***

But it’s not actually possible to “fly as you identify” as long as the Transportation Security Administration screening process relies on the idea of binary gender. As the T.S.A.’s own guidelines state, “When you enter the imaging portal, the T.S.A. agent presses a button designating a gender (male/female) based on how you present yourself” — that is, how the agent perceives you as presenting yourself. This selection triggers expectations that guide the screening process. If, for example, an agent presses the pink “female” button for someone wearing boxers, an alarm will be triggered on the scanner, because loose fabric around the crotch of a female body is considered unexpectedly gender nonconforming. A compression shirt on the chest of someone for whom an agent presses the blue “male” button can do the same. Once gender has been chosen, the machine proceeds on expectations about anatomy. A transgender passenger who passes — who is correctly read by the T.S.A. agent as the gender the person identifies as — but who has different genitalia will trigger an alarm. Intersex people may have ambiguous genitalia that trigger alarms and require invasive pat-downs every time.

***

I identify as genderqueer. Last week, I had just stepped through the scanner at Boston Logan International Airport when I heard the T.S.A. agent shout, “I think we pressed the wrong button!” He had shouted so loudly, I assumed he was talking about someone else. But then he spoke again, directly to me, avoiding my gaze. “Go through again,” he said. The long line behind me halted as I walked back into the scanner and assumed the position: arms up, legs spread. I waited, painfully aware that the others passengers were staring at me. Did they know what was happening? Did they know what the agent meant by “the button?”

***

Then I noticed the agent’s expression shift. He looked as miserable and uncomfortable as I felt. I turned around. On the screen was the outline of a person, arms up, with just one little yellow box of irregularity — the “alarm.” It was right over my crotch. I shouldn’t need to tell you that the pat-down that followed was invasive and humiliating, just as I shouldn’t have had to endure it.