on afamiliar understanding of transgender
identity formed through Western medicolegal discourse, in which legibility
as transgender entails the eventual disclosure of an emotionally burdensome
secretandthedesitetomovelinearlytotheoppositebinarygendercategory.
Coombs relies on this standardized narrative of transgender identity steeped
in inner turmoil and private struggle in order to show “what was going on in
[his] client’s mind.”^** This was not the only defense strategy that Manning’s
legal team employed; in fact, the trial itself focused more often on Man¬
ning’s feelings of moral responsibility, and on the patticulats of the materi¬
als she leaked, than on her gender identity. But by introducing gender as an
integral component of the emotional stress Manning suffered, the onerous
secret of gender becomes inseparable from the secrecy of her work as an ana¬
lyst, acombination of stressors prompting what the defense framed as well-
intentioned actions to leak classified material.

On the second day of the trial, Coombs questioned Adrian Lamo, the
fotmer hacker to whom Manning had confessed the leaks over instant mes-
senging chats. Attempting to clarify the extent of their relationship during
that time, Coombs inquires:

Q: During this initial chat conversation [she] told you about [her] life
and [her] upbringing?
A: In some amount of detail, yes.
Q: [She] told you that [she] was being challenged due to agender
identity issue?
A: Yes.

Q: [She] also told you that [she] had been questioning [her] gender
for years, but statted to come to terms with that with [het] gender
during the deployment?
A: Yes.

Q:[She]toldyou[she]believed[she]hadmadeahugemess?

11 4 C H A P T E R F O U R
 A: Yes, [she] did.
Q: And [she] confessed [she] was emotionally fractured?
A: Yes.

Q: [She] said [she] was talking to you as somebody that needed moral
and emotional support?
A: Yes.^’

After several more questions regarding the sense of desperation and iso¬
lation that Manning expressed, which Lamo likewise confirms, Coombs
moves directly into aset of questions about the leaks.

Q: [She] ended up apologizing to you on several occasions for pouring

out [her] heart to you since you were total strangers?
A: Correct.

Q: Now at one point [she] asked you if you had access to classified
networks and so on, incredible things, awful things, things that
belonged to the public domain, not on some servers dark room in
Washington, D.C. What would you do? Do you recall [her] asking
you that question?
A: Yes, Idid.

Q: [She] told you [she] thought that the information that [she] had
would have impact on the entire world?
A: That is also correct.^“

Through this line of questioning, Coombs’s approach frames Manning’s

hidden gender identity as the groundwork that sets the stage for other, larger
secrets. By shifting seamlessly between gender concerns and concerns about
classified materials, Coombs collapses these two secrets, creating ambiguity
about what precisely Manning meant when referring to the “huge mess”
or emotional distress. The stress of concealing her gender identity is inex¬
tricable here from the stress of concealing vast amounts of state secrets, for
Coombs’s questions suggest that they are utterly entwined as private emo¬
tional struggles. Much media and political discourse followed this model
in discussing Manning’s case; even commentary that refuted the causality
implied by linking transgender identity with national betrayal still tended to
accept the premise that Manningwas hiding personal struggles with gender
identity.^' During sentencing, the defense called two military psychologists
to testify to this end. Both spoke of how the stress of transgender identity

S E N S I T I V E I N F O R M AT I O N I 1 5
combined with and exacerbated other stressors in Manning’s everyday life.
Captain Dr. Michael Worsley, who treated Manning prior to her arrest, tes¬
tified that Manning experienced isolation beyond the levels typically cre¬
ated by deployment and by working under top-.secret clearance: “being in
the military and having agender identity issue do not exactly go hand-in-
hand—it further serves to isolate. [She] finally felt much more comfortable
”32
just having it out.
Worsley’s testimony may have been astrategy to elicit the court’s sympa¬
thy, but it also supported the prosecution’s narrative of Manning as traitor.
Lead prosecutor Major Ashden Fein’s closing argument specifically empha¬
sizes that Manning deceived the military, the U.S. public, and the court;
“Manning was not ahumanist. [She] was ahacker. [She] was not atroubled
young soul. [She] was adetermined soldier with the knowledge, ability, and
desire to harm the United States. [She] was not awhistleblower. [She] was a
traitor.”^^ Fein’s repetitive sentence structure underscores the argument that
both during her service and over the course of the trial. Manning was not
what she purported to be. Fein does not have to explicitly reference Man¬
ning’s gender here in order for the notion of transgender deception to sup¬
port the fundamental argument he makes. In this way, both the defense and
prosecution make use of the narrative that Manning’s gender deception lay
the groundwork for her national deception.
Importantly, however, the chat logs and court testimonies sometimes
contradict this framework. In several instances, they illuminate not Man¬
ning’s psyche or identity—as Coombs’s questions attempt to do—so much
as the ways that state actors read gender transgression into security dis¬
course. In the chat logs. Manning writes to Lamo that “uncertainty” about
gender identity and emotional isolation had made amess of things, “and
little does anyone know, but among this ‘visible’ mess, theres the mess icre¬
ated that no-one knows about yet.”^"* In light of the fact that Wired, military
personnel, and Manning’s own defense team intentionally delayed making
public the gendered aspects of her case, it is noteworthy that Manning her¬
self positions gender questions as visible long before the classified military
documents were made public. This timeline is somewhat at odds with the
narrative that stressful gender secrets led her to publicize national secrets.
In fact. Manning had deliberately provided information about her gender
identity to multiple people, both in and outside the military, months before
the leaked information surfaced through WikiLeaks.

Ii6 CHAPTER FOUR

 For instance, in April zoio, Manning sent Master Sgt. Paul Adkins an
email titled “My Problem,” in which she wrote that the question of gender
identity was “not going away, its haunting me more and more as Iget older,”
and attached aphoto of herself wearing ablonde wig and lipstickd^ Inmid-
1009, before being deployed to Iraq, Manning contacted Lauren McNa¬
mara,atransgenderactivistandblogger,andhelci'extensivediscussionswith
her over instant messenging for several months. McNamara, who testified
for the defense, latet wrote of that experience, “What Ididn’t reveal at the
trial was that Manning opened up to me in part because we were both gay
men. That’s not who Iam anymore, and by the time Manning contacted
Lamo, there were clear signs that [she] too was considering transition¬
ing—signs that any other trans person would see as indicative of someone
who was so far into this, they weren’t likely to turn back.”^'^ Indeed, Man¬
ning told Lamo, “I already got myself into minor trouble, revealing my un¬
certainty over my gender identity ... which is causing me to lose this job,” a
statement indicating that she had made her gender identity public at least to
37
the extent that she was now being dismissed under Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.
Although many of these communications clearly indicate that Manning felt
some distress related to gender identity and the U.S. military’s response to
it, the familiar story of transgender identity as inherently characterized by
fraught concealment does not fully align with Manning’s own narration or
actions. Yet by withholding this personal sensitive information—and ex¬
plicitly marking it as sensitive—the U.S. military and news media reinforce
the nartative of secrecy in ways that connect Manning’s gender identity to
her decision to leak military documents. In this way, they help manufacture
alink between gender nonconformity and national security threat.
Manning’s own testimony during her trial speaks less to the emotional
difficulty of transgender identity than to that of having witnessed U.S. mili¬
tary personnel killing civilians without remorse. Reading from alengthy
prepared statement during her arraignment. Manning explained that the
first set of SigActs she released to WikiLeaks constituted what she believed
to be “one of the more significant documents of our time, removing the fog
” 3 8
of war and revealing the true nature of zist-century asymmetric warfare.
She noted that even befote WikiLeaks published the material, “I felt asense
of relief by them having it. Ifelt Ihad accomplished something that allowed
me to have aclear conscience based upon what Ihad seen and read about and
knew were happening in both Iraq and Afghanistan every day.”^’ Regarding

S E N S I T I V E I N F O R M AT I O N 11 7
the “Collateral Murder” video showing aU.S. aerial weapons team repeat¬
edly firing on children, Reuters journalists, and other civilians with what she
described as “seemingly delightful bloodlust,” Manning commented, “It’s
all abig mess and I’m left wondering what these things mean and how it all
fits together it burdens me emotionally.”'*® She continued, “I hoped that the
public would be as alarmed as me about the conduct of the aerial weapons
team members. Iwanted the American public to know that not everyone in
Iraq and Afghanistan were targets that needed to be neutralized, but rather
people who were struggling to live in the pressure cooker environment of
what we call asymmetric warfare.”*' Manning continually emphasized her
belief in the importance of public access to these materials. On the first
day of the trial, Coombs’s statements framed that commitment to public
knowledge as akey aspect of Manning’s emotional landscape: her “struggles
led [her] to feel that [she] needed to do something, that [she] needed to do
something to make adifference in this world. [She] needed to do something
to help improve what [she] was seeing. And so from that moment forward,
and that was January of loio, [she] started selecting information that [she]
believed the public should hear and should see. Information that [she] be¬
lieved that if the public saw would make the world abetter place.”*^ Man¬
ning responded to this emotional burden, then, by making public what the
U.S. military had categorized as secret, information that Manning believed
ought not be concealed from public view.
By folding her “gender identity issue” into her distress about witnessing
the effects of asymmetrical warfare, the trial narrates Manning as someone
other than she had first appeared: awoman where the army saw aman, a
traitor where the government had seen aloyal soldier. The defense seeks to
strengthen its case by introducing Manning’s transgender status as evidence
of the stress and isolation contributing to her “naive, but good-intentioned”
actions.'*^ But this strategy also risks strengthening cultural and court beliefs
that Manning had merely posed as apatriot—before ultimately betraying
her country—just as she mascperaded in terms of gender. Although sig¬
nificant portions of her defense stress the moral and ethical dimensions of
her whistle-blowing, the very structure of the trial shifts culpability away
from the U.S. government and military: the trial is designed to excavate the
truths of Manning’s actions. That process is intensified by the prosecution’s
characterization of her as aduplicitous individual who jeopardized national
security, aframing bolstered by dominant narratives of transgender identity.

Il8 CHAPTER FOUR

For the U.S. government, the ttial’s exposure of Manning makes possible
her continued punishment, which in turn helps guard against future leaks.
During sentencing, the prosecution asked for sixty years—nearly twice the
actual sentence—in order to “send amessage to any soldier contemplating
stealing classified information,” indicating the extent to which the prosecu¬
tion understood the trial as central to protecting government privacy.'*'* Yet
achieving this renewed protection by exposing Manning entails publicizing
her actions and delving into the specifics of the leaked materials, paradoxi¬
cally exposing government and military secrets in order to maintain them
as secret. Throughout the trial process, then, the U.S. government must ne¬
gotiate adelicate balance between public and private information, visible
and invisible actions.

Living an Opaque Life

In her examination of post-9/n ttavel regulations, Rachel Hall argues that

the framework of the war on terror posits an ever-greater visibility of indi¬
viduals as the solution to national security concerns: “the aesthetics of trans¬
parency belongs to arationality of government that understands security in
terms ofvisibility.”^^ Accordingly, the screening procedures required to gtant
security clearance to Chelsea Manning in her role as an intelligence analyst
make her highly visible to state actors and should, in the framework Hall
describes, ensure increased security. Yet the very fact that the U.S. military
held Manning so close—that the army had screened, trained, and officially
approved this individual service member, who then went on to publicize
materials meant to be kept secret—indicates that increased visibility is not
the panacea that state policies so often claim it to be. Because those extensive
screening processes did not protect the army from information leaks. Man¬
ning’s case distupts the notion that greater visibility creates greater security.
To asignificant extent, however, visibility remained the standard treat¬
ment for the security risk that Manning represented. The conditions under
which Manning was held at Quantico while awaiting her trial heavily em¬
phasize detainee visibility. Coombs found these conditions so severe that in
December zoio he published ablog post making them public. He noted that
since arriving at Quantico in July that year. Manning had not only been held
in “maximum custody,” but had been held under Protection of Injury (POl)
watch, astatus purportedly assigned to ensure that prisoners do not harm

S E N S I T I V E I N F O R M AT I O N 11 9
themselves. In asix-by-twelve-foot cell by herself, Manning received daytime
checks by guards every five minutes. Coombs elaborated, “At night, if the
guards cannot see PFC Manning clearly, because [she] has ablanket over
[her] head or is curled up towards the wall, they will wake [her] in order to
ensure [she] is okay.... When PFC Manning goes to sleep, [she] is required to
strip down to [her] boxer shorts and surrender [her] clothing to the guards.
[Her] clothing is returned to [her] the next morning.”'^'^ By March loii, U.S.
news media reported even harsher restrictions: Manning was stripped of
all clothing at night “as a‘precautionary measure’” to prevent self-injury,
according to Quantico officials."*' Each morning, guards required Manning
to stand nude outside her cell for morning inspection. In asubsequent blog
post, Coombs noted that aQuantico spokesperson said the forced nudity
was “not punitive,” but Coombs disputed this claim: “There can be no con¬
ceivable justification for requiring asoldier to surrender all [her] clothing,
remain naked in [her] cell for seven hours, and then stand at attention the
subsequent morning. This treatment is even more degrading considering
that PFC Manning is being monitored—both by direct observation and by
video—at all times.”"**

For the most part, details of Manning’s incarceration at Quantico were

shrouded in secrecy and withheld from the public. The spokesperson at
Quantico told journalists that he was “not allowed to explain what prompted
[the new rule on clothing] ‘because to discuss the details would be aviola¬
tion of Manning’s privacy.’”"*’ This statement suggests that Manning’s pri¬
vacy had not already been violated through forced nudity, video monitoring,
and other regulations. Assigning her to POI status provides justification for
her treatment, explaining overt surveillance as an effort to safeguard her
health. When Quantico staff claim to protect Manning’s privacy and well¬
being, these statements transfer the burden of transparency onto Manning
and away from the U.S. government. Sutveillance over Manningin the brig
is meant to restore abelief in security through visibility, and the conceal¬
ment of Quantico’s own policies and practices is reassurance chat U.S. secu¬
rity and screening systems can still prevent information from circulating in
the public realm.
In amanner consistent with many reports about practices in U.S. mili¬
tary and immigration detention facilities, Quantico worked to lay bare the
individual detainee while simultaneously concealing that process from
public view, with both practices rationalized as part of national security.

11 0 CHAPTER FOUR
Remarkably, die conditions of her own incarceration are precisely the type
of information Manning sought to expose through releasing information
about other, more sweeping forms of detention. For example. Manning’s
release of hundreds of files about Guantanamo prisoners—which exposed
names and torturous detention conditions as well as the fact that “many
innocents or marginal figures [had been] swept up by the Guantanamo
dragnet”—was asignificant factor in the charges against her.’° The Guan¬
tanamo camps, some of which had previously served as temporary refugee
camps for Haitian and Cuban migrants during the mid-1990s, were repur¬
posed after 9/n as indefinite spaces of detention for people suspected of
affiliations with anti-U.S. terrorist groups. The U.S. government readily
circulated “depersonalized” images of prisoners in the camps yet also held
those individuals in alegally ambiguous space that, in Naomi Paik’s terms,
rendered them rightless and removed them from the public sphere: “The
prisoners have thus been both highly visible and yet shrouded in direct and
indirect fotms of censorship. Just as the physical bodies of these men have
been persistently obscured by the actions of the U.S. government, so too is
our understanding of many aspects of life at Guantanamo obscured.”^' Fot
reasons that Iclarify in the final section of this chapter. Manning’s case is
not equivalent to those of the hundreds of people imprisoned at Guanta¬
namo. But these camps inform Manning’s own sustained pretrial imprison¬
ment under what the military termed temporary conditions of isolation and
POI status. During her arraignment, aQuantico official testified, “Quantico
is not about long term—it’s about individual short term, but not long term,
confinement.”^^ The recommended short-term confinement at Quantico is
ninety days; Manning was held there for 158 days, spending the majority of
those on POI status.^^ Two military psychiatrists who treated Manning testi¬
fied that these detention conditions were “unprecedented” and “more severe
than [those] of death row inmates.”’^ Manning’s own testimony during her
arraignment points to one of these psychiatrists’ complicity in extending
her temporary status indefinitely: “I started asking [psychiatrist] Captain
Hocter why he wasn’t recommending me to come off of Prevention of In¬
jury status. He kept saying that he was, but then Gunnery Sergeant Blenis,
my counselor, kept on saying it was the docs that were recommending that
” 5 5
status.... Iwasn’t sure who was telling the truth.
These types ofpractices—isolation, high levels of bodily visibility and con¬
stant surveillance, and contradictory or undisclosed institutional policies—

SENSITIVE I N F O R M AT I O N III
mirror many of the aspects of Guantanamo that Manning’s leaks made pub¬
lic, and they are not unusual in the context of the U.S. prison system in gen¬
eral, particularly for incarcerated transgender and gender-nonconforming
peopleIn Manning’s case, these practices are part of an effort to recuper¬
ate national security (and public faith in national security) after her actions
hadallegedlyendangeredit.Manningandherdefenseteamrepeatedlyout¬
lined the care she took to release materials that, even if technically classified,
would not actually threaten national security.^^ If the leaks did undermine
either national security or the U.S. government’s validity, it is not because
the leaked materials creared new weaknesses, but because the U.S. govern¬
ment and military’s own harmful actions—in Iraq, Afghanistan, Guanta¬
namo, and other spaces—became newly visible to the U.S. public through
Manning’s leaks and the publicity of her trial.^* Courts-martial have long
functioned to secure the respected status of the U.S. military when internal
dissent threatens to undermine it. Yet the “legalized spectacle of criminal
prosecution” for service members can also erode that legitimacy, since the
trial process might reveal internal contradictions, systemic problems, and
other damaging information about the U.S. military itself.” For this reason,
acts of service member misconduct are often addressed in other ways; but if
those actions have “undermined faith in American military strength or in
the moral and political authority of military institutions,” the court-martial
can work as atool to restore faith in that authority both internally and for
the U.S. public.^ The material Manning leaked threatened the military’s
moral and political authority in just this way, and to mitigate that threat,
her trial had to expose Manning as adiscrete danger while retroactively
safeguarding military secrets that included treatment of Manning during
pretrial confinement as well as the hundreds of thousands of documents
circulating in the public sphere.
Pretrial motions illustrate the lengths to which the U.S. government
would go in order to protect damning information that was in fact already
freely available. In an effort to “render the government’s case against Man¬
ning less secretive,” the defense requested access to evidence that the pros¬
ecution had not yet provided, including evaluations of how damaging the
leaked material had actually been, claiming that without this evidence Man¬
ning could not receive afair trial.^' The judge ruled thar only unclassified
material could be disclosed; remarkably, this meant that even the leaked
materials—which remained classified despite now being fully accessible

111 CHAPTER FOUR

to the public—could not be formally disclosed as part of the trial. Likewise,
the court limited and strictly regulated press access to the trial. In early 1013,
the Center for Constitutional Rights filed aFirst Amendment lawsuit on
behalf of several journalists, recpesting media and public access to court
materials and challenging secret pretrial proceedings; their suit was denied
in amilitary appeals court.“ In response, the Freedom of the Press Founda¬
tion successfully crowd-funded court stenographers who—after convincing
the court to grant them entrance to the courtroom—transcribed the pro¬
ceedings by hand, since computers and other electronic devices were pro¬
hibited.®^ The sections of the pretrial and trial proceedings that Icite in
this chapter are drawn from these transcripts as well as documents obtained
through Freedom of Information Act (fOIa) requests made by journalists
and other media organizations. The transcripts contain some gaps and in¬
accuracies because they were taken by hand, but except in the case of pro¬
nouns used for Manning, Icite them here without corrections or changes,
in part to illustrate the obfuscation lingering even after the U.S. government
grants acertain form of public access.
Moreover, Manning’s testimony demonstrates the U.S. government’s fail¬
ure to adhere to its own policies regarding disclosure and transparency. For
example. Manning testified that one of her initial motivations for leaking
the “Collateral Murder” video was her discovery that Reuters—whose jour¬
nalists had been killed in that incident—had filed aFOIA request for it and
had not received aproper response for more than ayear. Manning explained
that she labeled her copy of that video “Reuters FOIA Req.” and intended to
send it directly to Reuters as well as to WikiLeaks. This testimony suggests
that Manning understood her actions as ultimately compliant with U.S. fed¬
eral policy even if they violated regulations governing her role as an analyst.
In making these materials available to the public, she completed the FOIA
request that other state actors had not.®'*
The Reuters FOIA request is one of many examples in the trial during
which testimony about Manning’s ethical framework implicitly calls into
question the ethics of government and military actions, including the se¬
crecy surrounding the trial itself. For instance, when the defense team chal¬
lenged the vague language of the Espionage Act (of which Manning had
been charged with eight counts of violation), they pointed out that “national
security is nor aphrase that is meant to protect the government from things
that are embarrassing.”®®And on the first day of pretrial hearings, Coombs

S E N S I T I V E I N F O R M AT I O N 11 3
stated, “This is apublic trial. The hallmark of our democracy is the ability
of our government to be open with its public.”^ These statements position
Manning’s actions as rational, even patriotic efforts to align her work with
the national character of the United States, imagined here as one of trans¬
parency and commitment to the public good. In the context of antiterror¬
ism rhetoric, such statements can even attempt to characterize Manning as
amodel citizen who had so internalized the instructions of the If You See

Something, Say Something campaign and related government initiatives

that she felt compelled as apatriot and citizen to report misconduct she
had witnessed. But this role of vigilant citizen relies on lateral surveillance,
in which citizens monitor their friends, neighbors, and other members of
the public; such surveillance is done in service to the government and can¬
not register as civic duty when turned against state agencies.®^ Accordingly,
while these moments in the trial attempt to shift the burden of deception
onto the U.S. government, within the structure of the court-martial Man¬
ning’s case cannot indict the government for its own harmful acts of de¬
ception and obfuscation. Instead, examples like the Reuters FOIA request
come to primarily support anarrative about Manning’s personal emotional
struggle, wherein she grappled with distressing information categorized as
private but that she believed was rightly public knowledge.
In many ways, that natrative aligns with Manning’s own statements. Her
comments in the chat logs and her legal testimony repeatedly suggest that she
felt burdened by her access to this material. And she does draw some connec¬
tions between her life under Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell and her decision to leak

information: early in her chats with Lamo, Manning wtites, “Living such an
opaque life,has forced me never to take transparency,openness,and hon¬
esty for granted.”^* My point is not to propose that discussions of her emo¬
tional butden constitute afalse narrative, but rather to highlight how that
perhaps inadvertently—complies with the government’s de¬
n a r r a t i v e -

mand that Manning be put under greater scrutiny and helps justify increased
surveillance over her. Investigations into her emotional life work with the
visual surveillance ofher incarceration and with the trial’s meticulous chart¬

ing of her military service, personal history, and whistle-blowing actions.

These forms of visibility are inextricable from the media and legal discus¬
sions of her gender identity throughout the trial, which helps explain the
slippage between public and private in Coombs’s opening argument noted
above: “[Manning] was struggling not only with afeeling of obligation and

11 4 C H A P T E R F O U R
duty to people, but also with ... avery private sttuggle with [her] gender.
And this was public for [her] unit to see.” Although these sentences read as
contradictory (how could aprivate struggle be public for all to see?), they
indicate the complicated relationship between the two types of sensitive
information in Manning’s case; one that threatens national security if it is
exposed, and one that must be exposed to remove its threatening potential.
Even this neat pairing is too simplistic, for although the classified ma¬
terials are presumably the sensitive information that must be protected
from exposure. Manning’s gender and sexuality also posed athreat in the
context of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell and related legacies of sexual anxiety in
the U.S. military. Similarly, the trial positions Manning as that which must
be exposed to scrutiny in order to (re)secure the nation, even as her defense
team’s strategy suggests that disclosure of certain military secrets was key to
resisting the threat of U.S. military violence both within and outside of U.S.
borders. Courtroom and related media discussions of Manning’s transgen¬
der identity, even when they define that identity as private and individual,
are inevitably linked to examination of the leaks. In fact, as Ishow in the
next section, efforts to separate these two aspects of Manning’s case result
in strengthening the relationship between them.

The Transgender Person of the Moment

It is not difficult to understand why the prosecution narrates Manning as

aspecial case. If the U.S. government can characterize her as asingularly
egregious example of national betrayal, it can deflect scrutiny away from its
own policies and practices. Her security clearance notwithstanding. Man¬
ning’s relative anonymity as alow-level analyst provided akind of invisibility
within the Department of Defense that enabled her to access, download,
and distribute vast amounts of classified material.®’ The trial confronts this

problem not as one that is afunction of military and security bureaucracy

but as intrinsic to Manning as aduplicitous transgender person. Further,
if antiterrorism surveillance programs understand terrorism as fundamen¬
tally incoherent, unpredictable, and difficult to identify, then Manning’s
gender status can implicitly support the expansion of those programs as a
response to her leaks, with transgender narratives of deception and ambigu¬
ity folded into these broader antiterrorism discourses. Positioning her as a
tangible threat in disguise leaves intact state institutions’ authority and even

S E N S I T I V E I N F O R M AT I O N 11 5
paves the way for more intensive government surveillance, with Manning’s
case as high-profile justification7“ This rendering of Manning separates her
from rhe actual content of the leaked materials in order to shift focus away
from damning evidence of systemic government and military harm, locating
harm instead in an individual’s exceptional crimes.
The defense ream also works to frame Manning as aunique individual
(recall Coombs’s description of her as “not atypical soldier”), astrategy
taken up by other supporters who elevate Manning’s individual gendered
experience while moving the effects of U.S. military intervention into the
background. In the left socialist magazine Jacobin, for instance, reporter
Samantha Allen writes directly to Manning, analogizing her exposure of
war crimes to exposure of transgender status. “You’re making ahabit out of
revealing dangerous pieces of information,” she notes. “I don’t know which
revelation was riskier for you: leaking the war documents or coming out as
transgender.”Both pieces of information might well be dangerous, but Al¬
len’sframingsuggestsaneither/orapproachthatisundonebythewayschat
the trial and media coverage merge these two forms of public disclosure. Al¬
len continues, “You are in the unfortunate position of being asymbol. ...
Your announcement was an unwitting choice to be the transgender person
of the moment, the center of adebate over the legitimacy of an entire group
ofpeople.”Allenrefersheretodebatesabouttransgenderpeople’slegitimacy,
and she writes in explicit support of Manning, that larger group of transgen¬
der people, and the act of whistle-blowing. Yet while this supportive position
is distinct from the court-martial’s skepticism and condemnation, in both
cases the attention to Manning’s individual circumstances allows the legiti¬
macy of another “entire group of people”—those targeted by U.S. military
expansion and related antiterrorism measures—to go largely unnamed.
Even as Manning’s actions and testimony focus on those harmed by
U.S. military and government practices, apersistent exceptionalism—
assisted by the continual return to her personal narrative and individual ex¬
periences—mutes their potential to erode public trust in state institutions.
When Manning’s navy psychiatrist testified about her pretrial confinement
at Quantico, his claim that the isolation conditions “were more severe than
[those] of death row inmates” conveys the severity of Manning’s treatment
by distinguishing her from those implicitly understood to deserve that treat¬
ment.^^ Captain Dr. Hocter, the psychiatrist who had treated Manning at
Quantico, testified about the extended time that Manning spent under POI

Ii6 CHAPTER FOUR

status: “Even at Guantanamo Bay my recommendations were implemented
much faster than at Quantico. [Manning] spent an unprecedented amount
of time under precautions.”^^ And Manning’s father, in atelevision interview,
likewise used Guantanamo as areference point for her pretrial treatment:
“They worry about people down in abase in Guba, but here they are, have
someone on our own soil, under their own control, and they’re treating [her]
this way.. .. It’s shocking enough that Iwould come out of our silence as a
family and say... you’ve crossed aline. This is wrong.”^"* These claims suggest
that Manning ought not be treated as prisoners on death row or at Guanta¬
namo are, not because this treatment is unacceptable on its face, but because
Manning is awell-meaning individual rather than anameless criminal. Con¬
trary to Manning’s own narration of her actions—her concerns about “people
down in abase in Cuba” prompted her to leak the Guantanamo files, after
all—these arguments further normalize ongoing incarceration practices in
order to depict Manning’s treatment as acontrasting singular wrong.
Such statements work alongside the defense team’s portrayal of Manning
as apatriot whose humanist ethics and national loyalty moved her to expose
confidential materials. Together, these accounts craft anarrative that indi¬
vidualizes Manning. As Dean Spade and Craig Willse point out, although
supporters “leaned on this gay heroism story as one of the only available
scripts in the absence of broad public opposition to imperialism and war,”
that script nonetheless promotes an exceptionalism in which Manning’s in¬
dividual case supersedes the very forms of entrenched violence that Manning
herself sought to center.^^ The viability of this script depends at least in part
on recourse to whiteness and U.S. citizenship. Manning can be depicted as a
singular case not solely because her whistle-blowing or transgender identity
make her different, but also because whiteness offers aclaim on individuality
not readily available to people of color.^^ In this way, whiteness is “atomized
into invisibility through the individualization of white subjects” and, ac¬
cordingly, Manning’s whiteness goes unmarked in the trial and media cov-
erage.^^ Moreover, these narrations of Manning as individual follow what
C. Riley Snorton and Jin Haritaworn describe as aform of value extraction in
which violence against and deaths of people of color serve as “raw material for
the generation of respectable ttans subjects.”^* Their argument helps illumi¬
nate the ways that the Manning trial and related media discourse use Guan¬
tanamo detainees, prisoners on death row in the United States, and those
enduring armed conflict with the U.S. military in Iraq and Afghanistan—

S E N S I T I V E I N F O R M AT I O N 11 7
whether transgender-identified or not—as broad, nameless groups that make
Manning’s individuality possible. The production of Manning as an excep¬
tional transgender individual occurs through the disposability of other lives,
which ‘‘act as resources” for the “articulation and visibility of amore privi¬
” 7 9
leged transgender subject.
Questions like Samantha Allen’s above, which ask whether leaking clas¬
sified information is riskier than publicly identifying as transgender, suggest
that Manning’s individual identity as transgender can be distinguished from
her actions as awhistle-blower and from the content of the leaked materials.

But the use of transgender identity in her trial intertwines that public iden¬
tification with the government and military actions that she exposed. Man¬
ning’s case is clearly connected to the secretive conditions of Guantanamo
camps, for instance, because her own pretrial detention entailed similar
conditions and because her release of the Guantanamo files forms part of
the government’s justification for her incarceration. Yet her case also dif¬
fers significantly from those of the Guantanamo detainees, because court
and media narratives construct Manning as asingular figure to such ade¬
gree that the hundreds of detainees—whose information Manning initially
made public—recede further into the background, agroup indistinguish¬
able as individuals. But it is in this way that Manning’s gender should be
understood as utterly inseparable from the content of the materials she
leaked: both supporters and detractors engage her as an explicitly transgen¬
der figure in order to buttress claims that she is an exceptional case, thereby
transferring scrutiny onto her (whether as treasonous criminal or mistreated
citizen) and away from the government policies and practices that Manning
made public. The standardized narrative of transgender identity, an indi¬
vidual’s story of secret emotional distress, works with unmarked whiteness
to position Manning as aspecial case whose secrets about both gender and
treason—here discursively folded into one another—must be exposed.
Dominant cultural rhetoric linking transgender identity to concealment
supports the trial’s mandate of exposure, even when that rhetoric is not ex¬
plicitly cited; it assists the trial’s work of making Manning visible as either
patriotic or traitorous. The individuality that the court and news media at¬
tribute to Manning—narrated as her isolation under Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,
her secret gender struggles, her atypical humanist beliefs, and her single-
handed ability to undermine national security—merges gender secrets with
national secrets while simultaneously distinguishing her from those most

iz8 CHAPTER FOUR

directly harmed by U.S. military actions, detention and incarceration prac¬
tices, and foreign policy.
Because it focuses on one explicitly transgender individual, the Manning
case operates in ways that are different from yet continuous with the sites I
consider in previous chapters of this book. Surveillance practices working
through identification documents, air travel, and public bathrooms help
construct an understanding of gender noncompliance that then directly
and indirectly rationalizes surveillance targeting many different groups, in¬
cluding but not limited to the transgender-identified. These are all practices
that state agencies themselves actively publicize through laws and policies,
public statements, media interviews, and government hearings. In contrast,
the Manning trial draws on anarrative of transgender deception—both in
the prosecution’s argument of traitorous duplicity and the defense’s argu¬
ment of emotional turmoil amplified by gender secrets—and applies it to
asingle person. While this characterization of deception rationalizes the
heightened surveillance over Manning’s body and behaviors (invoking the
truth-seeking practices already routinely employed against gender noncon¬
formity), the U.S. government works hard to limit public knowledge of that
surveillance, of the trial itself and of the materials Manning leaked.
In closely reading the Manning trial, this chapter also risks enacting one
of the problems it identifies, foregrounding Manning as an exceptional fig¬
ure through and against others, whose lives and deaths are relegated to a
homogenized anonymity that makes it possible to study Manning’s case in
detail. Yet it is precisely because her trial and incarceration garnered such
extensive attention that we should examine how that attention functions,

how it is developed and sustained. When we approach Manning’s case with

this in mind, it can illustrate not merely the hazards of visibility for aspe¬
cific individual, but also what that visibility then enables in the background,
including the routinized surveillance and harming of millions through U.S.
military intervention, carceral institutions, and foreign policy decisions.
Amplified attention to cases treated as spectacularly unique helps create
that background, aspace of naturalized disposability in which surveillance
practices can run continuously, even mundanely. Just as the characterization
of Manning as an exceptional individual helps shift scrutiny away from the
specific U.S. military actions she described as awful and alarming, so too
does the acute focus on her case facilitate and normalize the less spectacular
surveillance practices of the everyday.

S E N S I T I V E I N F O R M AT I O N 11 9
C O N C L U S I O N

ON ENDURANCE

IBEGAN THE RESEARCH for this book during the last years of the George W.
Bush administration, and completed the bulk of the writing and revisions
under the Barack Obama administration. As Iwrite this conclusion in late

ZO17, nearly one year into the Donald Trump administration, the political
context is shifting rapidly around us, and changes to governing practices and
to the fundamental structure of U.S. state agencies continue to unfold. It is
difficult to know how to conclude abook about U.S. state surveillance under

these uncertain political conditions. Trump’s campaign pledges to expand

power and protection for law enforcement at all levels, to build awall along
the U.S.-Mexico border and dramatically increase deportations, and to out¬
right ban Muslims and refugees from entering the United States were all
codified by executive orders in the weeks after his inauguration. Overt scru¬
tiny of and violence and harassment against multiple marginalized groups
intensified noticeably following the 2,016 election, demonstrating how sur¬
veillance enacted by formal government agents works hand in hand with the
everyday informal surveillance practices operating at the local level.
Meanwhile, activist organizations, advocates, and community members
persistently contest these programs, not only supporting legal challenges
and legislative battles but actively creating innovative support structures
that operate beyond courts and formal policy. Community-led rapid re¬
sponse teams in cities across the United States defend against Immigration
and Customs Enforcement (ice) raids and acute instances of police vio¬
lence, turning surveillance back onto law enforcement. Black Lives Matter
chapters fight anti-Black racism and state-sanctioned violence, building a
decentralized, transnational resistance movement with Black liberation at
its core. Revitalizing the sanctuary practices developed to protect Central
American refugees during the 1980s and building on new local policies en¬
acted by many cities and schools, progressive religious institutions provide
material sanctuary for undocumented immigrants. Native American tribes
organize long-term spiritual and political protests against the Dakota Ac¬
cess and Keystone XL oil pipelines, naming the pipelines’ environmental de¬
struction as amechanism of settler colonialism and genocide. Mass airport
demonstrations mobilize spontaneously to defend refugees, immigrants, and
Muslims against federal bans on travelers from majority-Muslim countries.
Community networks pool financial support to fund abortion access, pay
bail and court fees, and sustain queer and transgender elders. These and
many other forms of organizing endure and expand even as they face intensi¬
fied, explicit government repression.'
One broad task of this book has been to reframe acommon approach
to transgender studies and transgender people: it moves away from asearch
for truth and legibility to consider instead how surveillance practices make
gender nonconformity visible, constructing it as inherently deceptive in
ways that justify continued surveillance to locate its truth. Sometimes this
scrutiny operates without formally naming the category of transgender, yet
still ensnares many different bodies and identities that transgress normative
gender; in other cases, surveillance measures overtly cite the transgender-
identified while manipulating that focus to also strengthen scrutiny of other
population categories. Yet Ihave also shown how gender nonconformity
disrupts or confounds surveillance programs by exploiting their internal
inconsistencies and their reliance on normative modes of identification. In

turn, state agencies constantly recalibrate surveillance technologies, and

informal surveillance practices continually adjust to mote effectively track
those bodies and identities that evade their grasp. In the volatile—yet often
remarkably generative—political context in which Iwrite now, how might
we navigate the deception attached to gender nonconformity?
This question is complicated by the rise of transgender visibility over the
course of this book’s development. This growing visibility—leading to U.S.
news media declarations of a“transgender tipping point” and astill widen¬
ing recognition of transgender people across all manner of industries, gov¬
ernmental entities, and public discourse—roughly parallels the progression
of the book’s chapters. Greater recognition has not staunched continuing
surveillance practices that take new shapes under the war on terror and the
rapidly ascending authoritarian movements in the United States and else-

131 CONCLUSION
where. New surveillance technologies and data-sharing networks—like the
linked databases tequired by the Real ID Act—feed on visibility, which can
also refine conceptions of what transgender means and to whom it properly
applies, so that the expansion of transgender visibility paradoxically narrows
the purview of transgender politics.
This paradox is evident, for example, in the September 2017 news that
the New York voter registration form for Jared Kushner—senior White
House advisor and Trump’s son-in-law—listed his gender as female. This in¬
formation broke as Kushner faced increased scrutiny about his relationship
to Russian interference in the 2016 U.S. election and about his repeated fail¬
ures to disclose required information about foreign contacts and financial
interests on security clearance forms. The news also came some four months
into the work of the new Presidential Advisory Commission on Election
Integrity, avoter fraud commission that Trump established by executive
order following his false postelection claim that millions of people voting
illegally had thrown the popular vote to Hillary Clinton. In news headlines
about Kushner’s voter registration, some outlets reported that he “voted as
awoman,” while others stated directly, “Jared Kushner is awoman.”^ Both
speech acts reflect the ways that, as the early chapters of this book show,
government documentation and administrative practices actively produce
gender; Kushner becomes awoman through the voter registration records
that classify him as such. Yet with few exceptions, the news stories them¬
selves treated Kushner’s voter documents as another paperwork failure
rather than aserious indication of his gender.^ The New York State Board
of Elections announced that the gender classification was their error, not
Kushner’s, and had been corrected; the board’s executive director, Michael

Ryan, insisted that such an “accidental sex swap... would have no chance of
changing someone’s ability to vote,” and that “it’s not something that would
disenfranchise avoter.”'* This is aremarkable statement in the context of

systemic voter suppression efforts (including Trump’s voter fraud commis¬

sion). These programs seek to identify fraudulent voting practices in part by
flagging inconsistencies in individuals’ identification documents and other
records, following policies like the Real IDAct and Social Security no-match
letters Iexamined in chapter i. As with government reassurances about
those policies, Ryan’s statement speaks to those for whom such inconsisten¬
cies would represent obvious clerical errors. It cannot support those whose
inconsistent documents result from inability to access ID or from conflicting

ON ENDURANCE 133
administrative regulations, nor those whose gendered documents become
questionable through racism and xenophobia.
Kushner’s story aptly illustrates how identification documents produce
the gendered problems (and subject positions) they purport to merely reflect,
yet the considerable visibility of transgender people at the time of this story
did not help frame it in those terms. Transgender recognition continues to
be structured largely through specific medical, legal, and/or self-narration
practices, ranging from the claims of medically necessary health care Icon¬
sider in chapter 2. to the legislation defining transgender status to regulate
public bathrooms, as Ishow in chapter 3. Within these modes of legibility,
transgender could not really apply to Kushner, and so public discourse on
this case could not engage transgender politics in any meaningful way. In¬
stead, Kushner becomes awoman only to the extent that this temporary
status highlights either his own incompetence or that of the voter registra¬
tion process.
Yet in its very absence of atransgender-identified subject, this case can
be important to atransgender critique of surveillance. The revelation and
casual dismissal of the database error (“It does happen from time to time,”
Ryan remarked) reaffirms Kushner’s gender as normative while pointing
out flaws inherent to the data collection process. To be sure, some critics
of Trump’s voter fraud commission pointed to Kushner’s story as one that
invalidates the commission’s work, because it shows that such data errors

do not actually constitute improper voting practices.* But inasmuch as the

case highlights those errors, it can also justify the refinement and expansion
of surveillance over voter databases and voters themselves, to ensure appre¬
hension of “real” criminals who might slip through in similar clerical errors.
In this way, the specter of gendered fraud propels broader surveillance prac¬
tices already underway. Notably, Trump’s claim that millions voted illegally
relies on data provided by True the Vote, the organization that produced the
man-in-a-dress voter fraud image Idiscussed in chapter iand that primarily
targets immigrants and people of color, just as do voter ID policies and the
longer history of state-regulated identification documents.'*
While many of Trump’s policies and promises do entail important
changes in governing practices, then, they are neither exceptional nor un¬
precedented. Just as we ought not imagine post-9/11 programs as sponta¬
neous, brand-new responses to crisis, the Trump administration’s work is
likewise made possible by foundations laid long before the 2.016 election. To

134 CONCLUSION
take just one widely discussed example, consider those undocumented im¬
migrants who complied with Obama-era policies requiring them to register
with ICE, undergoing regular ICE check-ins and sometimes wearing GPS-
enabled ankle monitors. Under the Obama administration, this surveillance
of undocumented people could be promoted in part as abenevolent regu¬
lation enabling hundreds of thousands of people to remain in the United
States. At the same time, undocumented people outside of this surveillance
mechanism are assigned greater criminality simply for not being part of a
system of compliance and visibility. Meanwhile, because Trump’s policies
explicitly call for swifter deportations and expand the deportation priorities
to those who have committed any act that could be achargeable criminal
offense (which might include anyone who entered the United States with¬
out required legal documentation), already ICE agents have begun using the
required check-ins to facilitate deportations. This process is helped along
by the Obama administration’s own record of deporting millions of immi¬
grants and the xenophobia through which U.S. borders have always been
constructed, such that the new policies should be understood as acontinu¬
ation of, rather than adeparture from, earlier periods.
Relatedly, we might consider the Deferred Action for Childhood Ar¬
rivals (daca) program, developed by the Obama administration in 1012.
to allow eligible undocumented people who entered the United States as
minors to register for arenewable two-year deferment from deportation
proceedings. The program has allowed tens of thousands of undocumented
students to continue high school and college in the United States and to
obtain work permits, yet because it requires aformal admission of undocu¬
mented status, it also operates as surveillance over this group of people who
can now be more effectively monitored. Applications to DACA were always
arisk, since being found ineligible during the application process could lead
to deportation and since it was always possible that the policy could be re¬
voked. The DACA program provides protection only for those who can with¬
stand rigorous government scrutiny and emerge as compliant, productive
individuals. Under the Trump administration, increasing numbers of DACA
recipients have had their protected status canceled, atrend reflecting more
expansive definitions of criminality that can make one apriority for depor¬
tation. Under these conditions, aregistry previously promoted as benevolent
government protection—but which always invested in criminalization by
distinguishing good DACA recipients from other immigrants—becomes an

ON ENDURANCE 135
accessible list of undocumented people who can be better tracked and tar¬
geted for deportation.
Trump’s July zoiy announcement prohibiting transgender people from
serving in the U.S. military demonstrates how readily transgender visibil¬
ity can be incorporated into broader, morphing surveillance projects. The
ban responded to U.S. House of Representatives debates over alarge de¬
fense and security spending bill: aproposed amendment to bar the Pentagon
from funding medical care related to gender transition imperiled the bill’s
passage. Most notably, this spending bill included $i.6 billion for Trump’s
promised U.S.-Mexico border wall. Trump’s pronouncement, claiming that
transgender people’s “tremendous medical costs and disruption” burden
the military, exploits ongoing scrutiny of gender nonconformity in order
to further fund border control efforts targeting Mexican immigrants.” By
discursively tying transgender people to medicalizarion and suggesting that
this link weakens the nation’s defense against immigrants, the policy draws
on abroader discourse of harmful versus healthful bodies that Iconsider

in chapter z. Patriotic responses from transgender advocates invest in that

discourse toward different ends, arguing that banning transgender service
members “will be detrimental to readiness and morale at every level of the
armed forces.”^ In arepudiation of Trump’s portrayal of transgender service
members as burdensome liabilities that undermine U.S. military power,
these advocates depict transgender fitness and patriotism as vital to national
defense.^ Such strategies echo the frameworks of national belonging that I
discuss in chapter 3, particularly against the backdrop of federal spending
on increasingly militarized border control that emphasizes surveillance of
physical bodies to fortify spatial boundaries for national security. Moreover,
transgender visibility in the form of explicit military inclusion places trans¬
gender service members under formal surveillance through the military’s
standardized screening, documenting, and monitoring of enlistees as well
as the informal scrutiny of hostile or skeptical peers, senior officers, and leg¬
islators. Like Chelsea Manning, these service members are both objects and
agents of surveillance as they carry out tasks from data collection to drone
imaging. The transgender military ban therefore entails amore complicated
web of surveillance than its most explicit objective suggests. That facet of
the policy—the location and removal of transgender-identified people from
military service—reminds us that military recognition and inclusion of
transgender people facilitates mote effective monitoring of them as trans-

13(5 CONCLUSION
gender. But the policy also demonstrates how U.S. state agencies incorporate
newly recognized transgender people into the formal workings of surveil¬
lance, whether by literally putting them to work on military surveillance
projects or by using them as incendiary and polarizing figures to fund mili¬
tarized surveillance against immigrants in the U.S.-Mexico border region
and beyond.
Further illustrative of the complex relationship between visibility, protec¬
tion, and surveillance in this shifting political context are two major policy
changes made during the early months of the Trump administration that
specifically address transgender people. First, in February 1017, the admin¬
istration rescinded federal guidelines addressing transgender students in
schools that receive federal funding. These guidelines, released in zoi6 by
Obama’s departments of education and justice, draw on Title IX and related
case law to inform school officials of their legal requirements for the treat¬
ment of transgender students, including use of names and pronouns, rest¬
room policies, and dress codes. The removal of these federal guidelines was
one of the first major actions undertaken by Trump’s new attorney general
(Jeff Sessions) and education secretary (Betsy DeVos) after their confirma¬
tions. Second, in March 1017, the U.S. Census Bureau published alist of top¬
ics about which the lozo census would include questions. The list included
sexual orientation and gender identity as aproposed topic, but several hours
later arevised list eliminated this topic altogether, with aCensus Bureau
spokesperson stating that its initial inclusion was made inadvertently. The
agency’s director later released astatement explaining that “there must be
aclear statutory or regulatory need for data collection” for atopic to be in¬
cluded in the census, and that in response to aformal request for its inclusion
made by seventy-five members of Congress, the bureau had determined that
no change in this area was needed.'”
In the wake of these changes, multiple LGBT advocates and organiza¬
tions explained how important the school guidelines are, how federal data
collection on sexual orientation and gender identity would be beneficial,
and the possible harm that could result from the absence of these policies."
Certainly both of these policies have the potential to offer support and pro¬
tection for vulnerable people. The rollback of guidelines for transgender stu¬
dents, in particular, can be interpreted as an act designed to mark the Trump
administration’s explicit withdrawal of support for transgender people, since
the guidelines provided no new protection and carried no legal force in

ON ENDURANCE 137
themselves; they merely clarified federal regulations already in place under
Title IX, and so primarily served to signal the Obama administration’s care
for transgender youth. Meanwhile, in an October 1017 amicus brief in the
lawsuit against Trump’s ban on transgender service members, eight trans¬
gender advocacy organizations (including NCTe) cite removal of the school
guidelines and census questions as evidence of the Trump administration’s
pattern of discrimination against transgender people. Regarding the cen¬
sus questions and similar elimination of LGBT-related questions in other
government surveys, the brief argues, “there has been acoordinated effort
within the Executive Branch to avoid collecting data about LGBT Ameri¬
cans,” thereby “ensuring that there is no data to study.”‘^ Without such data,
the brief suggests, the White House can (and does) abandon federal efforts
to protect transgender people: professing the need for further study while
declining to collect new data for that research allows protective measures to
atrophy through calculated delay and disuse.
Yet both the school guidelines and the now-withdrawn census questions
are also state surveillance practices that help construct the category of trans¬
gender through identifying and counting particular people. Census ques¬
tions make this clear, since the particular types of questions and identity
categories provided change from one census period to the next, structuring
participants’ responses accordingly. Reading the U.S. census’s shifting ra¬
cial categories as away of managing blackness, for instance, Simone Browne
shows how “census enumeration is ameans through which astate manages
its residents by way of formalized categories that fix individuals within a
certain time and aparticular space, making the census atechnology that
renders apopulation legible in racializing as well as gendering ways.”'^ What
would it mean to include the term transgender on the U.S. census at this par¬
ticular moment in time? According to what standards will that identity be
defined and determined? To what uses might this new data be put, especially
against acultural backdrop that links deception with gender nonconfor¬
mity, and which self-identified transgender citizens would benefit? Likewise,
in the case of school guidelines, how will astudent’s transgender identity be
recognized as such, and how might legibility as transgender depend upon
race or class status, or be determined differently in different types of schools
or geographical regions? Could not some schools use legible, recorded trans¬
gender status as atool to reinforce gender segregation (and related surveil¬
lance)ofbathroomsandlockerroomsbyextendinguseofthesespacesonly

138 CONCLUSION
to students whom such policies designate as male or female, whether trans-
gender or not? Might formal records of transgender identity facilitate school
officials’ ability or desire to monitor certain students’ behaviors and bodies?
State projects like these offer protection and recognition that necessarily
entail forms of identification and monitoring and, as the Obama-era poli¬
cies managing undocumented immigrants demonstrate, may shift into more
harmful—or differently harmful—forms.
Going Stealth has tried to show that while surveillance practices may
well take new shapes or gain new significance in moments of crisis, they are
rooted in—and routed through—longer histories of classification and bio¬
political management. Already the crisis of the Trump era has reinvigorated
adesire to protect the forms of state recognition that themselves claim to
protect transgender people, as advocacy organizations’ defense of the census
questions and school guidelines illustrate. Following the longer trajectories
of surveillance practices through their production—and, importantly, their
use—of gender nonconformity helps demonstrate both the surveillance in¬
trinsic to these protective gestures and the limitations of calls for visibility.
More accurate state recognition may increase protection for the recognized
while simultaneously optimizing state agencies’ ability to monitor them (as
in TSA’s continually revised categories of care, or the tracking of transgen-
der identity across ID documents). Meanwhile, those agencies can employ
new categories as justification for expanding surveillance in other ways, for
instance through claims of protecting now-legible groups from those who
remain outside the newly drawn lines of recognition.
Part of this book’s project has been to show how the category of transgen¬
der is produced through surveillance practices that both draw and dissolve
its parameters, not only through spectacular or formal actions undertaken
by state actors but also in the most mundane conditions of our gendered
lives. In refusing to take for granted the boundaries of that category, we can
begin to understand both how aspects of surveillance that never explicitly
use the term transgender—from the official policy of the Real ID Act to the
casual humor surrounding Kushner’s voter registration—play asignificant
role in transgender politics and how surveillance efforts specifically target¬
ingtransgenderpeoplereverberatefarbeyondthoseditectlynamedinsuch
practices. With this in mind, we might pursue new avenues of political soli¬
darity that address the ways that legibility facilitates surveillance programs’
efficacy and demands differentiation from illegible others.

ON ENDURANCE 139
 Yet neither does this book call for an easy, uncritical turn to illegibility
that would actively take up deception as apolitical tool to render targeted
populations ungovernable. Those new lines of solidarity should remind us
of the uneven possibilities offered by any embrace of deception, atactic chat
may open new space for some but reignice the truth-seeking mission against
others. In many cases, surveillance practices thrive on the illegibility that
they themselves assign to certain populations. That assignation then ratio¬
nalizes the proliferation of surveillance through state agencies, formal poli¬
cies, and interpersonal engagements, modifying internal logics and frames
of reference to track us more effectively. In itself gender nonconformity
cannot be an inherently resistant foil to the workings of surveillance. This
book shows how surveillance continually exploits and incorporates projects
of transgender visibility, even while those projects—along with endeavors
less legible—gum up the works by exposing normative assumptions and
slipping through the cracks of classificacory systems, both intentionally and
inadvertently. Any promise of lasting evasion is tenuous in this context. Yet
tracing the continuities of surveillance practices across fluctuating popula¬
tion categories, political moments, and technological developments shows
how their endurance depends on adynamic relationship with us. As we look
to the political landscape ahead, we might attune to the possibilities in the
spaces that open, however briefly, through that interplay.

140 CONCLUSION
N O T E S

Introduction; Suspicious Visibility

IEmilia Askari, “Brief Cranbrook Lockdown Over after Report of Man Wearing
Women’s Clothing,” Detroit Free Press, April 17, zooy.
1Askari, “Brief Cranbrook Lockdown.”
3“The danger, deception, and dishonesty allegedly embedded in sexual and gender
nonconformity” is akey theme in the historical criminalization of queer, trans¬
gender, and gender-nonconforming people [Mogul, Ritchie, and Whitlock,
(ln)JustUe, 43].
4Cranbrook Lockdown, April 30, 1007, accessed October 31, Z009, http://www
.cranbrooklockdown.com/index.html.

5Askari, “Brief Cranbrook Lockdown.”

6Monahan, “Questioning Surveillance.”
7See, for example. Bridges, Poverty of Privacy Rights-, Roberts, Killing the Black
Body, Clare, “Body Shame”; and Siebers, “Sexual Culture.”
8Desai and Brandzel, “Race, Violence, and Terror,” yz.
9Desai and Brandzel, “Race, Violence, and Terror,” 74.
10 Valentine, Imagining Transgender, 166.
II In her introduction to the first volume of The Transgender Studies Reader, Su¬
san Stryker notes that while selecting the book’s fifty essays, she and her coeditor
“were struck by the overwhelming (and generally) unmarked whiteness of prac¬
titioners in the academic field of transgender studies” [Stryker, “(De)Subjugated
Knowledges,” 15]. In their introduction to the reader’s second volume, Stryker and
Aren Aizura write that recent work in transgender studies “often directs its critical
gaze at the inadequacies of the field’s first iteration,... taking aim at its implicit
whiteness, U.S.-centricity, Anglophone bias, and the sometimes suspect ways in
which the category transgender has been circulated transnationally” (Stryker and
Aizura, “Introduction,” 4).
iz Valentine, Imagining Transgender, 169. In particular, Valentine cautions against
uses of transgender as amodern or progressive category that classifies gender
systems in avariety of cultural and temporal contexts according to adominant
 Western framework. For analysis of the ways such framings play out, see Towle
and Morgan, “Romancing the Transgender Native.”
13 Spade, “Resisting Medicine.”
14V>at\ex:,UndoingGender,
15 Idraw on Valentine’s use of this term as one that works in two related ways: “On
the one hand, it validates those who adopt transgendet as ameaningful category
of self-identity; but it also draws attention to how people are identified by others
as being transgender even though they may not necessarily use this term in talk¬
ing about themselves. This phrasing thus highlights how self-identity and one’s
identification by others are complexly intertwined and shaped by relationships of
social power” (Valentine, Imagining Transgender, z6).
16 Iam grateful to Benjamin D’Harlinguc for many conversations and collaborations
that helped me work through these complicated, ever-shifting terms,
17 Enke, “Education of Little Cis.”
18 Enke, “Education of Little Cis,” 74,
19 Gossett, “Queerstions: What Does Cisgender Mean?”
zo Stryker, “(De)Subjugated Knowledges,” 8-9.
II Stryker and Aizura, “Introduction,” 9.
11 Cohen, “Punks, Bulldaggers,” 45; emphasis in original.
13 Eng, Halberstam, and Munoz, “What’s Queer,” 3.
14 Ferguson, Aberrations in Black, 4.
15 Inote here also Simone Browne’s important work putting surveillance studies
“into conversation with the enduring archive of transatlantic slavery and its after¬
life, ... making visible the many ways that race continues to structure surveillance
practices” (fitownit. Dark Matters, n).
i& Minich, Accessible Citizenships, 17. For further discussion of these varied under¬
standings of citizenship, see for example Lowe, Immigrant Acts-, Ong, Flexible
Citizenship-, Ngai, Impossible Subjects-, and Rosaldo, “Cultural Citizenship.”
Z7 Gopinath, “Bollywood Spectacles,” 159.
18 Vo-actixAt, Discipline and Punish, 187,
Z9 Hammonds, “Black (W)holes,” 141.
30 Foucault, Discipline and Punish, zoo.
31 Lyon, Surveillance ajier September ii, 150.
3z Brown, States of Injury, 174.
33 Canaday, Straight State, 6.
34 Foucault, “Risks of Security,” 37Z.
35 Foucault, History of Sexuality, 94.
36 Foucault, History of Sexuality, 93.
37 Puar, Terrorist Assemblages.
38 For further explanation of the “trickle-up” model as Spade understands it, see
Laura Flanders, “Dangerous Rush to Legislate on Surveillance and Mental Health?,”
The Nation, December z8, zoiz.
39 “Responding to Hate Crimes: ACommunity Resource Manual,” National Center

1 4 Z N O T E S TO I N T R O D U C T I O N
 for Transgender Equality, July i, 1009, accessed Augusr 15, 1009, http://www
.transequaliry.org/issues/resources/responding-hate-crimes-community-resource
-manual.

4 0 “SRLP on Hate Crime Laws,” Sylvia Rivera Law Project, 1009, accessed April z,
1010, https://srlp.org/action/hate-crimes/. Multiple other queer and transgender
organizations forwarded asimilar analysis of hate crimes legislation and incorpo¬
rated it into their work. For example, the New York-based Audre Lorde Project
developed and continues to support the Safe OUTside the System Collective,
an antiviolence project “devoted to challenging hate and police violence by us¬
ing community based strategies rather than relying on the police” [“Safe Out¬
side the System (sos),” Audre Lorde Project, zoiy, accessed November n, 1017,
https://alp.org/programs/sos]. In the California Bay Area, Community United
Against Violence for two years held Safetyfest, amultiday event that provided
arange of tools and workshops for queer and transgender antiviolence organiz¬
ing. The festival’s offerings ranged from “community accountability skills to
deal with partner abuse and sexual assault. .. without necessarily relying on the
cops” to fund-raisers for incarcerated queer people of color (Mandy Van De¬
von, “The Bay Area’s Safetyfest Queers Anti-violence Activism,” Bitch Maga¬
zine, April 5, zoio, accessed June 15, 1011, http://www.bitchmedia.org/post/on
-the-map-the-bay-areas-safetyfest-queers-anti-violence-activism).
41 Hammonds, “Black (W)holes,” 141.

Chapter i; Deceptive Documents

I“dhs Advisory to Security Personnel; No Change in Threat Level,” Department of

Homeland Security, September 4,1003, accessed September 9,1003, http://www
.dhs.gov/xnews/releases/press_release_oz38.shtm.
zParent!, Soft Cage, z8.
3In her analysis oi The Book of Negroes, an eighteenth-century ledger documenting
thousands of self-emancipating ex-slaves who traveled out of the United States,
Simone Browne argues that “the body made legible with the modern passport sys¬
tem has ahistory in the technologies of tracking blackness” and that this history is
“an important, but often absented, part of the genealogy of the passport” (Browne,
Dark Matters, 70). For discussion of how legal documentation of mixed-race and
racially passing people under U.S. slavery worked to maintain racial purity, see,
for example, Zackodnik, “Fixing the Color Line.”
4Salter, Rights of Passage, 7.
5U.S. Department of State, United States Passport, 73.
6Mongia, “Race, Nationality, Mobility,” 550.
7Mongia, “Race, Nationality, Mobility,” 5Z8; emphases in original.
8Torpey, vention of the Passport, 97.
9Pegler-Gordon, “Chinese Exclusion,” 69.
10 For the Supreme Court decision, see Shelby County, Alabama v. Holder, Attorney

NOTES TO CHAPTER 1 143

 General, et aL, 570 U.S. (2.013). Analyses of the decision include Chris Brook, “In
North Carolina and across the Nation, the Voting Rights Act Is Still Necessary,”
ACLU Blog of Rights, ]ant 17, 1013, accessed July 19, 2.013, http://www.aclu.org
/blog/voting-rights/north-carolina-and-across-nation-voting-rights-act-still
-necessary; Andrew Cohen, “On Voting Rights, aDecision as Lamentable as Plessy
or Dred Scott,” The Atlantic, 25, 2013, accessed June i6, 1013, http://www
.theatlantic.com/national/archive/zo13/06/on-voting-rights-a-decision-as
-lamentable-as-plessy-or-dred-scott/176455/; and Tim Murphy, “Supreme Court:
The Voting Rights Act Worked—So Now It’s Unconstitutional,” Mother Jones,
June 25, 2013, accessed June 26, 2013, http://www.motherjones.com/politics/2013
/o6/supreme-court-voting-rights-act-decision.
II For summaries of these six states’ proposals, see Joseph Diebold, “Six States Al¬
ready Moving Forward with Voting Restrictions after Supreme Court Decision,”
ThinkProgress, June 27, 2013, accessed June 28, 2013, http://thinkprogress.org
/justice/2013/0 6/27/2223 471/six-states-already-moving-for ward-with-voting
-restrictions-after-supreme-court-decision/.
12 Brcntin Mock, “I Have Photo ID, Therefore IAm,” ColorLines, August 2, 2012,
accessed August 15, 2012, http://colorlines.com/archives/2012/08/pennsylvania
_voter_id_court_hearing.html.
13 BrentinMock, “Pa. Supreme Court Doubts State Can Comply with Its Own Voter
ID Law,” ColorLines, September 19, 2012, accessed November 11, 2012, http://
colorlines.com/archives/2012/09/pa_supreme_court_doubts_state_can_comply
_with_its_own_voter_id_law.html.
> 4 “History of True the Vote,” True the Vote, June 21, 2013, accessed July 29, 2013,
http://www.truethevote.org/about/history/.
15 “About Us,” National Center for Transgender Equality, 2016, accessed July 12,
2016, http://www.transequality.org/about.
16 “Tea Party Group Targets Trans 'Vox.asJ Advancing Transgender Equality (blog),
November 4, 2012, accessed November n, 2012, http://transgenderequality.word
press.com/2012/11/04/tea-party-group-targets-trans-voters.
17 It also illustrates the false reliance on identification documents as either protective
of transgender people or as evidence of compliance, since even if officials deem the
photo ID to properly match the body in front of them, deviation from racialized
gender expectations can still be cause for suspicion.
18 WPATH was formerly the Harry Benjamin International Gender Dysphoria As¬
sociation. The current and previous versions of the Standards can be found at
http://www.wpath.org.
19 Sandy Stone, among others, discusses this process more extensively in “The Em¬
pire Strikes Back.” She argues that as medical science made available more infor¬
mation about the standards for determining the category of transsexual, individu¬
als were more able to deliberately perform to these standards, thus convincing
doctors of transsexual identities and personal histories in order to gain access to
medical transition. In Sex Changes, Patrick Califia discusses similar tactics taken

144 NOTES TO CHAPTER 1

 up by transgender-identified people in postoperative interviews and medical sur¬
veys (169-70).
10 See, for example, Somerville, Qiieering the Color Line, chap, r, Terry, American
Obsession.

II Spade, “Resisting Medicine,” z6.

11 Birth certificates are increasingly contentious documents, in part because of their
role in the bathroom bills that Idiscuss in chapter 3. For instance, Arkansas cur¬
rently allows achange of gender marker on birth certificates, but state legislators
introduced aZ017 bill stipulating that “the biological sex listed on abirth certifi¬
cate shall not be amended”; the bill did not pass the Arkansas House (H.B. 1894,
91st General Assembly, State of Arkansas, 1017).
13 Nolan Clay, “Oklahoma Judge Refuses to Let Men Planning Sex-Change Opera¬
tions Have Feminine Names,” The Oklahoman, September 16,1011. Asimilar case
emerged in Atlanta, Georgia, in 1016, when asuperior court judge denied alegal
name change for atransgender man, writing in his decision that “name changes
which allow aperson to assume the role of aperson of the opposite sex are, in ef¬
fect, atype of fraud on the general public” (Kate Brumback, “Transgender Man’s
Name Change Rejected by Georgia Judge as‘Fraud,’” MercaryAfeiM, June 9, ioi6).
14 For further analysis of the Araujo case, see Bettcher, “Evil Deceivers.” Bettcher im¬
portantly outlines how misogyny and racism work with transphobia both in the
Araujo case and more broadly in the construction of so-called authentic gender,
such that transgender women of color experience disproportionate violence.
15 For further discussion, see Spade, “Documenting Gender”; Currah and Moore,
“Legally Sexed.”
16 For in-depth discussion of these administrative conflicts and their effects, see
Spade, Normal Life, chap. 4.
17 This language is typical of most U.S. news reports on Nepal’s policy. See, for exam¬
ple, Associated Press, “Nepal to Issue ‘Third Gender’ ids,” January 11,1013,
aceessed December 6, 1017, hctps://www.salon.com/ioi3/oi/zi/nepal_to_issue
_third_gender_ids/.
z8 The terms hijra, transvestite, eunuch, and hermaphrodite are eaeh subject to on¬
going and nuanced discussions about their limits and connotations in various
contexts. Ireference them here to show that these are the terms commonly used
by U.S. media reporting the Pakistan policy. See, for example, Zeeshan Haider,
“Pakistan’s Transvestites to Get Distinct Gender,” Reuters, December Z3,1009.

Z9 For extensive analysis of the use of third gender categories, particularly in anthro¬
pological work, see Towle and Morgan, “Romancing the Transgender Native.”
We might also ask how third gender categories construct new boundaries around
gender definitions and thus bolster policing and classification processes. What cri¬
teria must one meet in order to be classified as third gender? Does matching those
criteria then foreclose the possibility of being assigned amale or female marker?
How might athird gender marker create new forms of stigma? For instance, for
more than thirty years. New York City maintained apolicy wherein individuals

NOTES TO CHAPTER 1 145

 who provided evidence of particular medical procedures could receive an amended
birth certificate that simply left the gender marker blank; this practice may have
solved some problems, but it also created others and enabled new forms of scrutiny
and stigmatization. See Currah and Moore, “Legally Sexed.”
30 “Fact Sheet: Vital Statistics Modernization Act AB 433,” Equality California,
October 15, loii, accessed November 11, ion, http://www.eqca.org/atf/cf/%7B34
fi58b3-848z-4943-9icb-o8c4boi46a88%7D/AB%io433%iovital%zostatistics%
iomodernization%ioact%ioeqca%iotlc%iofact%zosheet.pdf
31 In 2017, California passed the Gender Recognition Act to become the first U.S.
state to provide athird gender option on all state identification documents. The
law also removes the requirement to provide aphysician’s letter for any legal gen¬
der marker change. One obstacle to the law’s passage was the significant expense
required for the California Department of Motor Vehicles to update its systems
with anew gender category, thus while the new law dispenses with some medical-
ized forms of tracking, it also further refines data collection practices and clas¬
s i fi c a t i o n s c h e m a s .

31 Mark Dreyfus, “New Guidelines on the Recognition of Gender,” Attorney-

General for Australia Minister for Emergency Management, June 13, 1013, ac¬
cessed July 19,1013, http://www.attorneygeneral.gov.au/Mediareleases/Pages/1013
/Second%ioquarter/i3juneioi3-Newguidelinesontherecognitionofgender.aspx.
33 In “Electronic Identity Cards,” Felix Stalder and David Lyon explain that this
type of surveillance “seeks techniques for identifying, classifying, and managing
groups sorted by levels of dangerousness” (89). They note that the shift to anticipa¬
tory surveillance and away from identification of individual criminals to impose
punishment directly is conducted in part through the advent of searchable data¬
bases, in which identification documents and their supporting data are stored and
made available to state agencies.
34 Mary Poole outlines how the Social Security program was created as amethod for
reconsolidating racial segregation that sorted workers into those receiving Social
Security benefits for their labor and those relegated to public assistance via wel¬
fare. Despite the fact that the Social Security Act did not specify race and was
widely considered “colorblind,” Poole explains how the language of the legislation
helped create “work” and “dependence” as opposing categories, such that Black
workers carried the stigma of dependency on the state while white workers earned
benefits through legitimate labor (Poole, Segregated Origins). For further analysis
of the racial classifications enacted—if not overtly stated—by the Social Security
Act and other U.S. legislation, see Lipsitz, Possessive Investment.
35 Bergeron, Terrazas, and Meissner, “Social Security,” 6.
36 “Social Security Gender No-Match Letters and Transgender Employees,” Na¬
tional Center for Transgender Equality, January 15, 1008, accessed January 12,
1008, http://transequality.org/Issues/nomatch.html.
37 Michael T. Kaufman, “What Does the Pentagon See in ‘Battle of Algiers’?” New
York Times, September 7,1003.

146 NOTES TO CHAPTER 1

38 Somerville, Queering the Color Line, i6.
39 James, Resisting State Violence,
40 National Commission, “9/11 Commission Report,” 384.
41 The process for implementing the Real ID Act has undergone several deferrals
alongside multiple legislative efforts to reform or repeal the act. At the time of this
writing, the Real ID Act is set to be implemented in four phases, each requiring
compliant ID documents for adifferent area, including restricted areas of federal
facilities and federally regulated commercial aircraft. The latter is the final phase,
which began January iz, 1018.
4Z Torpey, Invention of the Passport, 163-66.
43 U.S. Congress, “Will Real ID,” 4.
44 U.S. Congress, “Vulnerabilities,” 9.
45 National Commission, “9/11 Commission Report,” 389.
46 Agat, “Modern Horrors,” 116.
47 Caplan and Torpey, “Introduction,” 7.
48 Spade, “Methodologies,” 149.
49 Mara Keisling, “ncte No-Match Comment,” National Center for Transgender
Equality, August 15, 1006, accessed September ii, 1007, http;//nctequality.org
/Issues/I-9-nomatch-comment.pdfz.
50 Keisling, “ncte No-Match Comment,” i.
51 National Transgender Advocacy Coalition. “Security Alert: ‘Males Dressed as Fe¬
males’ to Be Scrutinized When Traveling,” Transgender Crossroads, September 14,
Z003, accessed March zo, Z004, http://www.tgcrossroads.org/news/archive.asp
?aid=76y.
5z National Transgender Advocacy Coalition, “Security Alert.”
53 To some degree, ntac’s suggestion of strategic visibility resonates with Sandy
Stone’s call in “The Empire Strikes Back” for transgender people to resist the med¬
ical impetus to erase or hide their gendered pasts. Urging transgender people to
remain visible as transgender regardless of their medical transition status, Stone
writes, “in the transsexual’s erased history we can find astory disruptive to the
accepted discourses of gender” (Z95). Stone argues for atransformation of domi¬
nant understandings of transgender identity, asserting, “it is difficult to generate
acounterdiscourse if one is programmed to disappear” (Z95). Because it is partly a
response to the suppression of transgender identities in mainstream gay, lesbian,
and feminist movements. Stone’s essay was viewed both as controversial and as
crucial to the galvanization of transgender scholars, activists, and communities
in the United States. To be sure, there are significant differences between Stone’s
call and NTAC’s. But the connections nevertheless indicate how visibility has long
been akey point of contention in transgender studies and politics.
54 In making this argument, Iam indebted tojasbir Puar’s analysis of homonational¬
ist and sexual exception discourses leveraged against the perverse terrorist other
{Terrorist Assemblages, chap. i).
55 Totpey, Invention of the Passport, 166.

NOTES TO CHAPTER 1 147

56 VovLcmlx., History of Sexuality, 60.
57 VoucsaAi, History of Sexuality, 61.
58 Discussing “mandatory volunteerism” in response to “soft surveillance” measures
grounded in persuasion rather than punishment, Gary Marx also points to the
pleasure produced through compliance with state requests. Because one aspect of
soft surveillance involves appeals to good citizenship and patriotic duty, he argues,
“there can be psychological gratifications from the revelation for both the volun¬
tary revealer and the recipient of the information” (“Soft Surveillance,” 45).
59 Foucault, History of Sexuality, 45.
60 “Statement: Open Letter to LGBTST Communities Opposing War,” Audre
horde Project, January 17, 1003, accessed March 15, 1017, https://alp.org/open
-letter-lgbtst-communities-opposing-war. For further information about ALP’s
community meetings and other antiviolence work, sec “Safe Outside the System:
The SOS Collective,” Audre horde Project, accessed March zo, 1017, https://alp
.org/safe-outside-system-sos-collective. The ALP uses “lgbtst” for lesbian, gay,
bisexual. Two Spirit, and transgender.
61 “Action Alert: ADecade of Resistance; Trans Day of Action 1014 Political Points
of Unity,” Audre horde Project, June 17, Z014, accessed March zo, Z017, https://
alp.org/decade-rcsistance-trans-day-action-zo14-political-points-unity.
6z The ALP is also amember of the ROOTS Coalition, anetwork of fourteen queer
and trans people of color organizations in the United States working together
since Z007, which cook the Real ID Act as a“naturally intersectional” activist
issue. For further discussion, see Steele, “Queering Intersectionality,” 58-59.
63 “The Real ID Act: Bad Law for Our Community,” National Center for Transgen¬
der Equality and Transgender Law Center, June zi, Z005, accessed July Z9, Z009,
http://www.realnightmare.org/images/Filc/NCTE%zorealid.pdf.
64 “Our Approach and Principles,” Sylvia Rivera Law Project, Z017, accessed June 15,
Z017, https://srlp.org/about/principles/.
65 “The Impact of the War on Terror on LGBTSTChCommunities,” Sylvia Rivera Law
Project, July 15, zoo8, accessed January 10, zoio, http://archive.srlp.org/impact
-war-terror-lgbtstq-communities. Among other ways that SRLP put this frame¬
work into practice, it joined acoalition of immigrant rights organizations in New
York to resist that state’s new no-match program targeting driver’s licenses for
undocumented immigrants. Sylvia Rivera Law Project thus worked in solidarity
with non-transgender immigrants while contributing its own analysis of how the
no-match program and related policies like the Real ID Act affect both immigrant
and nonimmigrant transgender people {SiriAe., Normal Life, 90-91).
66 In “Monster, Terrorist, Fag,” Jasbir Puar and Amit Rai examine the production
of “docile patriots” in the demand for hegemonic nationalist loyalty as aresponse
to past and future terrorist attacks, arguing that these patriots’ ability to become
good citizens is directly dependent on their ability to clearly distingui,sh them¬
selves from the figure of the terrorist.
67 Volpp, “Citizen and the Terrorist.”

148 NOTES TO CHAPTER 1

chapter 2: Flying under the Radar

ITSa’s Frequently Asked Questions webpage explains, in response to the ques¬

tion “What are the screening procedures for transgender persons?” that AIT “has
software that looks at the anatomy of men and women differently” (“Frequently
Asked Questions,” Transportation Security Administration, 1017, accessed June
n, 1017, https://www.tsa.gov/travel/frequently-asked-questions).
1In late 1015, TSA replaced the term anomaly with alarm, after atransgender-
identified woman posted on social media about being held by TSA “because of an
‘anomaly’ (my penis)” (Dawn Ennis, “Goodbye, ‘Anomaly’—tsa’s New Word for
Trans Bodies Is ‘Alarm,’” The Advocate, December 14,1015).
3For example, the Transgender Law Center released a2011 statement noting,
“While we understand the need for heightened airport security ... we are fear¬
ful that transgender air travelers will be subjected to discriminatory or degrad¬
ing conduct by TSA staff” (“Airport Screening and Travel Concerns for Trans¬
gender Passengers,” Transgender Law Center, January 13, 2011, accessed March
15, 2011, https://transgenderlawcenter.org/archives/363). The National Center
for Lesbian Rights released asimilar statement: “New TSA Security Procedures
Violate Privacy of Transgender Travelers,” National Center for Lesbian Rights,
November 23, 2010, accessed March 15, 2011, http://www.nclrights.org/press-room
/press-release/new-tsa-security-procedures-violate-privacy-of-transgender
-travelers/. The NCTE produced aresource guide for transgender travelers ex¬
plaining which carry-on items are considered medically necessary and encour¬
aging travelers to “be prepared to briefly explain the purpose of the item it
asked”: “Know Your Rights: Airport Security,” National Center for Transgen¬
der Equality, 2017, accessed June ii, 2017, https://www.transequality.org/know
-your-rights/airport-security. The NCTE also filed comments with TSA in 2013,
urging it to “shift away from the current model to one that is more tailored, effec¬
tive, and privacy-protective” (“Despite Some Progress in Airport Security, Big¬
ger Changes Needed,” National Center for Transgender Equality, October 23,
2014, accessed November 9, 2014, http://www.transequality.org/blog/despite
-some-progress-airport-security-bigger-changes-needed).
4See, for example, Hausman, Changing Sex. Other scholarship argues that trans¬
gender people are detrimental to feminism and women’s rights in part because
transgender bodies are crafted through the sexist medical establishment (see, for
example, Raymond, Transsexual Empire). More recent work situates transgender
identities within shifting social, cultural, political, and legal understandings of sex
and gender, and continues to foreground medical and scientific authority as play¬
ing key roles in the production of such identities (see, for example, Meyerowitz,
HowSexChanged).Likewise,thestructureofTheTransgenderStudiesReader(ed.
Stryker and Whittle) illustrates the centrality of medicine not only to basic un¬
derstandings of transgender identity but to the formation of transgender studies
as afield: the anthology’s first section, titled “Sex, Gender, and Science,” primarily

NOTES TO CHAPTER 2 149

 deals with sexology and other medical studies of nonnormative sex and gender. I
cite these various texts here not to suggest that they are equivalent or even repre¬
sentative, but rather to gesture at the extent to which medicine and medical devel¬
opments shape conceptions of transgender identities and bodies across avariety of
sites.

5Nick Gorton summarizes these debates from aphysician’s perspective in “Trans¬

gender as Mental Illness,” proposing amiddle ground in which transgender iden¬
tity is still considered amedical condition but not stigmatized as adisorder. In
Undoing Gender, chap. 4, Judith Butler addresses the social and political contexts
in which diagnosis functions.
6Much of the groundwork for this type of claim has been laid by disability rights
organizations, which have used medical necessity frameworks to challenge health
insurance companies’ refusal to cover care. In addition to some of the complica¬
tions outlined in this chapter, one drawback of the “medically necessary” approach
is that it is frequently determined on an individual, case-by-case basis. Neverthe¬
less, this work signals some of the ways that transgender theory and activism arc
indebted and connected to disability studies and disability political organizing.
For further discussion of this relationship, see, for example, Clare, “Body Shame”;
Levi and Klein, “Pursuing Protection”; Mog, “Threads of Commonality.”
7It is important not to confuse the recognition of care as medically necessary with
the actual provision of that care. Particular forms of medical care may still be
withheld for many reasons, including denial of claims on acase-by-case basis and
lack of providers for aspecific type of care within areasonable geographic dis¬
tance. This echoes broader frameworks of health care in the U.S., from abortion
services to the distribution of health insurance more generally, wherein formal
access to care alone cannot ensure its meaningful provision.
8“Professional Organization Statements SupportingTransgender People in Health
Care,” Lambda Legal, June 8, zoii, accessed November ii, loiz, https://www
.lambdalegal.org/publications/fs_professional-org-statements-supporting-trans
-health. The World Professional Association for Transgender Health released its
own formal statement supporting the classification of transgender-specific care,
as well as ongoing routine care of transgender patients, as medically necessary.
“Medical Necessity Statement,” WPATH, June 17, zoo8, accessed November ii,
1011, http://www.wpath.org/medical_necessity_statement.cfm.
9Shakespeare, “Social Model,” 2.16.
10 “Whole Body Imaging FAQ,” National Center for Transgender Equality, June
Z009, accessed July 2.9, 1009, http://transequality.org/Resources/NCTE_Body
_Scan.pdf, z.
II “Whole Body Imaging FAQ," 3.
iz “Whole Body Imaging FAQ_,” 3.
13 “Air Travel Tips for Transgender People.” National Center for Transgender
Equality, accessed December 16, zoii, http://transequality.org/Issues/travel.html.
14 “Airport Security and Transgender People,” National Center for Transgender

150 NOTES TO CHAPTER 2

 Equality, accessedNovember 30,1011, http://transequality.org/Resources/Airport
Security_Novemberioii.pdf.
15 “What to Expect at the TSA Checkpoint if You Are aBreast Cancer Survivor,”
Transportation Security Administration, accessed September 15, loiz, http://
www.tsa.gov/travelers/airtravel/breast_prosthetic.shtm.
16 “Transgender Travelers: Special Considerations,” Transportation Security Admin¬
istration, accessed December 6, loii, http://www.tsa.gov/traveler-information
/transgender-travelers.
17 Davis, “End of Identity Politics,” 173,
18 Kevles, Naked to the Bone, 74.
19 Eugene Greneker, “Development of Inexpensive RADAR Flashlight for Law En¬
forcement and Corrections Applications,” report submitted to the U.S. Depart¬
ment of Justice, Georgia Institute of Technology, April 30, 1000, https://www
.ncjrs.gov/pdffiles1/nij/grants/185z51.pdf, i-z.
zo Jane M. Sanders, “New Flashlight Sees Through Doors as Well as Windows,”
UniSd: Daily University Science News, April 16, zooi, accessed June 9, Z009,
http://www.unisci.com/st0ries/z001z/0416015.htm.
zi Carissa Caramanis, “Backscatter Imaging Technology Reveals the Suspicious,”
Corrections Connection Network News, ]\i\y z6, zooo; de Moulpied, Rothschild,
and Smith, “X-Ray BodySearch Eliminates Strip Search.”
zz See for example U.S. Food and Drug Administration, Technical Electronic Prod¬
uct Radiation Safety Standards Committee, meeting transcript, October 1, Z003,
accessed March 15, Z004, http://www.fda.gov/ohrms/dockets/ac/03/transcripts
/3987Ti.htm.
Z3 Assmus, “Early History,” ii.
Z4 Cartwright, Screening the Body, 15Z-53.
Z5 “Age Determination Procedures for Custody Decisions,” Immigration and Cus¬
toms Enforcement, August zo, Z004, accessed March 15, zoio, https://www.ice
.gov/doclib/foia/dro_policy_memos/agedeterminationproceduresforcustody
decisionsaugzozoo4.pdf; Chris Hedges, “Crucial I.N.S. Gatekeeper: The Airport
Dentist,” Areti: York Times,]a\y zz, zooo,
z6 Hedges, “Crucial I.N.S. Gatekeeper.”
Z7 “Ethics Abandoned: Medical Professionalism and Detainee Abuse in the ‘War on

Terror,’” Institute on Medicine as aProfession, Z013, accessed January 10, zoi6,

http://imapny.org/wp-content/themes/imapny/File%zoLibrary/Documents
/IM AP-EthicsTextFinaiz.pdf.
z8 For example, in Dark Matters, Simone Browne outlines various studies and legal
cases naming the extent to which Black women were disproportionately singled
out for detention and strip searches in airport screenings prior to 9/11 (15Z-34).
Likewise, in “The Case against Race Profiling,” Kevin Johnson cites multiple in¬
stances of detention and harassment targeting people of color and immigrants in
airports prior to 9/n, including anti-immigrant actions undertaken by groups of
private citizens.

NOTES TO CHAPTER 2 151

Z9 Paul Giblin and Eric Lipton, “New Airport X-Rays Scan Bodies, Not Just Bags,”
New York Times, February 14,1007.
30 Dana Bash, “TSA Turns Away Sen. Rand Paul at Airport Checkpoint,” CNN,
January 13, 1011.
31 David G. Savage, “The Fight against Full-Body Scanners at Kh'pons” Los Angeles
’/V'OTes, January 13, 2010. These comments also imply aspecial, commonsense kind
of protection needed for certain girls and women, aframework that 1consider in
greater depth in chapter 3.
32 Bash, “tsa Turns Away.”
33 A2005 DHS report reviewing the TSA pat-down procedures notes that as part
of their training, screeners are “provided with ascript to follow regarding what
information to tell the passengers” (“Review of the Transportation Security Ad¬
ministration’s Use of Pat-Downs in Screening Procedures,” Office of Inspector
General, Department of Fdomeland Security, November 2005, accessed March 20,
2010, https://www.oig.dhs.gov/assets/Mgmt/OIGr_06-10_Novo5.pdf). In early
2017, TSA instituted anew “universal pat-down” procedure, “standardizing its
physical search procedure rather than allow[ing] screeners to choose among types
of searches to reduce the chance of poor decisions at crucial security checkpoints”
(Hugo Martin, “tsa Quietly Launches New ‘Enhanced’ Pat-Down Procedure,”
Los Angeles Times, March 6, 2017). The rationale for this change in procedure
makes clear the variability intrinsic to the pat-down, even as it is continually
standardized.

3 4 “Letters Received by the Transportation Security Administration (tsa) Com¬

plaining about Revised Pat-Down Airline Security Procedures, 2010,” Trans¬
portation Security Administration, 2012, accessed July 12, 2013, http://www.tsa
.gov/sites/default/files/publications/pdf/f-4_statement_of_s_gentry_to_asac_ i8
sep12.pdf
35 See Somerville, Queering the Color Line, chap, i; Tetty, An American Obsession-,
Fausto-Sterling, “Gender, Race, and Nation.”
36 Elizabeth Fernandez, “State Prisons Scanning Visitors with X-Rays,” San Fran¬
cisco Chronicle, November 3,1997.
37 Formal legal rights to privacy, including bodily privacy, can vary somewhat ac¬
cording to different carceral facilities’ policies. In making this argument about
the function of privacy in the prison, Iam less concerned with the specific legal
parameters than with aconception of the prison as an institution that evacuates
bodily privacy for incarcerated persons.
38 Fernandez, “State Prisons Scanning.”
39 Among many texts discussing these issues, see, for example. Bridges, Poverty of
Privacy Rights-, Roberts, Killing the Black Body-, and Silliman and Battacharjee,
Policing the NationalBod-y.
40 In general, disability advocacy organizations have not addressed such misinterpre¬
tations as explicitly as tran,sgender advocacy groups. The Amputee Coalition of
America’s magazine published an article on the organization’s educational efforts

152 NOTES TO CHAPTER 2

 with TSA that notes this concern: “Screeners are being educated about the dif-
fetent kinds of prosthetic equipment, as well as altetations that could indicate a
hidden weapon” (Bill Dupes, “Making the Skies Safe Once Again,” InMotion 1.4,
no. I[January-February 1004]: 64). More commonly, disability advocacy groups
have focused on the need to familiarize TSA employees with different medical
devices, but these discussions can then lead to individuals describing instances
in which their medical technologies ate mistead. For instance, at the end of an
online interview with the American Diabetes Association’s lead legal advocate,
several people commented with anecdotes about how TSA agents demanded spe¬
cial screenings of insulin pumps and syringes, or how TSA machines interpreted
insulin as an explosive (Joslin Communications, “Q&A with Katharine Gordon:
TSA Diabetes Policy,” Joslin Diabetes Center, February 5, 1014, accessed March
15, 1017, http://blog.joslin.org/1016/04/qa-with-katharine-gordon-tsa-diabetes
-policy/). Since looi, TSA has hosted an annual Disability and Multicultural
Coalition Conference, at which TSA officials meet with many different advocacy
groups, including NCTE as well as the two disability organizations named above.
41 Volpp, “Citizen and the Terrorist,” 1576.
41 Asad, On Suicide Bombing, 59.
43 Hage, ‘“Comes aTime,’” 71.
44 Hage,‘“Comes aTime,’” 74.
45 Puar, Terrorist Assemblages, 118.
46 KsdiA, On Suicide Bombing, xz.
47 Ks2lA, On Suicide Bombing, 61.
48 Terry, “Significant Injury,” 106.
49 Howell, Technology in the Hospital, 118.
50 Cartwright, Screening the Body.
51 These assurances connect with those that insist the X-ray scanner is aless intrusive
form of surveillance than the pat-down, because it works at adistance. But the ma¬
chines’ use of radiation enables aliteral (if less immediately visible) penetration of
the body, the traces of which belie repeated claims of safety and comfort through
distance.

51 See, for example, Arneri, “Reconstruction of the Male Genitalia”; Jarvis, Male
Body at War, 111-18; Serlin, Replaceable You.
53 Wettlaufer and Weigel, Urology in the Vietnam War, 160.
54 David Brown, “Amputations and Genital Injuries Increase Sharply among Sol¬
diers in Afghanistan,” Washington Post, March 4, zoii.
55 Ks2,A, On Suicide Bombing, 61.
56 Clancy Sigal, “The US Isn’t Facing Up to the Literal Emasculation of Its Soldiers,”
UK Guardian, April 19, zooi. For further discussion of the concept of “signature
wounds,” see Terry, “Significant Injury.”
57 Mercer, Welcome to the Jungle, 185,
58 Eng, Racial Castration, 3.
59 Among the news articles appearing on the rise in wartime genital trauma among

NOTES TO CHAPTER 2 153

 U.S. soldiers, several describe these injuries as emasculating (see, for example. Si-
gal, “The US Isn’t”). Following from the focus on testicles in describing the war’s
signature wound of genital injuries, this focus on emasculation presumes apar¬
ticular type of body upon which rests aparticular gendered status (or loss thereof)
in U.S. military combat.
6o As of 1013, although TSA had ended its contract with Rapiscan, the manufacturer
of most of the airport backscatter scanners (and of the early Secure 1000 used in
prisons), it was still contracted with at least one backscatter manufacturer. The
TSa’s removal of Rapiscan machines from airports appears to be in part because
the company failed to comply in atimely manner to acongressional request for in¬
creased privacy measures in the machinery, and in part because the company was
accused of falsifying data. Jeff Plungis, “Naked-Image Scanners to Be Removed
from US Airports,” January 18,1013.
61 Hugo Martin, “Full-Body Scanners Pulled from Airports Get Use in Prisons,” Zer
Angeles Times, May 15,1014.
62 See, for example, “Traveling "While Trans: Questions Remain with tsa’s New
Software,” Advancing Transgender Equality (blog), July 25, 2011, accessed July
29, 2011, https://transgenderequality.wordpress.com/20n/07/25/traveling-while
-trans-questions-remain-with-tsa’s-new-softwarc/; and “New TSA Policy Codi¬
fies Discrimination against Transgender People,” National LGBTQ_Task Force,
March 4,2016, accessed July 9, 2016, http://www.thetaskforce.org/new-tsa-policy
-codifies-discrimination-against-transgender-people/.
63 Carter, Heart of Whiteness, 1-2. In Building Access, Aimi Hamraie shows how
these two sculptures, along with other images of the standard or ideal human
figure, served as a“normate template” that shaped architecture and design as well
as citizenship in the early twentieth century. Like Carter, Hamraie contends that
this work is accomplished through the purported neutrality and universality
of the figures, adding that “the standardization of normate world-building often
hid them in plain view” {BuildingAccess, 29).
64 Jos Truitt, “The TSA Makes It Dangerous to Fly "While Trans,” Feministing, Au¬
gust 18, 2011, accessed August 18, 2011, http://feministing.com/2011/08/18/the
-tsa-makes-it-dangerous-to-fly-while-trans/.
65 “tsa PreCheck Reaches Milestone with More Than 5Million Travelers En¬
rolled,” Transportation Security Administration, July 5,2017, accessed July 9,2017,
https://www.tsa.gov/ncws/releases/2017/07/05/tsa-precheck-reaches-milestone
-more-5-million-travelers-enrolled.
66 "While avoiding ait scans is commonly understood as aperk of Precheck, the
tsa website does not officially list it alongside the program’s other benefits, and
multiple news articles demonstrate that, like all airport security practices, this ex¬
pected protocol varies widely in practice. Christopher Elliot, “Travelers Are Less
Certain about the Airport Screening Experience Than They’ve Been in Years,”
Washington January 28, 2016.
67 The video is available at “Enroll in TSA Pre/'for aSmarter Security Checkpoint Ex-

154 NOTES TO CHAPTER 2

 perience,” Transportation Security Administration, https://wvvw.tsa.gov/videos
/enroll-tsa-precheck-smarter-security-checkpoint-experience-o.

Chapter 3: Bathrooms, Borders, and Biometrics

I“Bad for Business: What the Phoenix City ‘Bathroom Bill’ Means for Your Busi¬
ness.” Center for Arizona Policy, February 1013, accessed April 14, 2,014, http://
ww vv.azpolicy.org/media-uploads/pdfs/Bat hroom%ioBi 11/Bathroom%io
Bill%ioBad%zofor%ioBusiness.pdf.
1Mike Morris, “Equal Rights Law Opponents Deliver Signatures Seeking Repeal,”
Houston Chronide,]\i\y 3,1014.
3HB 87, Utah State Legislature, 1014 General Session. This bill failed to pass the
Utah House in March 2,014.
4Currah and Minter, Transgender Equality, 11.
5West, Transforming Citizenships, 29.
6In “Colonial Visions,” Alison Moore notes chat alack of public toilets for women
“served to encourage the limitation of women to the private sphere, with forays into
the public only as long as the intervals between bladder and bowel movements” (no).
These social norms lingered even when bathrooms were available specifically for
women, creating adilemma for many white, class-privileged women: “On one hand
was the opportunity to move through the city with anew freedom; on the other
was the necessity to maintain the appearance of respectable female behavior, which
included the denial of the existence of bodily processes and needs. Toilets were espe¬
cially fraught through being associated, rightly or wrongly, with immoral behavior”
(Brown-May and Fraser, “Gender, Respectability,” 85).
7Kogan, “Sex Separation,” 156.
8Kogan, “Sex Separation,” 156,164.
9Lauren Quock, Modified Bathroom Signs, Laurenquock.com, accessed April 1,
1016, http://laurcnquock.com/section/270348-Modified-Bachroom-Signs.html.
10 Among the many examples of policies and practices that criminalize people of
color in U.S. public spaces are the disproportionate suspension, expulsion, and
arrest of students of color, especially Black students, in public schools (see, for
example, 2013 data collected for Chicago public schools by Project NIA at http://
chiyouthjustice.files.wordpress.com/2013/10/chicago-school-to-prison-updated-
9-13-w-lgbt.pdf, accessed July 12, 2016) and the Special Registration program
implemented in 2002, which primarily targeted men from twenty-three Muslim-
majority countries and required them to be registered, fingerprinted, and pho¬
tographed by U.S. immigration authorities, with this information often used to
arrest, detain, or deport them (see Cainkar and Maira, “Targeting Arab/Muslim/
South Asian Americans”), as well as legislation such as Arizona’s SB 1070, dis¬
cussed later in this chapter.
I I
George Lipsitz provides acogent history of these spatial practices. See Lipsitz,
Possessive Investment-, Lipsitz, “Racialization of Space.”

NOTES TO CHAPTER 3 153

 II Quock’s piece uses an original sign about racially marked drinking fountains as
the base for acommentary on present-day gendered bathrooms, though images of
racially segregated bathroom signs are widely available in historical archives. This
is acurious substitution that might suggest abasic equivalence of various public
spaces that arc divided along lines of race and gender. As this chapter shows, how¬
ever, public bathrooms host aparticular set of bodily surveillance practices and
related anxieties distinct from (though related to) scrutiny in other public spaces.
13 Wasserstrom, “Racism, Sexism,” 109.
14 For instance, Norbert Elias’s classic sociological work. The Civilizing Process,
which traces the methods by which Western cultures imagined themselves to have
developed linearly from barbaric to civilized, notes that the earliest such efforts
occur particularly through individuals’ bodily control and modesty. Notably, he
suggests that the Westernized toilet formed akey part of this civilizing process
(109-10). For further discussion of the relationship between cleanliness and civi¬
lizing processes, see Douglas, Purity and Danger-, and Ross, Fast Cars, chap. 1.
15 Wasserstrom, “Racism, Sexism,” no. Mary Anne Case argues against this distinc¬
tion, yet still tends to reference race and gender as separate and analogous rather
than as mutually informing categories, and relies on the bodily secrecy primarily
available to white bodies. Citing interviews with officers at amilitary institute
that had recently begun admitting women for the first time, for instance. Case
writes that “women to them, like blacks to their Jim Crow predecessors, were
‘dirty and impure’ and that, if anything, [gendered] segregation of the toilets,
perhaps by preserving precisely that mystery about the bodies of the opposite sex
on which Wasserstrom focuses, fosters the conviction that space with women
threatens with the possibility of contamination” (Case, “Why Not Abolish,” 113).
16 Bederman, Manliness and Civilization, 15. Likewise, Alison Moore notes that sev¬
eral ethnographers linked “improper” excretory practices with primitive status
in language that suppotts Bederman’s argument about civilizational discourse:
“Europeans, while once prone to such behavior, had progressed to another stage of
social development, and those who still practiced excretory rituals were embodi¬
ments of what Europeans once were in the timeline of progress” (Moore, “Colo¬
nial Visions,” iii).
17 Segregated public spaces in the U.S., perhaps especially bathrooms, help construct
and reinforce racial categories and the meanings assigned to them. Fot instance,
Lisa Garcia Bedolla shows how Latinos “complicated the U.S. racial structure”
inasmuch as that structure commonly depends on visual assessment of racial
characteristics within anarrow frame of racial categories. In the case of Latino
siblings whose different skin colors might position one as white and one as Black,
Bedolla notes that “at the height of segregation, this meant that they would go to
sepatate schools, get to use separate bathroom facilities, and in general would have
avery different set of opportunities” (Bedolla, Latino Politics, 8).
18 Bederman, Manliness and Civilization, 25.

156 NOTES TO CHAPTER 3

19 For further discussion of this labeling of bathroom doors, see Abel, Signs of the
Times, chap. 4.
10 For examples of this claim, see Annie Knox, “Utah Proposal Dictates Transgen¬
der Bathroom Use,” Associated Press, February 4, 1014; Nicole Maines, “I Am
Proof That Bathrooms Should Be Gender Free,” Time, November 1, 1015; and
Sonali Kolhatkar, ‘“Bathroom Bills’ Are Attacks on the Humanity of Transgen¬
der People,” Common Dreams, April z, zoi6. Kenyon Farrow offers an extended
critique of the “second-class citizens” analogy, noting that it emerged in earnest
in the early 1990s, pushed forward by mainstream and primarily white gay or¬
ganizations to support same-sex marriage arguments (Farrow, “Is Gay Marriage
Anti-Black???”),
zi On^, Buddha Is Hiding, IS,.
zz See, for example, “Transgender Law Center Outraged by Discriminatory Arizona
Bill,” Transgender Law Center, March z8, Z013, accessed April z, Z013, http://
transgenderlawcenter,org/archives/38oo; and “ncte Condemns Committee Ac¬
tion on AZ Anti-trans Bathroom Bill, SB 1045,” National Center for Transgender
Equality, March z8, Z013, accessed April z, Z013, http://www.transequality.org
/blog/ncte-condemns-committee-action-on-az-anti-trans-bathroom-bill-sb-1045.
The revised bill (sB 1045) was also eventually withdrawn.
Z3 Champaign, IL, Municipal Code, Section 17-3; Urbana, IL, Municipal Code, Sec¬
tion iz-39. Urbana also adds “or the ability to become pregnant.”
Z4 Los Angeles, CA, Municipal Code, Article iz. Section 49.71.
Z5 St. Paul, MN, Municipal Code, Section 183.0Z. Champaign, Illinois, includes an
exception allowing “differential treatment” when it is “designed to promote the
safety, health or welfare of individuals” and includes “single sex bathrooms” as
one possible example. It is important not to view these kinds of exceptions as easy
precursors to the explicitly criminalizing bathroom legislation beginning with
Arizona. The later legislative efforts certainly capitalize on the keyword safety,
yet they also drastically constrict definitions of sex and gender that many previous
ordinances conceptualized so broadly. Because definitions in earlier legislation
encompass avariety of sex and gender possibilities, safety cannot be understood
as linked to any particular sex or gender. However, more recent bathroom bills im¬
plicitly define safety through sexed and gendered sameness, with public discourse
positioning transgender people—and transgender women in particular—as
threats to that safety.
z6 Megan Rolland, “Transgender Ordinance Backlash,” Gainesville Sun, February 3,
Z008.

Z7 Rolland, “Transgender Ordinance.”

z8 For discussion of other prominent state-level challenges to transgender use of pub¬
lic bathrooms, see Levi and Redman, “Cross-Dressing Case.” Of particular note is
the Minnesota case Goins v. West Publishing, which denied atransgender person’s
claim despite the state’s transgender-inclusive nondiscrimination ordinance.

NOTES TO CHAPTER 3 157

 29 More chan thirty states introduced legislation similar to Arizona’s SB 1070 during
2010 and 2011, and these copycat laws passed in Utah, Indiana, Alabama, Georgia,
and South Carolina.

30 Among others, see the ACLU’s statement on SB 1070 at http://www.aclu.org

/arizonas-sb-1070 and Alto Arizona’s explanation of how the law allows racial
profiling at “About SB 1070,” http://www.altoarizona.com/sb1070.html. Sandra
Soto and Miranda Joseph argue that laws like SB 1070 also “license bald racism
from the public” (Soto and Joseph, “Neoliberalism,” 47).
31 For ahistory of the state regulations and practices that preceded and lay the
groundwork for SB 1070, see Campbell, “Road to S.B. 1070.”
32 Jan Morris’s 1974 memoir. Conundrum, is perhaps the most classic example ofnar-
rating gender transition through the lens of travel, particularly travel away from
and then back to the United States. This metaphor also occurs in academic work:
Jay Prosser suggests that “an appropriate analogical frame for the transsexual’s
writing of transition as ajourney may be that of immigration,” implicitly casting
“the transsexual” as asingle universalized figure for whom immigration appears
as metaphor rather than political process or legal status (Prosser, “Exceptional
Locations,” 88). Other scholars critically question the use of such analogies (see
Halberstam, Female Masculinity, 170). For further discussion and other examples
of travel metaphors, see Aizura, “The Persistence.”
33 The slide show is linked on the TLC website at Transgender Law Center, http://
transgenderlawcenter.org/archives/3144, accessed July 12, 201S.
34 Among other reasons, widely varying policies governing nationality and sex desig¬
nation mean that many people do not in fact have alegal nationality or consistent
documented sex.

35 Commonly cited problems with analogy include its emphasis on similarity at

the expense of complex relationships between different categories, generalization
at the expense of historical or political specificity, and reliance on two separate
groups that cannot then be understood as interacting or overlapping. See, for
example, Grilloand Wildman, “Obscuring the Importance”: and Butler, “Against
Proper Objects.”
36 Christina Hanhardt traces neighborhood safety campaigns not only against but
among LGBT communities in urban U.S. spaces, for instance, in turns to quality-
of-life rhetoric targeting LG BTQ. youth and transgender women of color. Han¬
hardt, Safe Space.
37 Abby Jensen, “Welcome to Arizona—Papers, Please!,” Transgender Law Center,
March 20, 2013, accessed April 2, 2013, http://transgenderlawcenter.org/archives
/3661.

38 Danielle Dobrusin, “Bathroom Bill Could Affect Transgender Students, Sending

AZ Politics Down Toilet Again,” Daily Wildcat, October 23, 2014.
39 Jorge Rivas, “Arizona Doesn’t Want Transgender Folks to Use Public Rest¬
rooms,” ColorLines, March 28, 2013, accessed April 2, 2013, http://colorlines.com

158 NOTES TO CHAPTER 3

 /archives/ioi3/o3/toilet_papers_please_arizona_doesnc_want_transgender_folks
_to_use_public_restrooms.html.
40 SB I43Z, Fifty-First Arizona State Legislature, Z013.
41 Among many texts addressing the relationship between disability and citizenship,
see, for example, Dilts, “Incurable Blackness”; Russell, Reading Embodied Citizen¬
ship-, and Hirschmann and Linker, Civil Disabilities.
4z Schweik, Ugly Laws.
43 For an overview of the literature addressing the desexualization and related in-
fantilization of disabled people, as well as analysis of how this work can erase and
stigmatize asexual people with disabilities, see Kim, “Asexuality in Disability
Narratives.”

44 Levi and Klein, “Pursuing Protection”; Spade, “Resisting Medicine.”

45 Arizona’s Proposition zoo, passed by anarrow majority in Z004, required proof of
U.S. citizenship when registering to vote or accessing public benefits in the state.
The legislation sparked alengthy legal battle and was ultimately overturned by the
U.S. Supreme Court in Z013. See Ross D. Franklin, “Supreme Court Strikes Down
Arizona Voting Law,” CBS News, June 17, Z013.
46 As of April Z017, four U.S. states—Idaho, Kansas, Ohio, and Tennessee—and
Puerto Rico either explicitly prohibit or refuse to allow the amendment of sex desig¬
nation on birth certificates. “State-by-State Overview; Changing Gender Markers
on Birth Certificates,” Transgender LawCenter, April Z017, accessed April Z4, Z017,
https://transgenderlawcenter.org/resources/id/state-by-state-overview-changing
-gender-markers-on-birth-certificates.
4 7 In When Biometrics Fail, Shoshana Magnet notes that “analog forms of biometric

science date back to the nineteenth century,” linking current digital biometric
surveillance to early anthropometry and fingerprinting (8). Keith Breckenridge
traces the development of biometric data collection through Francis Galton’s work
on statistics and early eugenics programs in the late 1800s, particularly as part
of British imperialism in South Africa (Breckenridge, Biometric State, chap. i).
In Dark Matters, Simone Browne points out that anthropometry “is still being
invoked in biometric information technology R&d” (hi).
48 U.S. Congress, “Biometric Identifiers,” 36.
49 In 1993, the Immigration and Naturalization Services implemented the Passenger
Accelerated Service System, which used hand geometry as biometric identification
to streamline entry into the U.S. for certain prescreened frequent travelers. And
by the late 1990s, U.S. border control agents were using fingerprinting to identify
and track undocumented immigrants crossing the U.S.-Mexico border (Verne G.
Kopytoff, “A Silicon Wall Rises on the Border,” New York January 14,1999).
50 U.S. Congress, “Biometric Identifiers," 7Z.
51 For further discussion of these applications, see Gates, Our Biometric Future-,
Magnet, When Biometrics Fail, and Hall, “Of Ziploc Bags.” The Information
Awareness Office, established by the U.S. Department of Defense in zooz and

NOTES TO CHAPTER 3 159

 charged with designing new technologies to track and identify human bodies,
explained its objectives as providing “critical early warning support for force pro¬
tection and homeland defense against terrorist, criminal, and other human-based
threats” through biometric data collection. Although these overarching goals
clearly centralize anti-terrorism efforts, the Information Awareness Office also
notes that results from its facial recognition research will “provide input to the de¬
sign of the United States Border Entry/Exit System,” illustrating how intertwined
antiterrorism and anti-immigration practices can be, particularly in the context of
biometric surveillance (“Human ID at aDistance,” Defense Advanced Research
Projects Agency, looz, accessed April iS, 1003, http://www.darpa.mil/iao/HID
.htm).
51 Irma van der Ploeg argues in “Borderline Identities” that such technologies effec¬
tively move the border inro the body itself, “transformjing] geographical borders
into lived and embodied identities” (179).
53 U.S. Congress, “Biometric Identifiers,” 9.
54 “Home,” Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, zooi, accessed April 10,
2003, https://www.darpa.mil/iao/index.htm.
55 Rana, Terrifying Muslims, 61.
56 Czch.0, Social Death, loi.
57 Browne, Dark Matters, 113. This 1001 srudy also noted that elderly people and
people who work with their hands are likely to have worn fingerprints that are
difficult to read. In addition to positing certain groups as less legible to biometric
technologies, these claims illustrate the depth of investment in the body as asite
of objective truth: the study itself observes that bodily characteristics including
fingerprints may change over time for many reasons, yet fingerprinting remains
one of the most well known and routine forms of biometric identification.

58 For discussion of some of these studies, see Beauchamp, “When Things Don’t Add
Up.”
59 In addition to these reading practices, fingerprinting and other biometric data
collection practices shape and are shaped by racial and economic disparities. For
example, disproportionate arrest rates in communities of color and among poor
and immigrant populations mean these groups are overrepresented in biometric
databases and more vulnerable to future surveillance and detention (see Levine et
ah, “Drug Arrests”; and Lynch, “From Fingerprints”).
60 HB 87, Utah State Legislature, 1014 General Session. The following four quota¬
tions are also drawn from this text.

61 Currah and Mulqueen, “Securitizing Gender,” 571. Careful readers of HB 87 may

also wonder whether physicians could assess their own gender, and if so, whether
this assessment would then constitute gender or gender identity.
62 SB 1045, Fifty-First Arizona State Legislature, 2013.
63 SB 1045, Fifty-First Arizona State Legislature, 2013.
64 Eric Brown, “Everything You Should Know about Arizona’s Controversial ‘Trans¬
gender Bathroom Bill,"’ International Business Times, March 28, 2013.

160 NOTES TO CHAPTER 3

65 This professed shift away from bodies to focus on mannerisms was also aconten¬
tious point in the debates over Arizona’s SB 1070. Although that legislation was
amended one week after its passage to specify that officers “may not consider race,
color, or national origin” in enforcing the law, such identity categories often come
to stand in for citizenship, leaving some bodies disproportionately vulnerable to
the new policies. In some cases, state actors’ firm denial of racial profiling makes
clear that racial classification may be read off the body in avariety of ways, as
when representative Brian Bilbray (R-CA) suggested how law enforcement officers
could identify undocumented immigrants without relying on race: “They will
look at the kind of dress you wear, there is adifferent type of attire, there is adif¬
ferent type of—right down to the shoes, right down to the clothes,” Mimi Nguyen
notes that these shifts of legal status from skin to clothing “do not constitute any
sort of departure from race discourses that target the body as acontinuous surface
of legible information about pathology, capacity, and so forth,” Because “clothes
are often epidermalized—that is, they are understood as contiguous with the body
that wears them, asort of second skin,” race and color can be persistently read onto
bodies by other means, despite the explicit prohibition against their consideration
(see Nguyen, “Clothes Epidermalized”).
66 Magnet, When Biometrics Fail, 48.
67 See, for example, Boris, “You Wouldn’t Want”; Godfrey, “Bayonets, Brainwashing.”
68 Ceyhan, “Tcchnologization of Security,” in.
69 Finn, Capturing the Criminal Image, 81.
70 Lyon, Surveillance after Snowden, 113.
71 Agamben, “Bodies without Words,” 169.
72, Jensen, “Welcome to Arizona.”
73 Among many important works concerning regulation and foreclosure of public
space for marginalized populations, see, tor example, Hanhardt, Safe Space-, Lip-
sitz, “Racialization of Space”; Mananzala, “FIERCE Fight for Power”; Schweik,
Ugly Laws-, Sttais, Arresting Dress.
74 Kafer, Feminist, Queer, Crip, 154.
75 Jensen, “Welcome to Arizona.”
76 As Irevised this chapter amid the flood of news about North Carolina’s HB 1
in mid-1016, two other news stories filtered through my social media feeds. One
exposed the demeaning and injurious labor practices for line workers in U.S.
poultry-processing plants, including routine denial of bathroom breaks, forcing
many workers tolimit their fluid intake and wear diapers on the job (Tom Philpott,
“Oxfam: Poultry Industry Routinely Denies Workers Bathroom Breaks,” Mother
Jones, May 16,1016). The other reported that awhite police officer at apublic high
school in Philadelphia wrestled aBlack student to the ground for attempting to use
the school restroom without apass (Daniel Denvir, ‘“I Felt Like IWas Going to Die’:
Philly Student Alleges Police Assault over Bathroom Visit,” Salon, May 11, zoi6,
http://www.salon.com/zo16/05/11/i_felt_like_i_was_going_to_die_philly
_students_allege_police_assault_over_bathroom_visit/). These stories, among

NOTES TO CHAPTER 3 1 6 1
 others, suggest the limitations of framing criminalizing bathroom bills as either
new developments or as simply transphobic or homophobic in intent or effect.
Surveillance of public facilities can be understood through these stories as part
of alarger process of control mobilized against those who depend upon public
accommodations or have limited access to private space.
77 Billies, “Low Income LGBTGNC.”
78 KAty, Mobility, io<).
79 This is true even when biometric projects specifically consider transgender peo¬
ple. Recent studies attempt to categorize transgender-identified bodies in order to
develop biometric technologies to better track and identify them. Thus even bod¬
ies that biometric programs themselves acknowledge as changeable are understood
as simply needing to be sorted correctly. For further analysis of these projects, see
Beauchamp, “When Things Don’t Add Up.”
80 See, for example, Leti Volpp’s assessment of the ways that immigration law natu¬
ralizes national borders by imagining the state as “innocent and natural, while the
bodies that move inside and outside this space arc suspect” (“Imaginings of Space,”
464).
81 Shannon Bream, “New A1 Qaeda Manual Reflects Changing Face of Terror,” Fox
News, August 14,1008.
8z Idraw loosely here on Doreen Massey’s argument about how places should be
defined: not through “simple counterposition to the outside,” but “through the
particularity of linkage to that ‘outside,’ which is therefore itself what constitutes
the place. This helps get away from the common association between penetrabil¬
ity and vulnerability. For it is this kind of association which makes invasion by
newcomers so threatening” (Massey, Space, Place, and Gender, 155).
83 Barcan, “Dirty Spaces,” 36.
84 Boris, “You Wouldn’t Want,” 94.
85 Idescribe the actors’ gender and race here not to make my own assumptions
about them, but to convey my analysis of how the video intends these bodies to be
interpreted.
86 “How Will the November Election in Houston Affect You?,” Campaign for Hous¬
ton, ZOI5, accessed December iz, Z015, http://www.campaignforhouston.com/news
/how-will-the-november-election-in-houston-affect-you.
87 Davis, Violence against Women, 6-7. While non-transgender white men play the
role of deceptive predator in these videos, as agroup they are perhaps least likely
to experience the intensified policing and community surveillance that the videos
implicitly call for.
88 On the innocence attached to white childhood, see Betnstein, Racial Innocence. It
is worth noting that the age of childhood is sometimes itself contentious in these
debates. North Carolina’s HB zincludes an exception for parents of children aged
six or younger. State representative Tricia Cotham, aDemocrat, argued for ex¬
panding this exception to those aged eleven and younger, but “Republican House
leaders would not allow it” (Paul Woolverton, “North Carolina’s ‘Bathroom’ Law

i6z NOTES TO CHAPTER 3

 Is about More Than Who’s in the Next Stall,” Fayetteville Observer, April 3, zoiS).
The arbitrary line drawn here to mark the age of properly innocent childhood
recalls Gayle Rubin’s prescient 1991 discussion of moral panics regarding cross-
generational sex and desire (Rubin, “Thinking Sex”).
89 Illinois’s HB 4474, for example, would require students in public schools to use
bathrooms and changing rooms accordingto their physical sex (based on chromo¬
somes and anatomy at birth). After the bill’s introduction in early 1016, the con¬
servative Christian organization Illinois Family Institute urged their membership
to contact state legislators in support, stressing on their website that the bill was
necessary to protect students’ safety. During the same period, Illinois dramatically
reduced and closed public services statewide; owed more than $100,000 from the
state government, for instance. Champaign County’s rape crisis center was forced
to cut staff and operating hours, working under continual threat of closure (Debra
Pressey, “Rape Crisis Center Seeks Help,” The News-Gazette, February i, 1016).
9 0 The language of privacy is ubiquitous: South Dakota’s HB 1008, which the state’s

governor vetoed in 1016, applied to public schools and was informally titled the
Student Physical Privacy Act. Another Student Physical Privacy Act, HB 1737,
introduced in Kansas in zoi6, states that “children and young adults have natural
and normal concerns about physical privacy when they are in various states of
undress” and stipulates that students may sue for $2,500 in statutory damages if
they encounter “a person of the opposite sex” in asex-segregated space on public
school grounds.
91 Woolverton, “North Carolina’s ‘Bathroom’ Law.”
91 See North Carolina’s Women and Children’s Protection Act of 1015, which also ex¬
tends the waiting period for abortion services. For information regarding state-level
ultrasound requirements, see the Guttmacher Institute’s summary, “Requirement
for Ultrasound,” http://www.guttmacher.org/state-policy/explore/requirements
-ultrasound, accessed May 4,1016.
93 “Drug Testing for Welfare Recipients and Public Assistance,” National Confer¬
ence of State Legislatures, March 18,1016, accessed May 4,1016, http://www.ncsl
.org/research/human-services/drug-testing-and-public-assistance.aspx.
94 HB 663, Virginia General Assembly, 1016.
9 5 “Delegate Cole Files Legislation to Protect the Privacy of Schoolchildren and

Adults,” Delegate Mark Cole, January 13, zoi6, accessed May 10, zoi6, http://
marklcole.com/MarkColePRizJanzoi6.html.
96 “Rep. Morrison Discusses Need for HB 4474,” Tom Morrison, February z, zoi6,
accessed May 10, zoi6, http://www.repmorrison54.com/zo16/oz/rep-morrison
-discusses-need-for-hb-4474.html.
97 U.S. Congress, “Biometric Identifiers,” 37.
98 Barnaby Feder, “Private Sector; The Face of Security Technology,” New York
January zo, zooz.
99 Gates, “Identifying the 9/11,” 434.
too Mitch Kellaway, “Trans Folks Respond to ‘Bathroom Bills’ with #WeJustNeed

NOTES TO CHAPTER 3 163

 toPee Selfies,” The Advocate, March 14, 2015, accessed June 19, 2016, http://www
.advocate.com/politics/transgender/2015/03/14/trans-folks-respond-bathroom-bills
-wejiistneedtopee-selfies.
loi JamesMichaelNichols, “Trans Woman A.sks:‘You Really Want Mein theSame Bath¬
room as Your Hujfington Post, November 5,2015, accessed June 19,2016,
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/this-trans-woman-asks-you-really-want
-me-in-the-same-bathroom-as-your-hiisband_us_563b997fe4bo4iid3070oo3a.

Chapter 4: Sensitive Information in the Manning Case

I“Attorney General Loretta E. Lynch Delivers Remarks at Press Conference An¬

nouncing Complaint against the State of North Carolina to Stop Discrimination
against Transgender Individuals,” U.S. Department of Justice, May 9, 2016, ac-
cessedjuly 9,2016, https://www.justice.gov/opa/speech/attorney-general-loretta-e
-lynch-delivers-remarks-press-conference-announcing-complaint.
2Amber Phillips, “How Loretta Lynch’s Speech Brought Some Transgender Advo¬
cates to Tears,” Washington Post, May ii, 2016.
3Kapp-Klote and Peoples, “Loretta Lynch.” This line of inquiry follows from an
argument made by many scholars and activist organizations, who caution against
reliance on hate crimes legislation in part because it works through acriminal
legal system that prioritizes ideal victims—those deemed most sympathetic and
innocent by juries and prosecutors—and uses the prison system to punish individ¬
uals, aprocess that increases incarceration rates and surveillance of marginalized
populations. See Spade, Normal Life, chap. 2; Kandaswamy, “Innocent Victims”;
“SRLP Announces Non-support of the Gender Employment Non-discrimination
Act,” Sylvia Rivera Law Project, April 6, 2009, accessed June 15, 2012, http://srlp
.org/genda/.
4Kapp-Klote and Peoples, “Loretta Lynch.”
5Transcript, U.S. v. Pfc.Manning, Article 32 Pretrial, December 17,2011,14, https://
assets.documentcloud.org/documents/680870/20111217-transcript-of-us-v- pfc
-bradley-manning.pdf. Ihave left direct quotations from these court transcripts
unchanged except for replacing masculine pronouns with feminine ones; these
pronoun changes are marked by their inclusion in brackets.
6Evan Hansen, “Manning-Lamo Chat Logs Revealed,” Wired,]vAcj 13, 2011, ac¬
cessed November ii, 2013, http://www.wired.com/threatlevel/2011/07/manning
-lamo-logs/. Because these are direct transcripts of the chats, they contain multiple
typos and other errors. Throughout, Ihave preserved these as initially published.
7Hansen, “Manning-Lamo Chat Logs.”
8Hansen, “Manning-Lamo Chat Logs.”
9Hansen, “Manning-Lamo Chat Logs.”
10 Kevin Gosztola, “Bradley Manning Takes the Stand: Being Detained in Kuwait,”
ShadowProof, November 29, 2012, https://shadowproof com/2012/11/29/bradley
-manning-takes-the-stand-being-detained-in-kuwait/.

164 NOTES TO CHAPTER 3

 II Stoeckley, United States vs. Private Chelsea Manning, 17. The summaries and di¬
rect quotations in Stoeckley’s book are taken from journalist and stenographer
transcriptions of the pretrial and trial proceedings,
iz For data on incarceration and violence rates for transgender people, see Mogul,
Ritchie, and Whitlock, Queer (In)Justice. Dean Spade names Duannajohnson as
one of many transgender women of color “whose murders have been mourned by
local communities but mostly ignored by media, large nonprofits, and lawmak¬
ers,” even though “people of color lose their lives at higher rates” than do white
transgender people (S’pa.de, Normal Life, i8ini8).
13 For amore detailed narrative of the Duannajohnson case, drawing on local news
sources, see Mogul, Ritchie, and Whitlock, Queer (Injustice, 141-45, zoons.
Matt Richardson assesses Johnson’s case as an example of how “the recognition of
anti-Black violence disappears when it comes to Black queers” (Richardson, Queer
Limit, 164).
14 This is not to say that such surveillance measures are not used to scrutinize law en¬
forcement employees. U.S. state agencies regularly perform surveillance on their
own security staff; for instance, other state employees go undercover to test TSA
screeners on their ability to properly locate prohibited objects. See, for example,
Justin Fishel et ah, “Exclusive: Undercover DHS Tests Find Security Failures at US
Airports,” yi.sci\/fws, June i, Z015. Nevertheless, the routine surveillance record¬
ings in correctional facilities focus on criminalized persons and, as the remainder
of this paragraph explains, are often used against those persons even when the
footage could support them.
15 Butler, “Endangered/Endangering,” 17.
16 Shahid Buttar, “Police Violence? Body Cams Are No Solution,” Truthout, Janu¬
ary 6, Z015, http://www.truth-out.org/opinion/item/z8357-police-violence-body
-cams-are-no-solution. Drawing on Mariame Kaba’s work, Jacqui Shine notes that
less spectacular forms of police violence—stop-and-frisks, harassment—may be
captured by body cameras but not register as actions requiring accountability,
while the camera footage simultaneously shifts “greater responsibiliry to civilians
for police use of force”: in the Z015 Sandra Bland case, for instance, dashboard
camera footage of her initial arrest was used to suppott the arresting officer’s
statement that Bland was combative. Jacqui Shine, “Inside the Police-Industrial
Complex,” PacificStandard,]z’Lm3.’cy iz, zoi6. See also “Considering Police Body
Cameras.”

17 Butler, “Endangered/Endangering,” 16.

18 Areport produced by the National Association of Criminal Defense Lawyers our-
lines several concerns about these technologies, including the possibility that po¬
lice may review video footage “with enhanced lighting and the ability to slow and
replay segments” to seek out visual evidence that can be used against defendants.
Joel Schumm, “Policing Body Cameras: Policies and Procedures to Safeguard the
Rights of the Accused,” National Association of Criminal Defense Lawyers, Z017,
accessed March zo, Z017, https://www.nacdl.org/policingbodycameras/report/.

NOTES TO CHAPTER 4 165

 Likewise, Joshua Reeves’s analysis of lateral surveillance, which Idiscuss later
in this chapter, can extend to assessment of video footage, such that viewers arc
inclined to scrutinize the defendant’s actions rather than those of state agents
(Reeves, Citizen Spies).
19 Discharges under Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell disproportionately affected women of
color, with Black women in particular discharged “at almost three times their
presence in the military” according to 2.001 data (Servicemembers Legal Defense
Network, “Conduct Unbecoming: The Ninth Annual Report on ‘Don’t Ask,
Don’t Tell, Don’t Pursue, Don’t Harass” [Washington, DC: Author, Z005], 44).
10 Hansen, “Manning-Lamo Chat Logs.”
zi In the chat logs. Manning tells Lamo that she had aboyfriend and had sexual
relationships with other military personnel but was aware that these relationships
made her vulnerable in the context of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, which would not
be repealed for another year. There is some conflation of sexual orientation and
gender identity in the ways that various commentarors—in both court and media
accounts—discuss the factors contributing to Manning’s feelings of isolation in
the army,
zz The many arguments over installing and then ending the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell
policy, themselves often drawing on alonger history of queer figures as traitors to
the nation and as communist spies vulnerable to blackmail, help contextualize the
Manning case. For discussion of this longer history, stt]o'cmson, Lavender Scare.
Z3 When news of this defense strategy initially broke, many feminist, queer, and
transgender activists and media outlets critiqued its use of gender identity disorder
and related stress as possible explanations for Manning’s alleged actions. See, for
example, Emily McAvan, “Why Does the Media Still Refer to ‘Bradley’ Manning?
The Curious Silence around aTransgender Hero,” Global Comment, December
zz, ZOII, accessed January 10, Z014, http://globalcomment.com/why-does-the
-media-still-refer-to-bradley-manning-the-curious-silence-around-a-transgender
-hero/.

Z4 The strategic use of Manning’s transgender identity as one aspect of her legal
defense met with complicated reactions from LGBT communities. Within the
mainstream rights discourse that had long advocated for LGBT inclusion in mili¬
tary service. Manning might have been an important symbolic figure, but her
sustained criticism of U.S. military actions also made her aliability for homona¬
tionalist campaigns that sought approval from state agencies (see Cloud, “Private
Manning”; Goldsmith, “Rich Man’s War”). Other would-be supporters strategi¬
cally edited Manning’s narrative to construct her as asympathetic figure aligned
with military inclusion rhetoric, with some disregarding her transgender identity
“in order to depict her within afriendly white gay pro-military masculinity,” a
strategy that nonetheless often failed to garner broader support (Spade and Willse,
“Sex, Gender, and War,” 17). Others distanced themselves from her in ways that
emphasized their own national loyalty. For instance, the Human Rights Cam¬
paign released astatement affirming their support for transgender service mem-

166 NOTES TO CHAPTER 4

 bers and for Manning’s right to protection and medical care while incarcerated,
but also implicitly differentiating her from other patriotic service members; relat-
edly, several transgcnder-identifled veterans criticized Manning as atraitor to the
United States. For further discussion of these responses, see Fischer, “Contingent
Belonging.”
Z5 Coombs’s opening statement referenced Manning’s specially made dog tags,
which featured the word human, as an indication of her humanist values {United
States vs. PFC Bradley E. Manning, June 3, 1013, Morning Session, 75, https;//
www.documentcloud.org/documents/7n351-06-03-13-am-session.html).
16 United States vs. PFC Bradley E. Manning,]\me. 3,1013, Morning Session, 77.
17 Among the many important texts addressing this, see Abu-Lughod, “Do Muslim
Women”; Bacchetta et al„ “Transnational Feminist Practices,” both of which par¬
ticularly elucidate the racial and gendered dimensions of this rationale.
z8 Kirit Radja and Luis Martinez, “Bradley Manning Defense Reveals Alter Ego
Named ‘Breanna Manning,”’,4.8CiVea'j, December 17, loii.
19 United States vs. PFC Bradley E. Manning,]\xnz 4, zoii, Morning Session, 61-63,
https://www.documentcloud.org/documents/711353-06-04-13-am-session.html.
30 United States vs. PFC Bradley E. Manning,]\.me 4, loiz, Morning Session, 64.
31 See, for example, Emily Manuel, “Are Rumors Accused WikiLeaks Source Bradley
Manning Is Transgender behind Harsh Treatment?,” AlterNet, July 6, loii, http://
www.alternet.org/story/151541/are_rumors_accused_wikileaks_source_bradley
_manning_is_transgender_behind_harsh_treatment/?page=i.
31 Stoeckley, United States vs. Private Chelsea Manning, 181.
33 Stoeckley, United States vs. Private Chelsea Manning, 138.
34 Hansen, “Manning-Lamo Chat Logs.”
35 Julie Tate, “The History of Bradley Manning’s ‘My Problem’ E-mail,” Washington
Post, August 11,1013.
36 Lauren McNamara, “The Humanity of Private Manning,” Zinnia Jones, July 30,
1013, accessed October 31, 1015, https://the-0rbit.net/zinniaj0nes/1013/07/the
-humanity-of-private-manning-hy-lauren-mcnamara/.
37 Hansen, “Manning-Lamo Chat Logs.”
38 Record of Trial of Bradley E. Manning, February 18, 1013, 6760, https://assets
.documentcloud.org/documencs/no1833/volume-foia-034.pdf
39 Record of Trial of Bradley E. Manning,
February
18,1013,
6761.
40 Record of Trial of Bradley E. Manning,
February
18,1013,
6765,
6768.
41 Record of Trial of Bradley E. Manning,
February
18,1013,
6769.
41 Both Coombs and Manning, at different points during the trial, em ze
p
d
hasi
that Manning carefully assessed the national security risks posed by the various
materials she eventually leaked, working to ensure that—though many were for¬
mally classified—they were not materials that would actually undermine U.S.
security {UnitedStates vs. PFC Bradley E. Manning,]\mt 3,1013, Morning Session,
77).
43 Stoeckley, United States vs. Private Chelsea Manning, 87.

NOTES TO CHAPTER 4 167

44 Amy Davidson Sorkin, “Manning’s Sentence, Miranda’s Detention,” New Yorker,
August II, 1013.
45 Hall, “OfZiploc Bags,” 41.
46 David Coombs, “Typical Day for PFC Bradley Manning,”y4«y^rrayZ)^«sef;y?w,
December 18, 1010, accessed January 10, 1015, https://www.armycourtmartial
defense.com/zoio/iz/a-rypical-day-for-pfc-bradley-manning.html.
47 Charlie Savage, “Soldier in Leaks Case Will Be Made to Sleep Naked Nightly,”
New York Times, March 4, zoii.
48 David Coombs, “PFC Manning Stripped Naked AnArmyDefenseFirm,
March 4, zoii, accessed January 10, Z015, https://www.armycourtmartialdefense
.com/zoii/03/pfc-manning-stripped-naked-again.html.
49 Savage, “Soldier in Leaks Case.”
50 David Leigh et ah, “Guantanamo Leaks Lift Lid on World’s Most Controversial
Prison,” The Guardian, April Z4, zoii,
51 Paik,155.
5z Stoeckley, United States vs. Private Chelsea Manning, zy. This appeared to be
away to argue that Manning was not held in solitary confinement or punitive
segregation.
53 Stoeckley, United States vs. Private Chelsea Manning, zy.
54 Stoeckley, United States vs. Private Chelsea Manning, z8, Z9.
55 Stoeckley, United States vs. Private Chelsea Manning, 35. The defense used this
testimony to seek significant credit for the time Manning had been “unlawfully
punished ... in confinement, for over two hundred days,” The judge granted only
III days of sentence credit (53).
56 See, for example, Stanley and Smith, Captive Genders.
57 For example. Manning testified that she understood the SigActs as historical data
that were “not very sensitive” (Record of Trial of Bradley E. Manning, February
z8, Z013, 6744). Coombs reiterated Manning’s belief that the SigActs, diplomatic
cables, and other materials “could not be used against the United States” (Stoeck¬
ley, United States vs. Private Chelsea Manning, 84).
58 Mark Fenster explains in The Transparency Fix that while Manning’s leaks most
notably prompted new government efforts to control classified information, it is
difficult to identify any other substantive and lasting effects stemming from the
leaked materials, whether in terms of military practices, intelligence agencies, U.S.
diplomatic relations, or U.S. public opinion (176-85).
59 HiWmiai, Defending America, 46. Hillman notes, for instance, that courts-martial
often backfired in cases of U.S. military dissent against the war in Vietnam, be¬
cause they “provided the very vehicles for publicity that antiwar activists sought”
(67)-
60 YWWmtin, Defending America, 46.
61 Stoeckley, United States vs. Private Chelsea Mantling, 14.
6z “Press and Public Denied Access to Documents in Bradley Manning Case,’

168 NOTES TO CHAPTER 4

 Center for Constitutional Rights, April 17,1013, accessed March 15,1016, http://
ccrjtistice.org/home/press-center/press-releases/press-and-public-denied-access
-documents-bradley-manning-case.
63 Rainey Reitman and Trevor Timm, “Freedom of the Press Foundation Crowd-
Funding aCourt Reporter to Transcribe Bradley Manning’s Trial,” Freedom of
the Press Foundation, May 9, 1013, accessed March 10, zoi6, https://freedom
●press/news-advocacy/freedom-of-the-press-foundation-crowd-funding-a-court
-reporter-to-transcribe-bradley-manningas-trial/.
64 We might also interpret Manning’s actions here as compliant with social norms
even if not with the letter of the law; as legal scholar David Pozen argues in “The
Leaky Leviathan,” the U.S. government tacitly condones asteady stream of leaks
that are never prosecuted but instead are regulated through “a nuanced set of in¬
formal social controls” so that “much of what we call leaking occurs in agray area
between full authorization and no authorization” (155). Against this backdrop.
Manning’s leaks are prosecuted not merely because they violated the formal law
itself, but because they also destabilized that tenuous set of social controls.
65 Stoeckley, United States vs. Private Chelsea Manning, 10.
66 Stoeckley, United States vs. Private Chelsea Manning, 7.
67 For further discussion of these concepts, in the context of antiterrorism programs
and otherwise, see Reeves, Citizen Spies.
68 Hansen, “Manning-Lamo Chat Logs.”
69 Ve.nstei,TransparencyFix,%i.
70 Government agencies did indeed install new security measures in response to
Manning’s leaks. Sec Fenster, Transparency Fix, 181; Reeves, Citizen Spies, 163.
71 Samantha Allen, “A Letter to Chelsea Manning,”August 17, 1013, ac¬
cessed March 15, Z014, http://www.jacobinmag.com/zo13/08/a-letter-to-chelsea
-manning/.
71 Stoeckley, United States vs. Private Chelsea Manning, Z9. Queer and transgender
organizations using an abolition framework refused this separation of Manning’s
case from the systematic incarceration of millions of people in the United States.
For instance, the prisoner support organization Black and Pink insisted that “the
fight for Chelsea Manning is part of the fight for abolition, the fight for aday
where we live free from police, militaries, judges, and the cages that steal millions
from our communities” (Spade and Willse, “Sex, Gender, and War,” 19).
73 Stoeckley, United States vs. Private Chelsea Manning, z8.
74 Mitchell and Gosztola, Truth and Consequences, 77.
75 Spade and Willse, “Sex, Gender, and War,” 19. Spade and WilLse note that Man¬
ning’s postsentencing statement speaks to her understanding of “her current role
of prosecuted enemy” as an “extension” of imperialist war.
76 For discussions of this racist refusal of individuality specifically relating to sutveil-
lance ptactices, see, for example, Pugliese, “In Silica Race”; Kamaloni, “What Are
You Doing Here?”

NOTES TO CHAPTER 4 169

77 Chambers, “The Unexamined,” 145.
78 Snorton and Haritaworn, “Trans Necropolitics,” 74.
79 Snorton and Haritaworn, “Trans Necropolitics,” 71.

Conclusion: On Endurance

An August XOI7 FBI report assessing domestic terrorism warns against “Black
Identity Extremist” groups, acategory that multiple commentators understand as
targeting Black Lives Matter without explicitly naming it as such (fbi Counter¬
terrorism Division, “Black Identity Extremists Likely Motivated to Target Law
Enlorcement Officers,” Federal Bureau of Investigation, August 3, Z017, accessed
September 9, 1017, https://assets.documentcloud.org/documents/4067711/BIE
-Redactcd.pdf; Khaled A. Beydoun and Justin Hansford, “The F.B.I.’s Dangerous
Crackdown on ‘Black Identity Extremists,’” New York Times, November 15, Z017).
In May 1017, leaked documents showed that aprivate security firm previously
contracted with the U.S. military worked with local law enforcement in at least
fivestatestoinfiltrateandconductextensivesurveillanceonprotestsagainstthe
Dakota Access Pipeline (Alleen Brown, Will Parrish, and Alice Speri, “Leaked
Documents Reveal Counterterrorism Tactics Used at Standing Rock to ‘Defeat
Pipeline Insurgencies,’” The Intercept, May 17, Z017, accessed September u, Z017,
https://theintercept.com/zo17/05/z7/leaked-documents-reveal-security-firms
-counterterrorism-tactics-at-standing-rock-to-defeat-pipeline-insurgencies/).
These state actions echo COINTELPRO tactics and work alongside the everyday
racist scrutiny enacted by individuals. We might also consider here multiple levels
ofsurveillanceoverabortionservices,includinglegislationdemandingthatclin¬
ics withstand ever greater levels of scrutiny and compliance with new regulations,
surveillance performed by antiabortion organizations in attempts to discredit
providers (then sometimes used as evidence in crafting new restrictive laws), and
surveillance conducted by individuals over abortion providers and clinic staff, in
a d d i t i o n t o the abortion data collected by the Centers for Disease Control and

Prevention,

zAshley Feinberg, “Jared Kushner Voted as aWoman, According to His Registra¬

tion,” Wired, September Z7, Z017, https://www.wired.com/story/jared-kushner
-voter-registration-woman/; John Haltiwanger, “Jared Kushner Is aWoman, Ac¬
cording to Voter Registration Records,” Newsweek, September Z7, Z017.
3Another article opened with the line, “It was the board of elections that gave Jared
Kushner his sex change,” asentence that plays on the spectacle of transgender
identity for astory about the board correcting its own error and changing Kush-
ner’s gender marker from Fto M(Jason Silverstein, “Jared Kushner Actually Is
Registered to Vote as aMale, Despite Database Error Saying Otherwise,” New
York Daily News, September z8, Z017). Various transgender-related jokes about
this case also circulated through social media, their intended humor reliant on
understanding that Kushner could never really be considered transgender.

170 NOTES TO CHAPTER 4

4Silverstein, “Jared Kushner Actually.”
5Kushner’s story follows several related voter registration problems in the Trump
administration and family. See, for example, Erin McCann, “Who Is Registered
to Vote in Two States? Some in Trump’s Inner Circle,” New York r/wes, January
Z 7 . a o i y.

6Garance Burke, “Trump’s Voter Fraud Expert Registered in 3States,” AP News,

January 31,1017.
7Julie Hirschfeld Davis and Helene Cooper, “Trump Says Transgender People Will
Not Be Allowed in the Military,” New York Times,]\i\y 26, 2017.
8Ray Duval and Harper Jean Tobin, “The Trans Military Ban Is Already Caus¬
ing Harm—but There’s aWay to Stop It,” Trans Equality Now!, September 29,
2017, accessed October 31, 2017, https://mcdium.com/transequalitynow/the-trans
-military-ban-is-already-causing-harm-but-theres-a-way-to-stop-it-ei9a35 455 479.
9On the history of figuring transgender people as socioeconomic burdens, par¬
ticularly in relation to medical transition and productive citizenship, see Irving,
“Normalized Transgressions.”
10 John H. Thompson, “Planned Subjects for the 2020 Census and the American
Community Survey,” United States Census Bureau, March 29, 2017, accessed
June 13,2017, https://www.census.gov/newsroom/blogs/director/2017/03/planned
_subjects_2020.html.
II See, for example, “FAQ^on the Withdrawal of Federal Guidance on Transgen¬
der Students,” National Center for Transgender Equality, February 21, 2017, ac¬
cessed March 15, 2017, http://www.transequality.org/issues/resources/faq-on-the
-withdrawal-of-federal-guidance-on-transgender-students; Ivey Dejesus, “Trans¬
gender Advocates Denounce Trump Decision to Roll Back Guidelines for Schools
on Bathroom Use,” PennLive, February 22, 2017, http://www.pennlive.com/news
/20i7/o2/transgender_lgbt_gay_schools_e.html; Hansi Lo Wang, “U.S. Cen¬
sus to Leave Sexual Orientation, Gender Identity Questions OffNew Surveys,”
National Public Radio, March 29, 2017, http://www.npr.org/sections/thetwo
-way/2017/03/29/521921287/u-s-census-to-leave-sexual-orientation-gender
-identity-questions-off-new-surveys; and Emily Waters, “We Count: Why Data
Matters More Than Ever for LG BTCL People,” Huffington Post, March 30, 2017.
12 Brief for National Center for Transgender Equality, et al. as Amici Curiae Sup¬
porting Plaintiffs, Doe /V. Trump (2017) (no. 1:17-07-01597), 19, 20. http://www
.transequality.0rg/sites/default/files/2017.10.16%20Proposed%20Brief%200f%20
Amici%2oCuriae%20-%2oNCTE.pdf
13 Vstowne, Dark Matters, %6.
14 These concerns, among others, drive important work in transgender scholarship,
cultural production, and organizing that suggests the political potential in unrec-
ognizabilicy (Aizura, “Introduction”), in being nobodies who are invaluable and
incalculable (Gossett, Dunham, and Zavitsanos, “Commencement Address”),
and in the possibility of impossibility (Bassichis, Lee, and Spade, “Building an
Abolitionist”).

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I N D E X

Abdulmutallab, Umar Farouk, 50, 71 68; recognition frameworks, i8-io, 51,

abortion services, 104,131,15007,163091, 138,139; rights discourse and, 18; social
1 7 0 m justice frameworks and, i8-zo, 47-49;
advanced imaging technologies (ait): strategic visibility, 18, 45-49; trickle up
anomalies and, 51,56-57,74-78; back- model, 18,141038
scatter scanners, 59, 6i-6z, 66-68, Agamben, Giorgio, 99
74,153060; disability and, 51-51, 68; airport security screenings: advocacy
military settings and, 71-73; pat-downs organizations and, 11,51,14903;
vs., 50-51,54-57. 65.153051; privacy citizenship discourse and, 53-54, 64,
and, 61-68; prosthetics and, 11,51-51, 68-69; disability and, zi, 55-57, 63-64,
54-56; race and, 51-51, 61-63, 69-71; 151040; National Center for Trans¬
Rapiscan, 154060; terrorism discourse gender Equality and, 51, 53-56, 61, 68,
and, 69-71; transgendered-identified 76,14903; national security and, 11,
people and, 53-57,149001-1; visibility 50-51; normative bodies and, 77-78;
and, 53-54: X-ray machines, 11,50-51, pat-down procedures, 50-51,54-57,
57-61, 66-68,74,153060 63-65, 67-68,151033,153051; Precheck
advocacy organizations: abolition frame¬ program, 77-78,154066; privacy and,
works and, 169071; airport security 11,51-51, 64,1531151; prostherics and,
screenings and, 11,51,14903; citizen¬ 11,51-51,53-57; race and, 11, 53-54.
ship discourse and, 18—10,14-15, 63-64,151018; recognition and, 54-55;
19-31, 43-49, 88; class discourse and, safety discourse and, 11,50-51,151031,
19—31; disability advocacy groups, 11, 1511133; terrorism discourse and, 51,
68,15in40; hate crimes legislation, 68; transgender-identified people and,
18-10,143040; identity documents 51,51-57; underwear bomber, 50-51,
and, 11,14-15,36, 43-49,148061; 71-73; violence discourse, 11,51-51;
immigrant rights and, 89 —90,148065, voluntary surveillance and, 77-78; vul¬
158033: inclusion campaigns and, 18-10; nerability discourse and, 51-51,55-57.
Manning case and, 117-18,169071; 63-65,76; whiteness and, 76. See also
medicolegal discourse and, 36, 45-46, advanced imaging technologies (ait);
51, 53 —55, 73; military service ban and, biometric surveillance

138; privacy discourse and, 11, 43-45; Aizura, Aren Z., 11,141ml

race and, 14-15,19-31, 43“ 45. 47 "49, Allen, Samantha, 116, iz8
American Express commercial (1008), i6on59; concradictions of, 97-98;
8-9,10 criminalization and, 81, 98-99,155010;
anomalies, 51,56-57, 74-78 deception and, 104-6; eugenics and,
anthropometry, 74-76, 93-94,159047 66,74-76, 93-94,159047; facial recog¬
Antiterrorisni and Effective Death Penalty nition technology, 93-94,104-6,
Act (1996), 45 159051; fingerprinting and, 81, 95-96,
Araujo, Gwen, 33,1451114 98-99; fraud and, 95; gender identity
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Asian Americans, 4,16-17, 95 policy and, 60, 81, 94-95,106,155010,
assimilation, 48-49. See also going stealth 159047,159049; Information Aware¬
Atick, Joseph J., 104-5 ness Office and, 159051; legibility of
Audre Lorde Project (alp), 47,143040, 95-96,160057; national security and,
148058,148060,148061 94-95,159051; neutrality of 95-96;
9/11 and, 81, 94-95; objective identifica¬
bathroom bills: biometric surveillance tion and, 81, 93-94; public bathrooms
and, 80-81, 93-99; citizenship and, 81, and, 11-11, 81, 93-99; public schools
85-86, 88-93, 99-106,161065; crimi¬ and, 96; race and, 95-96,1601159;
nalization and, 80-81, 88-91,104,106, recognition and, 104-6; terrorism dis¬
157015,161076; deception and, 79-80; course and, 81, 94-95,106; transgender-
disability and, 91-91; fraud and, 79; identified bodies and, 161079; voluntary
gender identity discourse and, 87-88; surveillance and, 78; whiteness and,
genital recognition and, 80-81, 88-89, 95-96

96,104-5; identity documents and, 81, biopolitical management, 19-10, 49,

88-89, 93. 96; immigration policy and, 56-57.139
80, 88-91, 91-93, 99-100,106,161065; biopower, 10,36-37. See also disciplinary
National Center for Transgender Equal¬ power

ity and, 86-87; nondiscrimination ordi¬ birth certificates, 15,18,31,34-35, 40, 88,
nances and, 79-81, 86-90,101,103-4, 93,145011,159046. See also identity
157018; privacy and, 103-4,107,15506, documents

161076, i6in88,163090; public schools Black and Pink (prisoner support organiza¬
and, 80, 96-97,104,1630089-90; tion), i69n7i
public space and, 99-106,161076; race Black Identity Extremists, 170m
and, 88-93, 99-100; safety discourse blackness, 8-9,10,11,138-39,143113
and, 79-81, 97-98,101,103-4,1571115; Bland, Sandra, 165016
sexuality and, 87; terrorism discourse bodily visibility. See visibility
and, 80, 99 Brandzel, Amy, 4-5
Battle of Algiers (1965), 38-39 Breckenridge, Keith, 159047
Bederman, Gail, 85,156016 Brown, Wendy, 17
Bedolla, Lisa Garcia, 156016 Browne, Simone, 95,138,141015,14303,
Benjamin, Harry, 31 151018,159047
Bettcher, Talia Mae, 145014 Bush (George W.) administration, ii
biometric surveillance: anthropometry, Butler, Judith, 8, in, 15005
74-76, 93-94,159047; bathroom bills
and, 80-81, 93-99: citizenship dis¬ Cacho, Lisa, 95
course and, 98-99; class and, 160057, Camp X-ray, 60-61

186 INDEX
Canaday, Margot, 17 Cole, Mark, 104
Carter, Julian B., 74~75 “Collateral Murder” video, 109,113,117-18,
Cartwright, Lisa, 59-60 11 3

Case, Mary Anne, 157015 Community United Against Violence,

census data collection, 11,137-38 143040

Chaffetz, Jason, 64 concealment discourse, 11, 31-33, 34-35.

Chinese Exclusion Act of 1881,16-17 45-46, 48-49. See also goingstealth
Cho, Seung-Hui, 4-5 Conundrum (Morris), 158031
cisgender: use of term, ii-ii Coombs, David, 113-16,118-10,113,
citizenship discourse: use of term, 14; 11 4 - 1 5 ,1 6 7 111 5 ,1 6 7 0 4 1 ,1 6 8 0 5 7

advocacy organizations and, 18-10, Cranbrook Kingswood School lockdown,

14-15,19-31, 43-49, 88; airport secu¬ 1-6,10

criminalization: bathroom bills and,

rity screenings and, 53-54. 64, 68-69:
analogic frameworks, 89-90,156015, 80-81,88-91,104,106,157015,161076;

1571110,1581131,158035; assimilation biometric surveillance and, 81, 98-99,

and, 48-49; biometric surveillance and, 155010: citizenship discourse and,
98-99; bodily stability, io6; criminal¬ 99-106; hate crimes legislation and,
ization and, 99-106; deception and, 10; 18-10,143040,16403; immigration
disability and, 57,159041; fraud and, policy and, 88-91,135-36; public bath¬
9-10,30-31, 41-41, 95; gender identity rooms and, 80-81, 85-86,88-91,104,

discourse and, 9, 89-91; goingstealth 106,157015,161076; public space and,

and, 48-49; identity documents and, 155010; RADAR flashlight, 58-59; safety
II, 14-15,16-18, 41; immigration discourse and, 58-59; transgender-
policy and, z6-i8, 89-91: legibility and, identified people and, 107-8
49, 85-86,106; legitimacy and, 18-31;
Manning case and, 108-9, na. 117-18; Dakota Access Pipeline (Standing Rock)
national belonging and, 14,11-11, 81, protests, 170m
86, 93, 99-106; nondiscrimination or¬ Dark Matters (Browne), 95,138,141015,
dinances and, 88-89; public bathrooms 14303,151018,159047

and, II, 81, 85-86, 88-93, 99-106, Davis, Leonard J., 57

1571110,161065; ^nd, 5,16-18, deception: bathroom bills and, 79-80; bio¬
85-86, 89, 99-100, 157010; recognition metric surveillance and, 104-6; gender
framework, 104-6; second-class-citizen nonconformity and, 1-3, 9-10,131-34;
arguments, 85-86,157010; terrorism Manning case and, 11,109,111-13,116,
and, 17-18, 41, 43,80,148066; ter¬ 117,115-16,118-19; national security
rorism discourse and, 38-43,148066; and, 117; transgender-identified people
transgender-identified people and, and, 131-34. See also fraud
89-91; whiteness and, 5,16-18, 85-86, Defending America (Hillman), 168059
89, 99-100,157010 Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals

The Civilizing Process (Elias), 157014 (daca), 135-36

class status, 19-31,37,160057,160059 Desai,Jigna, 4-5
“Clothes Epidermalized" (Nguyen), D’Harlingue, Benjamin, 141016
1611165 DHS advisory (Department of Homeland
Cohen, CathyJ., 13 Security), 4,16,14-15,38-40, 43-45,
COINTELPRO, 45, 170m 47-48

INDEX 187
disability: advanced imaging technologies 52-33; voter fraud, 10, 27-30,133-34.
and, 51-52; airport security screenings See also deception
and, 21,55-57, S3-64,151040; asexuality/
desexualization and, 159043; citizenship gender identity discourse: bathroom bills
discourse and, 57,159041; disability ad¬ and, 87-88: biometric logic and, 93-99;
vocacy groups, 21, 68,1521140; eugenics census data collection and, 137-38;
and, 74-75; instability of, 57; medical citizenship discourse and, 9, 89-91;
necessity framework and, 52-57,15006; Manning case and, 22,108,114-19,125,
National Center for Transgender Equal¬ 126-29,166021,1660023-24; military
ity and, 152040; normative bodies and, inclusion policies, 136-37,138,156015,
57; privacy and, 3; prosthetics and, 21, 166021,166024; nondiscrimination
51-52,55-57, 72-73; public bathrooms ordinances, 86-88; normalization

and, 91-93; recognition and, 57; social of 31-38; queer of color critique and,
model of disability, 53; surveillance prac¬ 13-14; race and, 32,39-40, 49, 85-86,
tices and, 22-23; transgender-identified 157020; sexual orientation conflation
people and, 91-92,15006; TSA Cares and, 113,16602; third gender concept,
program, 55-57 35-37,1450027-29,146031; whiteness
disciplinary power, 15-16,36-37. See also and, 32,59-40, 49, 85-86,1571120. See
biopower also gender nonconformiry
Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy, 112-13, 'ly. gender identity disorder (gender dyspho¬
124-23,128,166019, i66nn2i-22 ria), 31, 48,52-53
gender nonconformity: use of term, 11,
Elias, Norbcrt, I57ni4 13; bodily anomalies and, 74-78;
"The Empire Strikes Back” (Stone), Cranbrook lockdown and, 1-6,10;
144019,147053 criminalization and, 14103; deception
Eng, David, 73 and, 1-3, 9-10, 43,132-34; fraud and,
Enke, A. Finn, 11 9-10; identity documents and, 31-38;
eugenics, 66, 74-76, 93-94,1591147 prison system and, 121-22; privacy and,
43-49; race and, 4,11-14,3°. 39-4°.
facial recognition technology, 93-94, 47-49; surveillance practices and,
104-6,159051 5-6, 7-14,110-11,132-34,138-40;
Fein, Ashden, 116 transgender visibility and, 14-20,
Feinstein, Dianne, 94 22-23,132-34. See also gender identity
Fenster, Mark, 168058 discourse; Manning, Chelsea; norma¬
fingerprinting, 77-78, 81, 94, 95-96, tive bodies

98-99,155010,159047,159049,160057, Gender Recognition Act (2017, California),

160059 146031
Foucault, Michel, 14-16,17, 25, 36, 46 genital recognition, 61-68, 80-81, 88-89,
fraud: bathroom bills and, 79; biomet¬ 96,104-5

ric surveillance and, 95; citizenship going stealth, 34-35, 45-46, 48-49
discourse and, 9-10,30-31, 41-42, Goins vs. West Publishing, 157028
95; gender nonconformity and, 9-10; Gopinath, Gayatri, 14
identity documents and, 9-10, 27-29, Gorton, Nick, 15005
3^-33. 41-42,44.1451123; race and, 30; Gossett, Che, 12

transgender-identified people and, 30, Greneker, Eugene, 58-59

188 INDEX
Guantanamo Bay detention facility, 4, security and, 40-41; no-march policy,
6 0 - 6 1 , 1 0 9 , 111 - 11 , 11 7 - 1 8 57-3S, 41, 43-45.133-34.148065;
passport systems, 2.5—17,18, 40-41, 46,
Hage, Ghassan, 70-71 143113; post-9/11 and, 41-43; privacy
Hall, Rachel, 119 and, 41-41; production of gender and,
Hammonds, Evelynn, 15-16,10 56-37,133-34; race and, 10,14-15,
Hanhardt, Christina, 1581136 16-18; Real ID Act, 10,14, 40-48,

Haritaworn.Jin, 117 78,133,147031,148061,148065; safety

Hatch, Orrin, 94 discourse and, 40-41; Social Security
hate crimes legislation, 18-10,143040,16403 records, 37,38, 40-41, 44,146034; ter¬
HB 1(North Carolina), 103-4,107, rorism discourse and, 14-15,37-39,
161076,i6in88 46-49; third gender concept, 35-37.
HB 87 (Utah), 96-97, 98,15503, i6on6i 1450017-19,146031; transgender-
HB 1008 (South Dakota), 163090 identified people and, 37-38, 41, 43~45.
HB 1737 (Kansas), 163090 133-34,148065; Vital Records Modern¬
HB 4474 (Illinois), 163089 ization Act, 36; voluntary surveillance
healthy body discourse, 51,56-57,74-78,136 and, 78; voter identification, 17-30,35,
Hillman, Elizabeth Lutes, 168059 133-34,159045; whiteness and, 16-18.
homonationalism, 18,147054,166014 See also medicolegal discourse
Houston Equal Rights Ordinance, 80, Immigration and Naturalization Services
101,105 (ins), 159049
Human Rights Campaign, 166014 immigration policy: advocacy organizations
and, 89-90,148065,1581133; anticipatory
identity documents: advocacy organiza¬ surveillance, 37; biometric surveillance
tions and, 11,14-15,36, 43-49; antici¬ and, 60, 81, 94-95,106,155010,159047,
patory surveillance, 37-38,146033; anti¬ 159049; Chinese immigrants and, 16-17;
transgender discrimination and, 14-15; citizenship discourse and, 16-18, 89-91;
bathroom bills and, 81, 88-89, 93, 96; criminalization and, 88-91,135-36;
birth certificates, 15,18,31,34-35, 40, Deferred Action for Childhood Ar¬

88, 93,145011,159046; citizenship rivals (daca), 135-36; eugenics and,

discourse and, 11,14-15,16-18, 41; 66,74-75; fingerprinting and, 155010,
concealment and, 33-35, 41; enslaved 159047,159049; identity documents and,
people and, 15,14303; false reliability of, 17-18,148065,159045; militarism and,
144017; fraud and, 9-10,17-19,31-33, 136-37,159051; national security and, 40,
41—41, 44,145013; gender markers and, 46, 49,155010,159051; natutalization of
31—38, 41-43, 48,86,1451111,145019, national borders and, 69, i6in8o; Obama
146031,17003; gender nonconformity administration and, 134-35: public
and, 31-38; gender normativity and, bathrooms and, 11, 80, 81, 88-91,91-93,
31-38; immigration policy and, 17-18, 99-100,106,161065; 2nd, 4,16-17,
148065,159045; individualism and, 45-46, 61,88-89, 94-95.1511118,155010,

41-41; legitimacy and, 15-16, 89; name 161065; terrorism discourse and, 4,
changes, 31-33, 40, 41,145013; Na¬ 57-38, 41-43. 45.80-81, 94-95.108-9;
tional Center for Transgender Equality transgender-identified people and, 89-91;
and, 19-30,38, 44-45, 47-48; national Trump administration and, 131-31,
identity and, 10,14-18, 41-43; national 135-36; USA PATRIOT Act and, 45

NDEX 189
individualism, 41-41, 95, iii, 115-19 Magnet, Shoshana Amielle, 98,159047
Information Awareness Office, 159051 Manning, Chelsea: abolition framework
and, 169071; advocacy organizations
James, Joy, 39-40 and, 117-18,1691171; citizenship dis¬
Jensen, Abigail, 90, 99-100 course and, 108-9, III, 117-18; as de¬
Johnson, Duanna, 110-11,1650011-13 ceptive individual, 11,109,111-13, ”6,
Johnson, Kevin, 151018 117,115-16,118-19; Don’t Ask, Don’t
Johnson, Michael, 41 Tell policy and, 111-13,117,114-15,
118,166019, i66nnii-ii; emotional
Kaba, Mariame, 165016 life of, 109,113-19,114-15; exceptional
Kavanagh, John, 86-88, 91, 97 heroic individualism of, 111,115-19;
Keisling, Mara, 76 gender identity and, 11,108,114-19,
Kennedy, Michael, 80 11 5 , 11 8 - 1 9 , i 6 6 n i i , 1 6 6 0 0 1 3 - 1 4 ;
Kushner, Jared, 133-34,139,17003 Guantanamo Bay detention facility and,
4, 60-61,109,111-11,117-18; human¬
Lamo, Adrian, 109-10,111,114-17,114, ist beliefs of, 113-14,116,117,167015;
i66nii incarceration of, 108,119-11,116-18:
law enforcement officers: body cameras isolation and, no, 113-16,118, iii-ii,
and, 111-11,165016,165018; National 116-17,118,1661111; Adrian Lamo and,
Center for Transgender Equality and, 109-10, 111, 114-17,114, i66nii; legal
19; surveillance of police violence, defense strategy, 11,111-19,116-19,
165016 i66nni3-i4; legitimacy and, 48-49,
legibility: of biometric surveillance, 95-96, 5i-53.55-57.171,116; medicolegal dis¬
160057; citizenship discourse and, 49, course and, 114; national security and,
85-86,106; goingstealth, 34-35, 45-46, 11,108-9,117. ”9. >71,118-19, >67041,
48-49; vs. illegibility, 98,139-40; 168058; prettial confinement, 11,110,
medicolegal discourse and, 31,51-55, 111, 111, 116-17, >78,1681151,168055;

106,114,161065; production of transgen¬ privacy and, 113-10,118-19,156015;

der subject, 1-1,17-18,10-11,31-38, Reuters FOIA requests, 113-14; sentenc¬
51-53,139-40,14904; race and, 15-16, ing, 108,115-16,119,168055, >68059,
14303; recognition and, 134,139-40; of 169075; sexual orientation conflation,
transgender-identified people, 7,15-16, 113, i66ni; surveillance practices of, 11,
73, 39, 49, 51-55,131-40; visibility and, 108-9, 111; as terrorist agent, 108-9,
7. >5->6, 73 115-16; transgender identification and,
legitimacy; citizenship discourse and, 111-13,116-19,176,119; visibility and,
18-31; identity documents and, 15-16, 108-9,119-14, >15-16,119; whistle¬
89; Manning case and, 48-49,51-53, blower leaks, 108,109-to, 111, 113,
55-57, 111, 116; medical necessity frame¬ 117-18,111-13, >77-79. >68057; white¬
works and, 56-57; medicolegal frame¬ ness and, 108 9 , 111 , 11 7 - 1 9

works and, 15, 48-49,51-53, 55-57; Marx, Gary T., 148058

militarism and, 56-57, 70-71; paternity Massey, Doreen, i6in8i
and, 15-16; violence and, 56-57, 70-71, McNamara, Lauren, 117
73 McRae, Bridges, 110-11
Lynch, Loretta E., 107-8 McRory, Pat, 103-4
Lyon, David, 16,1461133 medical surveillance: concealment dis-

190 INDEX
 course and, ii, 31-53, 34-35,45-46, Monahan, Torin, 3
48-49; gender markers and, 31-38, Mongia, Radhika Viyas, 16
41-43, 48, 86,145ml, 1451119,146n3i, Moore, Alison, 15506,156016
i7on3; gender tracking and, 44-45, Morris. Jan, 158031
I44ni9,146n3i; legibility and, 31,51-55, Morrison, Tom, 104
106,114, i6in65; normalizing process
and, 8, 31-38,144ni9 national belonging: citizenship discourse
medicolegal discourse: advocacy organi¬ and, 14,11-11, 81, 86, 93, 99-106; mili¬
zations and, 36, 45-46,51, 53-55,73; tarism and, 136; national identity, 81,
gender dysphoria, 31, 48,51-53; leg¬ 99—106,136—37; public bathrooms and,
ibility and, 31,51—55,106,114,1611165; 81, 99-106; race and, 16; transgender-
legitimacy and, 15, 48-49,31—53, identified people and, 136-37; visibility
55-57; medical necessity framework, and, 136
II, 51-57, 71-73, i5onn6-8; militarism National Center for Lesbian Rights,
and, 34, 54-55; normalization of gender 1 4 9 0 3

and, 31-38; production of transgender National Center for Transgender Equality

subject, 17-18,10-11, 31-38,51-53, (ncte): airport security screenings and,
139-40,14904; secrecy and, 114. See also 51,53-56, 55, 61, 68, 76,149113; bath¬
identity documents room bills and, 86-87; disability justice
Mercer, Kobena, 73 and, 151040; hate crimes legislation and,
methodology: primary source materials, 19-10; identity documents and, 19-30,
17-18; queer of color critique, 13-14; 38, 44-45, 47-48; military inclusion
rransgender critique, 11-14,11-13,134; and, 138; no-match letter policy and, 38,
transgender studies frameworks, 7-8, 44-45; race analysis of, 48,51, 61; on
131, i4inii, 147053,14904 voter rights, 19-31
militarism: antiterrorism discourse, 94-95, national identity: advanced imaging
io6, 108-9; citizenship discourse and, technologies and, 69-71; citizenship
18,11-13; Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy discourse and, 99-106; healthy/
and, 111-13,117,114-15,118,166019, harmful body discourse and, 156; ho¬
i66nnii-ii; going stealth and, 34; im¬ monationalism, 18,147054,166014;
migration policy and, 4,37-38, 41-43. identity documents and, 10,14-18,
45, 80-81,94-95,106,108-9,136-37. 41-43; miscegenation, 16; national
159051; legitimacy and, 56-57, 70-71; belonging, 81, 99-106,136-37; queer of
medicolegal discourse and, 34, 54-55; color critique and, 13-14
militarized surveillance, 11-13, *ti, national security: airport security screen¬
117-19,111-15,136-37,170m; milita¬ ings and, II, 50-51; anticipatory surveil¬
rized technologies, 58-59, 71-71, 94-95; lance, 37-38,146033; biometric surveil¬
military inclusion policies, 136-37, lance and, 94-95,159051; COINTELPRO
138,156015, i66nii, 166014; national and, 45,170m; Cranbrook lockdown
belonging and, 136; National Center and, 1-3; deception and, 117; Guan¬
for Transgender Equality and, 138: race tanamo Bay detention facility and, 4,
and, 117—18,156015,170m; terrorism 60-61,109. iii-ii, 117-18; identity
discourse and, 70-71; X-ray technolog)' documents and, 40-41; immigration
and, II, 58-59,71-71. See also Manning, policy and, 40-41,46,49,155010,159051;
Chelsea; terrorism discourse Information Awareness Office, 159051;

INDEX 191
national security {continued) pat-down procedures, 50—51, 54-57,
Manning case and, ai, 108-9, H7.119. 63-68,151033,153051
IZI, IZ8-19, i67n4i, i68n58,169064, Paul, Rand, 64
169070; transgender visibility and, policing systems, 58-59, 61,101, no-11. See
119-15; Virginia Tech shootings and, also law enforcement officers

1-3. See also 9/11; safety discourse; Poole, Mary, 146034

terrorism Pozen, David E., 169064
National Transgender Advocacy Coalition prison systems: gender nonconformity and,
(ntac), 45-46. 47,147053 111-11; medical necessity frameworks,
Nepal, 35,145017 53; pat-down procedures and, 66-67;
Nguyen, Mimi Thi, 1611165 privacy and, 66-68,151037; surveillance
9/11 (September ii, 1001): bathroom bills of law enforcement officers and, 165014;
and, 80; biometric surveillance and, surveillance technologies and, 110-11;
94-95; Cranbrook lockdown and, 1-3; X-ray technologies and, 58-59
Guantanamo Bay detention facility and, privacy: advanced imaging technology and,
4, 60-61,109, iii-ii, 117-18; post-9/11 61-68; advocacy organizations and, ii,
state surveillance, 1-3,35-37, 94-95, 43-45; airport security screenings and,
I45nni7-i9,146031 11,51-51, 64,1531151; bathroom bills
no-match policy, 37-38, 41,43-45,133-34, and, 103-4,107,155116,161076, i6in88,
148065 163090; disability justice and, 3; gender
nondiscrimination ordinances, 79-81, nonconformity and, 43-49; identity
86-90,101-3,157018 documents and, 41-41; Manning case
Norma/Normman statues, 74 and, 113-10,118-19,156015; no-match
normative bodies: airport security screen¬ letter policy, 44-45; pat-down proce¬
ings and, 77-78; anomalies and, 51, dures and, 63-68; prison systems and,
56-57,74-78; Asian Americans and, 66-68,1511137; public bathrooms and,
16-17; citizenship and, 9; class status 11,103-4,107.15506,1571115,161076,
and, 9,39-40; concealment discourse i6in88,163090; race and, 3, 66; repro¬
and, 31-34; disability and, 57; Islamo- ductive justice and, 3, 67; right to pri¬
phobia and, 40; race and, 31,39-40, vacy, 3, 44-45,151037; safety vs., 1-4;
61; sexuality and, 39-40; third gender secrecy vs., 113-10,118-19,156015; sexu¬
concept and, 35-37,14511017-19, ality and, 66; terrorism discourse and,
146031; transgender-identified people 45, 64, 78-79; voluntary surveillance
and, 39-40; whiteness and, 31; X-ray and, 78; whiteness and, 157015
technologies and, 61 Proposition 100 (Arizona), 159045
Prosser, Jay, 158031
Obama administration, 11,134-35,137-38 prosthetics, 11,51-51,54-56, 71-73
Orientalist discourse, 4,5,70 Puar.Jasbir, 18, 71,1471154,148066
public bathrooms: biometric logic and,
Paik, A. Naomi, 111 11-11, 81, 93-99; citizenship discourse
Pakistan, 35-36,1450118 and, 11, 81,86-93, 99-106; civilizational
Passenger Accelerated Service System discourse and, 81-86,156016,157014;
(pass), 159049 criminalization and, 80-81, 85-86;
passport systems, 15-17,18, 40-41, 46, disability and, 91-93; as gendered
143113 space, 83-85; GoinsYS. West Publishing,

191 INDEX
 157018; immigration policy and, 11, 80, 39-4°> 47-49; identity documents and,
81, 88-93, 99-100,106,161065; mili¬ 10,14-2.5, i6-i8; immigration policy
tary institutions and, 157015; national and, 4,16-17, 45-46, 61, 88-89, 94-95,
belonging and, 81, 99-106; privacy and, 1511118, i55nio, 161065; legibility and,
11,103-4, i°7,155116,157015,161076, 15-16,14303; militarism and, 117-18,
i6in88,163090; race and, ii-ii, 83-85, 1561115,170m; militarized surveillance
91-93,101-1,103,1561116,157011, and, 170111; military inclusion policies,
1571115; respectability and, 15506; safety 156015; national belonging and, 16; Na¬
discourse and, 79-81, 97-98,101-4, tional Center for Transgender Equality
157015; second-class-citizen arguments, and, 48,51, 61; Orientalist discourse, 4,
85-86,157010; whiteness and, 81, 5, 70; privacy and, 3,66; public bath¬
84-86,105. See also bathroom bills rooms and, 11-11, 83-85, 91-93,101-1,
Public Facilities Privacy and Security Act 103,156016,157011,157015; public space
(North Carolina), 103-4, i°7.161076, and, 15506,155010,157011; racialized
i6in88 surveillance, n-13, 61, 1691176; sexual
public schools: bathroom bills and, 80, deviance and, 39-40; Social Security
96-97,104,1630089-90; biometric Act and, 37, 40-41,146034; terrorism
surveillance and, 96; census data collec¬ discourse and, 4-6, 45, 69-71,105;
tion and, 137-38; transgender-identified transgender studies and, 5, 7-8,131,
people and, 11,137-38 141011,147053,14904; visibility and,
public space: use of term, i6in8i; bath¬ 47-49, iii-ii; X-ray technologies and,
room bills and, 99-106,161076; crimi¬ 59-60, 61. See a/so whiteness
nalization of people of color and, 155010; RADAR flashlight, 58-59
gender segregation and, 83-85; race Rai, Amit S., 148066

and, 11-11, 81, 83-85, 91-93,101-1, Rapiscan, 153060

103,156016,157011,157015; respectable Real ID Act, 14, 40-48, 78,133,147031,
female behavior and, 15506 148061,148065

recognition framework: use of term, 134;

queer: use of term, 13 advocacy organizations, 18-10,51,
Quock, Lauren, 83,157011 138,139; airport security screenings
and, 54-55; biometric surveillance
race: advanced imaging technologies and, and, 104-6; citizenship discourse and,
51-51, 61-63, 69-71; advocacy orga¬ 104-6; disability and, 57; genital recog¬
nizations and, 14-15,19-31, 43-45, nition, 61-68, 80-81, 88-89, 9*2,104-5;

47-49, 68; airport security screenings legibility and, 134,139-40; politics of

and, 11,53-54, 63-64,151018; bath¬ recognition and, 131-34; terrorism and,
room bills and, 88-93, 99-100; bio¬ 105; unrecognizabiliry and, 171014; vis¬
metric surveillance and, 95-96,160059; ibility and, iS-io
citizenship discourse and, 99-100; civi- Reeve, Joshua, 165018
lizational discourse and, 85-86; Don’t Richardson, Matt, 165013
Ask, Don’t Tell policy and, 166019, rights discourse, 18-10,35-37.
i66nii; enslaved people and, 15,14303; 1450017-19,146031,166014

fraud and, 30; gender identity discourse ROOTS coalition, 148061

and, 31, 39-40, 49, 85-86,157010; Rubin, Gayle, i6in88
gender nonconformity and, 4,11-14,30, Ryan, Michael, 133,134

INDEX 193
Safe OUTsidc the System Collective (alp), 6.35-37.1450017-19,146031; lateral
143040,1481160 surveillance, 114,165018; mandatory
safety discourse: airport security screen¬ volunteerism, 148058; politics of rec¬
ings and, 2.1,50-51,151031,151033; ognition and, 131-34; production of
bathroom bills and, 79-81, 97-98,101, gender nonconformity and, 5-6, 6-14,
103-4,1571115; criminalization and, 110-n, 131-34,138-40; production of
58-59; identity documents and, 40-41; transgender subject, i-i, 17-18,10-11,
medical necessity framework and, 55; 31-38,51-53,139-40,149114; public
nonnormative gender presentation and, knowledge of, 111,116,119; transgender
lO; privacy vs., 1-4; public bathrooms critique of surveillance, 6-14,11-13,
and, 79-81, 97-98,101-4,1571115; 131-40; voluntary surveillance, 77—78
RADAR flashlight, 58-59; voluntary Sylvia Rivera Law Project (SRLP), 19,
surveillance and, 78. See also national 48-49,143040,148065
security; terrorism discourse
Safetyfest, 1431140 terrorism discourse: advanced imaging
Salter, Mark B., 16 technologies and, 69-71; airport se¬
SB 97 (Delaware), 101,105,106 curity screenings and, 46-49, 51, 68;
SB 1045 (Arizona), 86-87, 9°> 97.157011 anticipatory surveillance, 37; Antiter¬
SB 1070 (Arizona), 88, 90,157018, rorism and Effective Death Penalty Act
15801119-31,161065 (1996), 45; antiterrorism rhetoric, 4,
SB 1431 (Arizona), 86-87 17, 41-41, 64-65, 69-71, 78, 80-81,
secrecy, 113-10,118-19,156015 94-95, 106,108-9,115-16; bathroom
securitization, 35-37,1450017-19,146031 bills and, 80, 99; biometric surveillance
September ii, 1001. See 9/11 and, 81, 94-95,106; citizenship dis¬
Sex Changes (Califia), 144019 course and, 17-18,38-43, 80,148066;
sexuality, 13-14,35-37, 66, 87,137-38, Department of Homeland Security
1450017-19,146031, i66nii advisory, 14,38-40, 43-44, 45, 47-48;
Shine, Jacqui, 1651116 Guantanamo Bay detention facility and,
Snorton, C. Riley, 117 4 , 6 0 - 6 1 , 1 0 9 , 111 - 11 , 11 7 - 1 8 ; i m m i -
Social Security records, 37,38, 40-41, 44, gtation policy and, 4,10,17-18,37-38,
146034 41-43, 45, 80-81, 94-95,106,108-9,
Spade, Dean, 8,18,31, 43-44,117,165011, 159051; Manning case and, 108-9,
169075 115-16; militarism and, 70-71, 94-95,
Specter, Arlen, 40-41 io6,108-9; national identity and,
Stalder, Felix, 1461133 46-49,148066; privacy and, 64,
Standing Rock/Dakota Access Pipeline 78-79; race and, 4-6, 45, 69-71,105;
protests, 170m recognition and, 105; voluntary surveil¬
Stone, Sandy, 144019,147053 lance and, 77-78; whiteness and, 69,
Stryker, Susan, 11,141011 105

suicide bombers, 14-15, 70-71 Terry, Jennifer, 71

surveillance: use of term, 17; anticipa¬ Thurmond, Strom, 94
tory surveillance, 37; biopolitical Title IX, 137-38
management and, 19-10, 49,56-57, Torpey, John, 40-41, 46
139; construction of gender noncompli¬ transgender: use of rerm, lo-ii, 13,
ance and, 1,119; gender norms and. 1410011-11,141015; production of

194 INDEX
 transgendcr subjects, 1-2,17-18, 20-21, Transparency Fix (Fenster), i68n58
31-38,52-53,139-40.14904 Transportation Security Administra¬
transgender critic]ue of surveillance, 6—14, tion (tsa), 50-51, 55-57, I49nni-i,
2 2 - 2 3 , 1 3 2 - 4 0 I5in40,153060. See also airport security
transgender-identified people: use of screenings
term, 10-11,1421115; airport security trickle up model, 18,1421138
screenings and, 51,52-57; analogic True the Vote, 29-30,134
frameworks, 89-90,156015,157020, Trump (Donald) administration, 22,
158032,158035; census data collection i?3-35. lyms

and, 137-38; citizenship discourse and, TSA Cares, 55-57

89-91,17109; concealment and, 33-35;

deception and, 132-34; disability and, underwear bomber, 50,72-73
91-92,15006; gender dysphoria and, 31, USA PATRIOT Act (2001), 4,16-17, 45
48, 52-53; gender nonconformity and, U.S. Defense Advanced Research Projects
14-20, 22-23,132--34; going stealth, Agency (darpa), 94,1591151
34-35, 45-46, 48-49; healthy body
discourse and, 136; identity documents Valentine, David, 7, 141012,1421115
and, 37-38, 41, 43-45,133-34.148065; van der Ploeg, Irma, 160052
incarceration of, 110-12,1650012-13; Virginia Tech shootings, 1-5
legibility of 7, 15-16, 23, 39, 49, 52-55, visibility: advocacy organizations and,
132-40; medical necessity frameworks 18-20, 45-49; biopower and, 20,
and, 52-57; medicolegal discourse and, 36-37; disciplinary power and, 35-37.
52-55; national belonging and, 136-37; 1450027-29,146031; gender noncon¬
nondiscrimination ordinances and, formity and, 14-20, 22-23, ■32-“34;
79-81, 87-88; politics of recognition going stealth, 34-35, 45-46, 48-49;
and, 132-34; prison system and, 121-22; legibility and, 7,15-16, 23; limits of 139;
public school policy and, 137-3S; trans¬ Manning case and, 108-9,119-26,129;
gender visibility and, 45-48,107-8, national belonging and, 136; national
132-33; transmisogyny and, 111-12; TSA security and, 119-25; race and, 47-49,
Cares program and, 55-57; violence and, 111-12; recognition and, 18-20; sexism
33-34,110-12,1650012-13; visibility and, 111-12; strategic visibility, 45-49;
and, 7,15-16; women of color, 110-12, transgender-identified people and,
16501112-13 107-8; transgender studies and, 15
Transgender Law Center, 36, 47-48,51, Vital Records Modernization Act (2011),
86-87, 89-90,14903,158033 36

transgender studies: formation of 7-8, Volpp, Leti, 69,162080

132,141011,147053,14904; medical and voting rights: class status and, 30-31; gen¬
scientific authority and, 14904; as mode der classification and, 133-34; National
of transgender critique, 12-14, iz-13. Center for Transgender Equality on,
134; transgender-identified subjects and, 29-31; True the Vote, 29-30,134; voter
7-8; visibility and, 15 fraud, 10, 27-30,133-34; voter identifi¬
The Transgender Studies Reader {Suyker cation/registration, 27-30,35,133-34,
and Whittle), 141ml, I49n4 159045

The Transgender Studies Reader 2(Stryker vulnerability discourse, 18, 28,30,52-57,

and Aizura), 1411111 63-65,76, 82, 98,137-38

INDEX 195
Wasserstrom, Richard A., 83-85,157ni5 terrorism discourse and, 69,105;
West, Isaac, 81 transgender studies and, 5,141011;
whiteness; airport security screenings voter identification and, 30-31, See
and, 76; biometric surveillance and, also race

95-96; citizenship discourse and, 5, WikiLeaks, 108,109-10, ni, 117-18,

1 6 - 1 8 , 8 5 - 8 6 , 8 9 , 11 7 - 1 8 , 1 5 7 0 1 0 ; 111 - 1 3 , > 2 . 7 - 1 9

civilizational discourse and, 84-86; Willse, Craig, 117,1661114,169071,

community surveillance of, 161087; 169075

eugenics and, 74-75; gender identity World Professional Association for Trans¬

discourse and, 31,39-40, 49, 75-76, gender Health (wpath), 31,144018,

85-86,1571110; identity documents 150118

and, 16-18; Manning case and, Worsley, Michael, 116

108-9, II2., 117-19; normative bod¬
ies and, 31; privacy and, 157015; public X-ray technologies, 11,50-51, 57-61,
bathrooms and, 81, 84-86,105; 66-68,74,153060

196 INDEX
TRANS STUDIES SURVIUI.LANCE .STUDIES

In Going Stealth Toby Bcaucliamp demonstrates how the enforcement of gender

conformity is linked to state surveillance practices that identify threats based on r a ¬

cial, gender, national, and ableist categories of difference. Positioning surveillance as

centraltoourunderstandingoftransgenderpolitics,Beauchampe.vaminesarangeof
issues, rbathroom bills and TSA screening practices to Chelsea Manning’s trial.
o m

to show how security practices extend into the everyday aspects of our gendered lives.
Hebringsthefieldsofdisability,scienceandtechnology,andsurveillancestudiesinto
conversation with transgender studies to show how the scrutinizing of gender non¬
conformity is motivated less by explicit transgender identities than by the perceived
threat that gender nonconformity poses to the U.S. racial and security state. Beau¬
champ uses instances of gender surveillance to demonstrate how disciplinary power
attempts to produce conformist citizens and regulate difference through discourses
of security. At the same time, he contends that greater visibility and recognition for
gender nonconformity, while .sometimes beneficial, might actually enable the surveil¬
lance state to more effectively track, measure, and control nans bodies and identities.

“Tliis innovative book is an important contribution to both trans studies and surveil¬
lance .studies—particularly to analy.ses of the War on Terror, border enforcement,
andidentitydocumentation.TobyBeauchampconvincinglyweavestogetherargu¬
mentsaboutsurveillance,migration,andtransembodiment.Makingseveralcritical
interventions in trans studies and trans advocacy, this book addresses the ways that
whiteness and immigration status are often assumed characteristics of trans subject-
hood.”—DEAN SPADE, author of Nonnal Life: Administrative Violence, Critical
Trans Politics, and the Limits of Law

'Going Stealth is abrilliant intervention in the field of transgender studies and be¬
yond,bywayofitscritiqueoftheviolentcapacitiesofthesurveillancestate.Fromthe
identificationdocumentasanadministrativepracticetotheairportandthepublic
bathroomassiteswheretheanxietiesofthestatearoundcertainbodiesandbodily
technologiesplayout,TobyBeauchamptracesacomplexaccountofmilitarism,mon¬
itoring,andrefusals.Tliisbookisessentialreadingforthosewhoseektounderstand
and critique how surveillance arranges our lives.”—SIMONE BROWNE, author of
Dark Matters: On the Surveillance of Blackness

TOBY BEAUCHAMP is Assistant Professor of Gender and Women’s Studies at the

University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign.

Duke University Press

www. duke upre ss. edu

COVER ART; Aiigt'lj Pidil, Hca/ldrcss, 1011. Colored pencil

on black paper, ?o inches .s ii inches. Courtesy of the artist.