Anger

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

Page 162 of 447 · 20 per page

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "You're lucky I'm such a liberal and freethinking type of guy," he continued. "Most guys wouldn't be so happy to find out that they'd been two-timed by a lesbian with their own sister. It's sort of embar- rassing, don't you think? But I'm such a freethinker that I'm willing to overlook your proclivities." "Why don't you shut up, Jerome?" "I'll shut up when I want to," he said. Then he turned his head and looked at me. "You know where you are now? Splitsville, Stephanides. Get out of here and don't come back. And keep your hands off my sister." I was already jumping up. My blood rocketed. It shot up my spine and rang a bell in my head, and I charged Jerome in a blaze of fury. He was bigger than me but unprepared. I hit him in the face. He tried to move away but I crashed into him, my momentum knocking him to the floor. I climbed on his chest, pinning his arms with my legs. Finally Jerome stopped resisting. He lay on his back and tried to look amused. "Any time you're finished," he said. It was an exhilarating feeling to be on top of him. Chapter Eleven had pinned me all my life. This was the first time I'd done it to some- body else, especially a boy older than me. My long hair was falling into Jerome's face. I swept it back and forth, tormenting him. Then I remembered something else my brother used to do. "No," Jerome cried. "Come on. Don't?' I let it fall. Like a raindrop. Like a tear. But neither of those things. The spit plopped right between Jerome's eyes. And then the earth opened up beneath us. With a roar Jerome rose up, sending me backward. My supremacy had been brief. Now it was time to run. I took off across the porch. I jumped down the steps and tore across the back lawn, barefoot. Jerome came after me in his Dracula getup. He stopped to fling off the coat and I increased the distance between us. Through the backyards of the neighboring houses I ran, ducking under pine branches. I dodged bushes and barbecues. The pine needles gave good traction under my feet. Finally I reached the open field beyond and fled into it. When I looked back Jerome was gaining on me. 392 Through die high, yellow grass along the bayshore we flew. I jumped over the historical marker, grazing my foot, then hopped in pain and continued on. Jerome cleared it without a hitch. On the other side of the field was the road that led back to the house. If I could get over the rise, I could double back without Jerome seeing me. The Object and I could barricade ourselves in our room. I reached the hill and started up. Jerome came after me, scowling, still gaining.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "Not if I have to eat this stuff the whole time." But now Tessie was the one tearing up. Tessie who for almost two years now had taken care of an old lady who wouldn't get out of bed. Tessie who had a husband more in love with hot dogs than her. Tessie who secretly monitored her children's bowel movements and so of course knew exactiy how greasy American foods could disrupt their digestion. "You don't do the shopping," she said, tearfully. "You don't see what I see. When's the last time you've been to the drugstore, Lit- tie Miss Normal Food? You know what the shelves are full of? Laxa- tives! Every time I go to the drugstore the person in front of me is buying Ex-Lax. And not just one box. They buy it by the bushel." "That's just old people." "It's not just old people. I see young mothers buying it. I see teenagers buying it. You want to know the truth? This entire country can't do number two!" "Oh, now I really want to eat." "Is this about the bra, Callie? Because if it is, I told you—" "Mo-om!" But it was too late. "What bra?" Chapter Eleven asked. And now, smiling: "Does the Great Salt Lake think she needs a bra?" "Shut up." "Here. My glasses must be dirty. Let me clean them. Ah, that's better. Now let's have a look—" "Shut up\» "No, I wouldn't say the Great Salt Lake has undergone any kind of geological— "Well, your face has, zithead!" 289 "Still as flat as ever. Perfect for time trials." But then Milton shouted, "Goddamn it!"— drowning us both out. We thought he was tired of our bickering. "That goddamn judge!" He wasn't looking at us. He was staring at the front page of The Detroit News. He was turning red and then— that high blood pressure we hadn't mentioned— almost purple. That morning, at U.S. District Court, Judge Roth had devised a clever way to desegregate the schools. If there weren't enough white students left in Detroit to go around, he would get them from some- where else. Judge Roth had claimed jurisdiction over the entire "metropolitan area." Jurisdiction over the city of Detroit and the sur- rounding fifty-three suburbs. Including Grosse Pointe. "Just when we get you kids out of that hellhole," Milton was shouting, "that goddamn Roth wants to send you back!" 290 THE UJOLVERETTE . .

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  He rarely fought since joining the tent team, but sometimes his temper got away from him, and he had to pray through at the next altar call. This would be one of those nights. He grabbed the man who held Brother Terrell’s arm.“Now, Dockery, now hold on . . .”As the words left Brother Terrell’s mouth, one of the men took a step toward Dockery, and another landed a punch on Brother Terrell’s jaw. That’s when Dockery went wild. Randall came running with the other tent men and gave us an eyewitness account later that night. He said Dockery punched and kicked and yelled and that it took Brother Gunn, Red, and a couple of others to keep him from killing the man who hit Brother Terrell. Once the tent crew had separated Dockery from the attackers, Brother Gunn, one of the more even-tempered tent men, turned to ask them what they wanted. The largest of the three men shrugged off Red and walked back over to Brother Terrell.“You better git them niggers out from under that tent. I mean clear ’em out.”Brother Terrell spread his good hand in front them, pleading, “Those people came to worship God. I can’t, I won’t, ask ’em to leave.”“It’s on your head, preacher.” The men turned and walked away. One of them lit a cigarette. Dockery started to yell that there was no smoking on the tent grounds, then let it go when Brother Terrell waved him and the others closer.“Look, I got to take the platform. Someone call the law.”Dockery snorted. “Those men probably are the law.”In a tradition that harkened back to the roots of the modern Pentecostal movement, sawdust-trail revivalists had long welcomed blacks and whites under their tents. It all started when the one-eyed son of former slaves, Reverend William Joseph Seymour, founded a storefront church on Azusa Street in Los Angeles. After praying for months for an outpouring of the spirit, Reverend Seymour and his followers began to speak in tongues one day in 1906. They kept at it for the next three years. What became known as the Azusa Street Revival drew thousands of blacks and whites and was characterized by the Los Angeles Times as “. . . a disgraceful co-mingling of the races . . .” Holy Roller churches based on the Azusa Street experience sprang up all over the world, with one notable difference: There was no mingling of the races. Tent evangelists such as Billy Sunday, Aimee Semple McPherson, Jack Coe, and others persevered in interracial worship, but seated blacks and whites in separate sections of their tents when traveling through the South.Not one for half measures, Brother Terrell said others could compromise with the devil, but bless God, he wasn’t afraid to face Satan head-on. “Red, yellow, black, or polka-dotted, we’re all God’s children, and we all sit together under my tent,” he said.Not that we identified with the civil rights movement.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  dinner table, the faraway look of a man who could never stop think- ing about business. Success depends on adapting to new situations. And what situation was newer than this? Flames were climbing the walls; the photo of Jimmy Dorsey was curling up. And Milton was asking himself a few, pertinent questions. For instance: How would he ever run a restaurant in this neighborhood again? And: What do you suppose the already depressed real estate prices would be tomor- row morning? Most important of all: How was it a crime? Did he start the riot? Did he throw the Molotov cocktail? Like Tessie, Mil- ton's mind was searching the bottom drawer of his desk, in particular a fat envelope containing the three fire insurance policies from sepa- rate companies. He saw them in his mind's eye; he read the fire in- demnity coverage, and added them up. The final sum, $500,000, blinded him to everything else. Haifa million bucks! Milton looked around with wild, eager eyes. The French toast sign was in flames. The zebra-skin barstools were like a row of torches. And madly, he turned and hurried outside to the Oldsmobile . . . Where he encountered me. "Callie! What the hell are you doing here?" "I came to help." "What's the matter with you!" Milton shouted. But despite the anger in his voice he was down on his knees, hugging me. I wrapped my arms around his neck. "The restaurant's burning down, Daddy." "I know it is." I began to cry. "It's okay," my father told me, carrying me to the car. "Let's go home now. It's all over." So was it a riot or a guerrilla uprising? Let me answer that ques- tion with other questions. After the riot was over, were, or were there not, caches of weapons found all over the neighborhood? And were these weapons, or were they not, AK-47s and machine guns? And why had General Throckmorton deployed his tanks on the East Side, miles from the rioting? Was that the kind of thing you did to subdue an unorganized gang of snipers? Or was it more in keeping with mil- itary strategy? Was it like establishing a front line in a war? Believe whatever you want. I was seven years old and followed a tank into battle and saw what I saw. It turned out that when it finally hap- 250 pened, the revolution wasn't televised. On TV they called it only a riot. The following morning, as the smoke cleared, the city's flag could once again be seen. Remember the symbol on it? A phoenix rising from its ashes. And the words beneath? Spemmus meliora; resurgct cineribus. "We hope for better things; it will rise from the ashes." 251 miDDLESEK

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  So she decided to kill herself at some point between that ringing phone and crashing, or it was an accident.” “But why wait until you’re six miles off campus to die?” I asked. He sighed and shook his head. “She did like being mysterious. Maybe she wanted it like this.” I laughed then, and the Colonel said, “What?” “I was just thinking—Why do you run head-on into a cop car with its lights on? and then I thought, Well, she hated authority figures. ” The Colonel laughed. “Hey, look at that. Pudge made a funny!” It felt almost normal, and then my distance from the event itself seemed to evaporate and I found myself back in the gym, hearing the news for the first time, the Eagle’s tears dripping onto his pants, and I looked over at the Colonel and thought of all the hours we’d spent on this foam couch in the past two weeks—everything she’d ruined. Too pissed off to cry, I said, “This is only making me hate her. I don’t want to hate her. And what’s the point, if that’s all it’s making me do?” Still refusing to answer how and why questions. Still insisting on an aura of mystery. I leaned forward, head between my knees, and the Colonel placed a hand on my upper back. “The point is that there are always answers, Pudge.” And then he pushed air out between his pursed lips and I could hear the angry quiver in his voice as he repeated, “There are always answers. We just have to be smart enough. The Web says that suicides usually involve carefully thought-out plans. So clearly she did not commit suicide.” I felt embarrassed to be still falling apart two weeks later when the Colonel could take his medicine so stoically, and I sat up. “Okay, fine” I answered. “It wasn’t suicide.” “Although it sure doesn’t make sense as an accident,” the Colonel said. I laughed. “We sure are making progress.” We were interrupted by Holly Moser, the senior I knew primarily from viewing her nude self-portraits over Thanksgiving with Alaska. Holly hung with the Weekday Warriors, which explains why I’d previously said about two words to her in my life, but she just came in without knocking and said that she’d had a mystical indicator of Alaska’s presence. “I was in the Waffle House, and suddenly all the lights went off, except for, like, the light over my booth, which started flashing. It would be like on for a second and then off for a while and then on for a couple of seconds and then off. And I realized, you know, it was Alaska. I think she was trying to talk to me in Morse code. But, like, I don’t know Morse code. She probably didn’t know that.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  I already know what she told me, and that’s all I need to know, and you can be a condescending prick as long as you’d like, but I’m not going to sit around and chat with you about how goddamned much she loved Jake! Now give me my cigarettes.” The Colonel threw the pack on the ground and was up in a flash, a fistful of my sweater in his hand, trying but failing to pull me down to his height. “You don’t even care about her!” he shouted. “All that matters is you and your precious fucking fantasy that you and Alaska had this goddamned secret love affair and she was going to leave Jake for you and you’d live happily ever after. But she kissed a lot of guys, Pudge. And if she were here, we both know that she would still be Jake’s girlfriend and that there’d be nothing but drama between the two of you—not love, not sex, just you pining after her and her like, ‘You’re cute, Pudge, but I love Jake.’ If she loved you so much, why did she leave you that night? And if you loved her so much, why’d you help her go? I was drunk. What’s your excuse?” The Colonel let go of my sweater, and I reached down and picked up the cigarettes. Not screaming, not through clenched teeth, not with the veins pulsing in my forehead, but calmly. Calmly. I looked down at the Colonel and said, “Fuck you.” — The vein-pulsing screaming came later, after I had jogged across Highway 119 and through the dorm circle and across the soccer field and down the dirt road to the bridge, when I found myself at the Smoking Hole. I picked up a blue chair and threw it against the concrete wall, and the clang of plastic on concrete echoed beneath the bridge as the chair fell limply on its side, and then I lay on my back with my knees hanging over the precipice and screamed. I screamed because the Colonel was a self-satisfied, condescending bastard, and I screamed because he was right, for I did want to believe that I’d had a secret love affair with Alaska. Did she love me? Would she have left Jake for me? Or was it just another impulsive Alaska moment? It was not enough to be the last guy she kissed. I wanted to be the last one she loved. And I knew I wasn’t. I knew it, and I hated her for it. I hated her for not caring about me. I hated her for leaving that night, and I hated myself, too, not only because I let her go but because if I had been enough for her, she wouldn’t have even wanted to leave. She would have just lain with me and talked and cried, and I would have listened and kissed at her tears as they pooled in her eyes.

• From The Greatest Controversies of Early Christian History (2013)

  A third example, from chapter | in the Gospel of Mark, is one of the most interesting healing stories involving Jesus. A man who has leprosy comes to Jesus and asks to be healed. Jesus reaches out his hand, touches the man, and says, “| am willing, be cleansed.” In the context of this story, Mark tells us that Jesus felt compassion for the man, but in one of our oldest copies of the Gospel of Mark, the emotion ascribed to Jesus ts anger. It’s likely that one or more scribes were offended by the idea that Jesus would get angry = and changed the text. © Saxtpleo Minkeraok In the original story of Jesus healing a leper in Mark 1, a scribe may have changed Jesus's reaction from anger to compassion. A final change comes to us from the Gospel of Matthew. In Matthew 24:36, Jesus preaches passionately about the coming end of the age. His disciples ask when Jesus will arise, and he says, “No one knows the day or the hour when the end will come, not the angels in heaven, nor even the Son, but the Father alone.” o Scribes who read this passage must have thought it peculiar that Jesus would declare that the Son of God doesn’t know when the end will come. o They dealt with the problem by simply taking out the words; in the changed text, Jesus says, “No one knows the hour, not the angels in heaven, but the Father alone.” Scanned by CamScanner Methods for Reconstructing the New Testament e These intentional changes of the text are sometimes difficult for scholars to detect, and many of them have sparked heated debates. Scholars have devised complicated methods for detecting changes and reconstructing what was probably the oldest form of the text. They look to see what readings are found in the oldest manuscripts, evaluate which manuscripts appear to have the highest quality of text in general, examine the author's style, and consider what kind of text a scribe would be more likely to change. e The problem with these methods is that we don’t have extensive manuscripts of any of the books of the New Testament. We don’t have manuscripts from the I* century and hardly any from the 2™ century to help us reconstruct the text. e Given the limitations of our evidence, scholars continue to debate whether we can ever get back to the original text of the New Testament. Suggested Reading Ehrman, Misquoting Jesus. Parker, The Living Text of the Gospels. OTRO @ititiae 1. Do you think it’s possible ever to know what the original writings of the New Testament actually said? 2. What are the greatest obstacles in reconstructing the original writings of the New Testament? 153 Scanned by CamScanner Who Chose the Books of the New Testament? Lecture 24 he word “canon” comes from the Greek kandén, which originally referred to a straight edge or a measuring rod. It came to mean the

• From Middlesex (2002)

  the casinos and strip clubs in Windsor. In all this traffic Milton lost sight of the Gremlin. He pulled into a line and waited. Suddenly, six cars ahead, he saw Father Mike dart out of line, cutting off another car and slipping into a toll booth. Milton rolled down his automatic window. Sticking his head out into the cold, exhaust-clouded air, he shouted, "Stop that man! He's got my money!" The Customs officer didn't hear him, however. Milton could see the officer asking Father Mike a few questions and then— No! Stop!— he was waving Father Mike through. At that point Milton started hammering on his horn. The blasts erupting from beneath the Eldorado's hood might have been emanating from Milton's own chest. His blood pressure was surging, and inside his car coat his body began to drip with sweat. He had been confident of bringing Father Mike to justice in the U.S. courts. But who knew what would happen once he got to Canada? Canada with its pacifism and its socialized medicine! Canada with its millions of French speakers! It was like . . like a foreign country! Father Mike might become a fugitive over there, living it up in Quebec. He might disappear into Saskatchewan and roam with the moose. It wasn't only losing the money that enraged Milton. In addition to absconding with twenty-five thousand dollars and giving Milton false hopes of my return, Father Mike was abandoning his own family. Brotherly protectiveness mixed with financial and pater- nal pain in Milton's heaving breast. "You don't do this to my sister, you hear me?" Milton fruidessly shouted from the driver's seat of his huge, boxed-in car. Next he called after Father Mike, "Hey, dumb- ass. Haven't you ever heard of commissions? Soon as you change that money you're going to lose five percent!" Fulminating at the wheel, his progress curtailed by semis in front and strip-clubbers behind, . like . . . Milton squirmed and hollered, his fury unbearable. My father's honking hadn't gone unnoticed, however. Customs agents were used to the horn-blowing of impatient drivers. They had a way of handling them. As soon as Milton pulled up to the booth, the official signaled him to pull over. Through his open window Milton shouted, "There's a guy who 507 just came through. He stole some money of mine. Can you have him stopped at the other end? He's driving a Gremlin." "Pull your car over there, sir." "He stole twenty- five thousand dollars!" "We can talk about that as soon as you pull over and get out of your car, sir." "He's trying to take it out of the country!" Milton explained one last time. But the Customs agent continued to direct him to the in- spection area. Finally Milton gave up. Withdrawing his face from the

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "Don'tworry"hesaidtome."Iwon'ttellanyone." "Tell anyonewhat?" "You'relucky I'msuch a liberal andfreethinking typeofguy,"he continued."Mostguys wouldn't besohappytofindout thatthey'd been two-timedby a lesbianwiththeir ownsister.It'ssortofembar- rassing,don'tyou think?ButI'm suchafreethinkerthatI'mwilling to overlookyourproclivities." "Why don't you shut up, Jerome?" "I'llshutupwhenIwantto,"hesaid.Thenheturnedhishead andlookedat me."Youknowwhere youare now? Splitsville, Stephanides.Getoutofhereanddon'tcomeback.And keepyour hands off my sister." Iwasalreadyjumpingup.Mybloodrocketed.Itshotup my spineandranga bellinmyhead,andIcharged Jerome in a blaze of fury.Hewasbiggerthanmebutunprepared.Ihithimintheface. Hetriedto move awaybut I crashed intohim,mymomentum knockinghimtothefloor.Iclimbedonhischest,pinninghisarms withmylegs. Finally Jerome stopped resisting.Helayonhisback andtried to lookamused. "Anytimeyou'refinished,"hesaid. Itwasan exhilaratingfeelingtobeontopofhim. Chapter Eleven hadpinnedmeallmylife.Thiswasthefirst timeI'ddoneittosome- bodyelse,especiallyaboyolderthanme.My longhairwasfalling into Jerome's face.Isweptitbackand forth,tormentinghim.ThenI rememberedsomethingelsemybrotherusedtodo. "No," Jerome cried."Comeon.Don't?' Iletitfall.Like a raindrop.Likeatear. Butneitherofthose things.Thespitplopped rightbetweenJerome's eyes. Andthenthe earthopenedup beneathus.Witharoar Jerome roseup, sendingme backward.My supremacyhadbeenbrief. Nowitwastimetorun. Itookoffacrosstheporch.Ijumped downthestepsandtore acrossthebacklawn,barefoot. Jerome came aftermeinhisDracula getup. Hestoppedtofling offthecoatand I increasedthedistance between us. Through thebackyardsofthe neighboring housesIran, duckingunderpinebranches. Idodged bushesand barbecues.The pine needles gavegoodtraction undermyfeet. FinallyIreachedthe open field beyondandfled intoit.WhenI looked back Jerome was gaining onme. 392 Throughdie high,yellowgrassalongthebayshorewe flew.I jumped overthe historicalmarker,grazingmyfoot,thenhopped in pain and continuedon. Jerome cleareditwithouta hitch.Onthe other sideofthe fieldwastheroad that led backto thehouse.IfI couldget overtherise,Icoulddouble back without Jerome seeing me. The ObjectandIcouldbarricadeourselvesinourroom.I reached thehilland started up. Jerome cameafterme,scowling,still gaining. We werelike runnersin a frieze.Inprofile, with pumpingthighs andknifing arms,wecutthroughtheshin-whippinggrass. By the timeI reachedthebottomofthehill Jerome seemed tobe slowing down. He was wavinghishandindefeat.Hewaswavingitand shoutingsomethingIcouldn'thear ... Thetractorhadjustmadeaturnontotheroad.Highinhisseat, thefarmerdidn'tseeme.Iwaslookingbacktocheckon Jerome. WhenIfinallyturned forward itwastoolate.Rightinfrontofme wasthetractortire.Ihititdeadon.Intheterra-cottadustIwasspun upward into theair.Attheapexofmy arcI sawthe raised plow blades behind, the corkscrewingmetalcoveredwithmud,andthen therace wasover. Iawokelater,inthe backseat of a strangeautomobile.Arattletrap, withblanketscoveringthe seats. Adecalofahooked,flappingtrout was pastedtotherearwindow.Thedriverworearedcap.Thelittle space abovediecap'sadjustable headband showed thebuzzedhair- lineofhis seamedneck. Myheadfelt soft,as ifcoveredingauze.Iwaswrappedinanold blanket, stiffand spoked withhay.Iturnedmyheadandlookedup and sawabeautifulsight.IsawtheObject'sfacefrombelow.My head wasin herlap.Myrightcheekwas flushagainstthewarmup- holstery ofher tummy.Shewas stillinherbikinitopandcutoffs.Her knees werespreadandherredhairfelloverme, darkeningthings.I gazed upthrough this maroonoroxblood space and saw whatI couldof her, thedark bandofherswimsuittop,herclaviclessetfor- ward. She waschewingonecuticle.Itwas goingtobleedifshe kept it up."Hurry," shewas saying,fromtheothersideofdie falling hair. "Hurry up, Mr.Burt." It was thefarmerwhowasdriving.The farmerwhosetractor I'd run into. Ihoped he wasn'tlistening.I didn'twant himtohurry. I 393 wanted thisride togoon for aslong aspossible.The Objectwas strokingmyhead. She'dneverdonethis indaylight before. "Ibeatupyourbrother,"Isaid outoftheblue. WithonehandtheObject swepther hairaway.Thelight knifed in. "Callie!Are youokay?" Ismiledupather."I got him good." "Oh God"she said. "Iwassoscared. Ithought youwere dead. You werejustly— ly"— hervoice broke—"lying thereintheroad!" Thetears cameon,tearsofgratitudenow, notangerlike before. The Objectsobbed.WithaweI beheldthestorm ofemotionracking her.Shedippedherhead. Shepressedher snuffling,wetface against mine and,forthefirstandlasttime, wekissed. We werehidden by thebackrest, by the wallofhair,andwho wasthefarmertotell any- way?TheObject'sanguishedlips metmine,andtherewas asweet tasteand atasteofsalt. "I'mallsnotty,"shesaid,lifting herfaceupagain.Shemanaged to laugh. Butalreadythecar wasstopping.Thefarmer was jumpingout, shouting things.Heswungopenthe backdoor.Twoorderliesap- pearedandliftedmeonto astretcher.Theywheeledmeacrossthe sidewalk intothehospitaldoors.The Object remained atmyside. She tookmyhand.For a moment sheseemedtoregisterhernear nakedness. Shelookeddownatherselfwhenherbarefeethitthecold linoleum. Butsheshrugged thisoff.Alltheway down thehall,until the orderliestold hertostop,sheheldontomyhand.Asthoughit were astringofPiraeusyarn."You can'tcome in,miss,"theorderlies said. "Youhave towaithere."Andsoshedid.But still shedidn'tlet go ofmyhand. Notforawhilelonger yet. Thestretcherwas wheeled down thecorridorandmy arm stretched out towardtheObject.I had already left onmyvoyage.Iwassailing acrossthe sea toanother country. Nowmyarmwastwentyfeetlong,thirty, forty, fifty.Ilifted myhead from thestretchertogaze at theObject.To gaze at theOb- scure Object. Foroncemore shewas becomingamysterytome. Whatever happened toher?Whereisshenow?She stood at theend of thehall, holding myunravelingarm.Shelooked cold,skinny,out of place,lost. It wasalmostasifsheknew we wouldneverseeeach other again.The stretcherwaspicking up speed.My armwasonlya 394

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  I reminded her that a few verses down it warns against plowing with an ox and an ass together and allowing men with crushed testicles to enter the assembly of the Lord.She put her face so close to mine I could count the pores on her nose. “And we don’t do those things, do we?”I backed out of slapping range. “How would we know? I don’t see anyone asking the preachers to drop their pants before they step on the platform.”All those long talks about Brother Terrell and their future had begun to shift the balance of power between my mother and me. She relented finally, saying I could wear my filthy old pants to ride horses, but that was it. I walked outside wearing my abomination and climbed on Red Rose, the bag of bones I had spent the last year trying to ride. I thought she might throw and trample me for my sins, but she settled for her usual routine of scrubbing me against the barbed-wire fence until she was bored, then plodding back to her stall and standing there while I unsaddled her. It was business as usual, but this time my legs weren’t bleeding. Thank you, Levi Strauss. Once I had those jeans on, I didn’t want to take them off. It was so much easier to run, jump, and play baseball. Plus, my skinny legs looked better covered up. Mama threatened to burn them, so I hid whichever pair I wasn’t wearing under my mattress. I sat in the backseat of Brother Terrell’s Thunderbird and smoothed the flounces on my fanciest dress. I always wore a dress when he was around, out of respect, and maybe a bit of fear, too, though he had not come after me with a belt in years. Gary sat beside me and flexed his bicep muscleman-style. “Feel it, just feel it.”I ignored him and looked out the window. The car rocked toward the local diner, with Brother Terrell driving in his signature style: one foot on the gas, the other on the brake, accelerating and slowing down, accelerating and slowing down. Mama sat beside him, almost glamorous in her big sunglasses. Life looked so much better from the white leather interior of the T-Bird. I contemplated ordering something sophisticated for dinner, maybe a club sandwich and a TaB. We were almost to the city-limits sign when Mama turned to Brother Terrell, adjusted her sunglasses, and made one of her announcements.“David, Donna has been taken over by a lesbian spirit.”Gary lowered his arm and we stared at each other. Brother Terrell turned toward Mama, and then back toward the road so fast he jostled his fedora. A lesbian spirit was as bad as it got in our circle. I didn’t know whether to speak up or wait until she said something more, something I could defend myself against.Brother Terrell straightened his hat and shook his head. “What are you talkin’ about?”Mama sniffed and lifted her chin in the air.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  These types are closet sadists and will torture you with their unreachable goals. 142 • The Art of Seduction 5. In 1762, in the city of Turin, Italy, Giovanni Giacomo Casanova made the acquaintance of one Count A.B., a Milanese gentleman who seemed to like him enormously. The count had fallen on hard times and Casanova lent him some money. In gratitude, the count invited Casanova to stay with him and his wife in Milan. His wife, he said, was from Barcelona, and was admired far and wide for her beauty. He showed Casanova her letters, which had an intriguing wit; Casanova imagined her as a prize worth seducing. He went to Milan. Arriving at the house of Count A.B., Casanova found that the Spanish lady was certainly beautiful, but that she was also quiet and serious. Something about her bothered him. As he was unpacking his clothes, the countess saw a stunning red dress, trimmed with sable, among his belongings. It was a gift, Casanova explained, for any Milanese lady who won his heart. The following evening at dinner, the countess was suddenly more friendly, teasing and bantering with Casanova. She described the dress as a bribe—he would use it to persuade a woman to give in to him. On the contrary, said Casanova, he only gave gifts afterward, as tokens of his appreciation. That evening, in a carriage on the way back from the opera, she asked him if a wealthy friend of hers could buy the dress, and when he said no, she was clearly vexed. Sensing her game, Casanova offered to give her the sable dress if she was kind to him. This only made her angry, and they quarreled. Finally Casanova had had enough of the countess's moods: he sold the dress for 15,000 francs to her wealthy friend, who in turn gave it to her, as she had planned all along. But to prove his lack of interest in money, Casanova told the countess he would give her the 15,000 francs, no strings attached. "You are a very bad man," she said, "but you can stay, you amuse me." She resumed her coquettish manner, but Casanova was not fooled. "It is not my fault, madame, if your charms have so little power over me," he told her. "Here are 15,000 francs to console you." He laid the money on a table and walked out, leaving the countess fuming and vowing revenge. When Casanova first met the Spanish lady, two things about her repelled him. First, her pride: rather than engaging in the give-and-take of seduction, she demanded a man's subjugation. Pride can reflect self-assurance, signaling that you will not abase yourself before others. Just as often, though, it stems from an inferiority complex, which demands that others abase themselves before you. Seduction requires an openness to the other person, a willingness to bend and adapt. Excessive pride, without anything to justify it, is highly anti-seductive.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  As the head of the Liberal Party, Gladstone had a nemesis, Benjamin Disraeli, the head of the Conservative Party. He considered Disraeli amoral, a devilish Jew. At one session of Parliament, Gladstone tore into his rival, scoring point after point as he described where his opponents policies would lead. Growing angry as he spoke (as usually happened when he talked of Disraeli), he pounded the speaker's table with such force that pens and papers went flying. Through all of this Disraeli seemed half-asleep. When Gladstone had finished, he opened his eyes, rose to his feet, and calmly walked up to the table. "The right honorable gentleman," he said, "has spoken with much passion, much eloquence, and much— ahem— violence." Then, after a drawn-out pause, he continued, "But the damage can be repaired"—and he proceeded to gather up everything that had fallen 144 • The Art of Seduction from the table and put them back in place. The speech that followed was all the more masterful for its calm and ironic contrast to Gladstone's. The members of Parliament were spellbound, and all of them agreed he had won the day. If Disraeli was the consummate social seducer and charmer, Gladstone was the Anti-Seducer. Of course he had supporters, mostly among the more puritanical elements of society—he twice defeated Disraeli in a general election. But he found it hard to broaden his appeal beyond the circle of believers. Women in particular found him insufferable. Of course they had no vote at the time, so they were little political liability; but Gladstone had no patience for a feminine point of view. A woman, he felt, had to learn to see things as a man did, and it was his purpose in life to educate those he felt were irrational or abandoned by God. It did not take long for Gladstone to wear on anyone's nerves. That is the nature of people who are convinced of some truth, but have no patience for a different perspective or for dealing with someone else's psychology. These types are bullies, and in the short term they often get their way, particularly among the less aggressive. But they stir up a lot of resentment and unspoken antipathy, which eventually trips them up. People see through their righteous moral stance, which is most often a cover for a power play—morality is a form of power. A seducer never seeks to persuade directly, never parades his or her morality, never lectures or imposes. Everything is subtle, psychological, and indirect. Symbol: The Crab. In a harsh world, the crab sur- vives by its hardened shell, by the threat of its pincers, and by burrowing into the sand. No one dares get too close. But the Crab cannot surprise its enemy and has little mobility. Its defensive strength is its supreme limitation. The Anti-Seducer • 145 Uses of Anti-Seduction

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  The cowboy calls as she cuts a lime for her beer, but she can’t bear facing him right then and lets the call go to voicemail. Then he texts: WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU DOING WITH MY WIFE. A follow- up: Are you a fucking psycho? Yes, this is more in line with the drama she expected. The voicemail contains a lot of shouting about Reese being jealous and trying to ruin his life with her Fatal Attraction bullshit. Reese has never seen Fatal Attraction, so she doesn’t totally get the reference, other than to gather it’s clearly another way to call her a psycho. She admires that about her cowboy: He’s something of a cinephile. His message ends with a warning to stay away from him, and most of all, to stay the fuck away from his wife. She watches a trailer for Fatal Attraction on her phone, which makes the insult sharper, but also, she can’t help but notice that Glenn Close, the Reese analogue of the movie's affair, is clearly hotter and more magnetic than whichever actress plays the threatened wife. She imagines that her cowboy must be stalking the streets somewhere, shouting in a park. No way could he yell like that in his own place, with his wife around. She takes her second beer to the window and gazes past her own reflection onto the parked cars. A small man walks a small terrier of some sort, but otherwise, the sidewalks are empty. In a moment of fantasy, Reese tries to calculate whether the cowboy might show up at her place, might try something to hurt her. But no, that isn’t his way. He will simply withdraw himself from her, withhold himself, perhaps indefinitely. That has always been the best way to hurt Reese anyhow. Iris answers the door and glares at Ames from under her rumpled hair, a silk robe wrapped haphazardly about her. “What the fuck, Amy, it’s one in the morning.” Before Ames can answer, Iris gestures him in. “Do you think you can wake her? I don’t want her to wake up to a man in her bedroom.” Iris rolls her eyes and jerks her thumb. “Up the stairs, Freddy Krueger.” Ames follows Iris down a linoleum corridor and up a flight of stairs, into a cozy space with geometric rugs. “Hold on,” Iris instructs, and then goes into a room dimly illuminated with some sort of colored LED lighting, from which Ames hears the murmur of a distinctly male voice, then Iris reemerges and goes into another door. A moment later, Reese comes out, blearily staring at Ames. “What the fuck? It’s one A.M.” 9 I “Thank you!” Iris says. Then she glances in her room. “Maybe we can both put on some music so we don’t hear each other?” Reese waves her hand. “Yeah, girl, get back to it.” Iris glares once more at Ames then shuts her door behind her.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  for hiswife, along withfrustrationwith hismarriage, andboyish, unmarried-feeling excitementaroundthebarladies.Hebenthisface close toZoe's. Her hair wasstillwetfrom the bath,andrichlyfra- grant.He took hisfatherlydelights whileatthesametimehere- maineda man apart.Leftyknew thatallthethingsinhishead couldn't hold together.And soaftergazingonthe beauty ofhischil- dren'sfaces, he liftedthem outofthebedandcarriedthemback to their ownroom. Hereturned andgotinto bed besidehissleeping wife.Gentiy, hebeganstrokingher,moving hishandupunderher nightgown. AndsuddenlyDesdemona's eyesopened. "What areyoudoing!" "Whatdoyou thinkI'm doing?" "I'msleeping." "I'm waking youup." "Shameon you." Mygrandmotherpushed himaway.AndLefty relented.Herolledangrilyawayfromher. Therewasalongsilence beforehespoke. "Idon'tgetanythingfromyou.IworkallthetimeandI get nothing." "YouthinkIdon'twork?Ihavetwochildrentotakecareof." "If you were a normalwife,itmight be worthit formetobe workingallthetime." "Ifyouwere a normalhusband,youwouldhelpwitiithechil- dren." "How canIhelpyou?You don'tevenunderstandwhat ittakesto make moneyin this country.YouthinkI'mhaving a goodtimedown there?" "You playmusic, you drink.I canhearthemusicin the kitchen." "That'smy job.That's whythepeoplecome.Andiftheydon't come,we can't pay ourbills.The wholething rests on me. That's what you don'tunderstand. Iworkalldayandnightandthenwhen I come tobedI can't evensleep. There'snoroom!" "Milton hada nightmare." "I'm having a nightmare every day." He switched the lightonand, initsglow,Desdemonasaw her husband's facescrewedup withamaliceshe'd neverseen before.It was nolonger Lefty's face,nolongerthat ofherbrotheror herhus- band. It was the faceof someone new,a strangershewaslivingwith. 137 Andthis terriblenewface deliveredanultimatum: "Tomorrowmorning,"Leftyspat,"you're goingtogo getajob." The next day, whenLinacameoverforlunch, Desdemona asked her toreadthenewspaperforher. "HowcanIwork?I don't evenknow English." "Youknow alittle." "Weshouldhave goneto Greece.InGreece ahusbandwouldn't make hiswifegooutandgetajob." "Don'tworry,"Linasaid,holding up therecycled newsprint. "Therearen't any."The1932 DetroitTimes classifieds,advertised toa populationoffourmillion,rantojustoveronecolumn. Sourmelina squinted, looking forsomethingappropriate. "Waitress,"Linaread. "No." "Whynot?" "Menwouldflirtwithme." "Youdon't like toflirt?" "Read," Desdemonasaid. "Toolanddye,"saidLina. Mygrandmotherfrowned."Whatisthat?" "Idon'tknow." "Like dyeingfabric?" "Maybe." "Goon," saidDesdemona. "Cigarroller,"Lina continued. "Idon't likesmoke." "Housemaid." "Lina,please.Ican'tbeamaid forsomebody." "Silkworker." "What?" "Silk worker. That'sallit says. Andanaddress." "Silk worker?I'ma silk worker. Iknow everything." "Then congratulations,youhaveajob. Ifit's not gone bythe time you get there." An hour later,dressed for job hunting,my grandmotherreluc- tantiyleft the house. Sourmelina had tried to persuade her to borrow a dress with a low neckline. "Wearthisandno one willnoticewhat 138 kind of Englishyouspeak," shesaid. ButDesdemona set outforthe streetcar in one ofherplaindresses,gray withbrownpolkadots.Her shoes, hat,and handbagwereeach abrownthatalmostmatched. Though preferableto automobiles,streetcars didn'tappealto Desdemona either.Shehadtrouble tellingthelines apart.Thefitful, ghost-powered trolleyswerealways makingunexpectedturns, shut- ding heroff intounknownpartsof thecity.Whenthefirst trolley stopped,she shoutedattheconductor, "Downtown?"Henodded. Sheboarded, flipped down aseat,andtookfrom herpursethe ad- dressLina hadwrittenout.Whentheconductor passedby,she showeditto him. "HastingsStreet? Thatwhat youwant?" "Yes.HastingsStreet." "Stayonthiscarto Gratiot.Then taketheGratiotcardowntown. Get offat Hastings." Atthe mention of Gratiot, Desdemona felt relieved.She and Lefty took the Gratiot line to Greektown. Noweverythingmade sense. So, theydon'tmakesilkinDetroit?shetriumphantiy askedher absenthusband.That's how muchyouknow.Thestreetcarpicked up speed.ThestorefrontsofMackAvenuepassedby,morethan a few closedup,windows soaped over.Desdemonapressedherfacetothe glass,butnow, because shewasalone,shehadafewmorewordsto saytoLefty. If thosepolicemenat EllisIslandhadn'ttaken mysilkworms, Icouldset upacocooneryinthe backyard.Iwouldn'thavetogetajob. We couldmake a lot of money.Itoldyou so.Passengers'clothes,stilldressy in thosedays, nevertheless showedwearandtear:hats gone un- blocked formonths,hemlinesand cuffsfrayed,necktiesandlapels gravy-stained. Onthe curba manheldupahand-paintedsign: WORK-iS-WHAT-I-WANT-AND-NOT-CHARiTY-WHO- WiLL-HELP-ME-GET-A-JOB.-7 YEARS-IN-DETROIT. NO-MONEy.-SENT-AWAY-FURNISH-BEST-OF-REF- ERENCES. Lookat thatpoor man.Mana!Helooks like a refugee. Might as wellbeSmyrna,this city.What's the difference? Thestreetcarla- bored on,moving away fromthe landmarkssheknew,the greengro- cer's, the movietheater, thefire hydrantsand neighborhood newspaper stands. Her villageeyes,which coulddifferentiate be- tween trees andbushes ata glance,glazed over at thesignagealong the route, the meaninglessroman letters swirlingintoone another 139

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Packard hurtlesintothedarkness, skiddingon patches, fishtailing. "Didyoutwo have it allplanned?" heshouts. "Have Linamarry an American citizen soshecouldsponsoryou?" "Whatareyoutalkingabout?"my grandfather triestoreason. "WhenyouandLinagotmarried,I didn'teven knowIwascoming to America.Pleaseslowdown." "Was thattheplan? Findahusband andthenmove intohis house!" Thenever-failingconceitofMinotaur movies. Themonsteral- waysapproachesfromthedirectionyouleastexpect. Likewise, out onLake St. Clair,mygrandfatherhasbeenlooking out forthe Purple Gang, wheninrealitythemonster isrightnexttohim, atthewheel ofthecar.Inthewindfromtheopen door, Zizmo's frizzyhair streamsback like amane. Hishead islowered,hisnostrilsflared.His eyesshinewith fury. "Whoisit!" "Jimmy! Turnaround!Theice!You'renotlooking at theice." "Iwon'tstopunlessyoutellme." "There'snothingtotell.Lina'sagoodgirl.Agoodwifetoyou.I swear!" Butthe Packardhurtles on.My grandfatherflattenshimself againsthisseat. "Whataboutthe baby, Jimmy? Thinkaboutyourdaughter." "Whosaysit'smine?" "Ofcourseit'syours." "Inevershouldhavemarriedthatgirl." Leftydoesn't havetimetoarguethe point.Withoutanswering anymorequestions,herollsouttheopendoor, freeofthecar.The windhitshimlike a solidforce,knockinghimback againsttherear fender.Hewatches as his muffler, inslow motion,windsitself aroundthe Packard's backwheel.Hefeelsit tighten like anoose,but thenthe scarf comesloosefromhisneck,and time speeds up againas Leftyisthrown clear oftheauto.Hecovershis faceas hehitstheice, skidding a greatdistance.Whenhelooksup again,he sees the Packard,stillgoing.It'simpossibletotellif Zizmo istrying to turn, tobrake.Leftystandsup,nothingbroken, and watchesasZizmo hurtles crazilyoninto thedarkness ...sixty yards... eighty...a hundred .. .until suddenlyanother soundis heard. Above the engine 124 roar comesa loudcrack, followed bya scintillationspreading under- foot, as the Packard hits a darkpatchonthefrozen lake. Just like ice, livescrack,too.Personalities.Identities. Jimmy Zizmo, crouching overthePackard'swheel,hasalready changedpast understanding. Right hereis wherethetrailgoescold.I cantakeyou thisfarand no further.Maybeit wasa jealous rage.Ormaybehe was just figuring hisoptions.Weighingadowryagainst theexpenseof raisinga family.Guessing that itcouldn't go on forever,thisboom time ofProhibition. Andthere'sone furtherpossibility: hemighthavebeenfaking the wholething. Butthere's notimeforthese ruminations.Becausetheiceis screaming. Zizmo'sfrontwheelscrash throughthesurface.The Packard, asgracefullyasanelephantstanding on its frontlegs,flips up ontoitsgrille.There'samomentwheretheheadlampsilluminate theiceandwaterbelow,likeaswimmingpool, but then thehood crashesthroughand, with ashowerofsparks,everythinggoesdark. AtWomen'sHospital,Desdemonawasinlaborforsix hours.Dr.Philo- bosian delivered the baby, whosesexwasrevealedintheusual manner: byspreadingthelegsapartandlooking."Congratulations.Ason." Desdemona, withgreatrelief,criedout,"Theonlyhairisonhis head." Lefty arrived at thehospitalsoonthereafterHehadwalkedback toshore andhitched a rideonamilktruckhome.Nowhestood at thewindowof thenursery,his armpitsstillrankwithfear,hisright cheek roughened byhis fallontheiceandhislowerlipswollen. Just thatmorning, fortuitously,Lina'sbabyhadgainedenoughweightto leave theincubator. Thenurses heldupbothchildren.Theboywas named Miltiades afterthe great Athenian general,butwouldbe known asMilton,afterthegreat English poet. Thegirl,whowould grow upwithout afather, wasnamed Theodora, afterthe scandalous empress of Byzantiumwhom Sourmelinaadmired.Shewouldlater getan American nickname, too. But there was somethingelseIwantedto mentionabout those babies. Something impossible to see withthenakedeye.Lookcloser. There. That'sright: One mutation apiece. 125 IRflRRIflGE Oil ICE immyZizmo's funeral was held thirteendayslater bypermission ofthebishop inChicago.Fornearly twoweeksthefamily stayed Vj) athome,pollutedbydeath,greeting theoccasionalvisitor who came topay respects. Blackclothscoveredthemirrors. Blackstream- ers drapedthedoors.Because apersonshouldnevershow vanityin the presence ofdeath,Leftystoppedshavingand by the dayofthefu- neral hadgrownnearly a fullbeard. Thefailure ofthepolicetorecoverthe body hadcaused thedelay. Onthe dayaftertheaccident, two detectiveshadgone outtoinspect thescene. The icehad refrozen duringthenightandafewinchesof new snow hadfallen.Thedetectivestrudgedbackandforth,search- ingfortire tracks, but after ahalf hour gaveup. Theyaccepted Lefty's storythat Zizmo hadgoneice-fishingandmighthavebeendrink- ing.Onedetective assuredLeftythatbodiesoftenturnedupinthe spring,remarkably preserved becauseofthe freezingwater. The family wentaheadwiththeirgrief. FatherStylianopoulos broughtthe case totheattentionofthebishop, whogranted there- questtogiveZizmo anOrthodoxfuneral, providedanintermentcer- emony be held atthegravesideifthebodywere laterfound. Lefty took care ofthefuneral arrangements.Hepicked outacasket,chose aplot, ordered a headstone,andpaidforthe deathnoticesinthe newspaper. In those days Greek immigrants werebeginningtouse funeral parlors, but Sourmelinainsistedthat the viewing be held at 126

• From Middlesex (2002)

  was; it disappeared and reappearedin trafficmuchashedid behind the iconscreenat church. TheEldorado, substantialandboat-like— as was Milton— proved difficult to maneuverinthe late-nightbridge traffic. There werehuge semis.Therewere passenger cars heading for the casinos and stripclubsinWindsor.InallthistrafficMiltonlost sightof the Gremlin.Hepulledinto a lineandwaited.Suddenly,six cars ahead, hesaw FatherMike dartout ofline,cuttingoffanother car and slippingintoa toll booth. Miltonrolleddownhisautomatic window. Sticking hishead outintothe cold,exhaust-cloudedair,he shouted,"Stop thatman!He'sgotmy money!"The Customs officer didn'thear him,however.Miltoncouldsee the officeraskingFather Mikeafew questionsandthen—No!Stop!—hewas wavingFather Mikethrough.At thatpointMiltonstartedhammeringonhishorn. Theblasts eruptingfrombeneaththeEldorado'shoodmighthave beenemanating fromMilton'sownchest.Hisbloodpressurewas surging,andinsidehis car coat his body begantodripwith sweat. Hehad beenconfidentofbringingFather Mike tojusticeintheU.S. courts. But whoknewwhatwouldhappenoncehegottoCanada? Canada with its pacifismandits socialized medicine!Canadawithits millions ofFrench speakers!Itwaslike ... like ... like a foreign country!FatherMikemightbecome a fugitiveoverthere,livingit up in Quebec.Hemight disappearintoSaskatchewanandroamwith themoose. Itwasn'tonly losingthemoneythatenragedMilton.In addition toabsconding withtwenty-fivethousanddollarsand giving Miltonfalse hopesofmy return,FatherMike was abandoning his ownfamily.Brotherlyprotectivenessmixedwithfinancial andpater- nalpaininMilton'sheavingbreast."Youdon't do this tomysister, youhearme?" Milton fruidesslyshoutedfrom thedriver'sseatofhis huge, boxed-in car. NexthecalledafterFather Mike,"Hey,dumb- ass.Haven't youeverheardofcommissions?Soon asyouchangethat money you'regoingtolosefivepercent!"Fulminating atthewheel, hisprogress curtailed by semis infrontandstrip-clubbers behind, Milton squirmedandhollered,his furyunbearable. My father's honkinghadn'tgone unnoticed, however.Customs agents were used tothehorn-blowingofimpatient drivers. Theyhad awayof handling them.As soonasMiltonpulled upto thebooth, theofficial signaledhim topullover. Through his openwindow Miltonshouted, "There's a guywho 507 just came through. Hestole somemoney of mine.Canyouhave him stopped at the otherend? He'sdriving aGremlin." "Pull your caroverthere,sir." "He stole twenty-five thousand dollars!" "We cantalk aboutthatassoonas you pulloverandgetout of your car, sir." "He's tryingtotake itoutofthecountry!"Miltonexplained one last time.But theCustomsagentcontinuedtodirecthimtothein- spectionarea. FinallyMiltongaveup.Withdrawinghisfacefromthe open window,hetook holdofthesteering wheeland obediently be- ganpulling overtotheempty lane. Assoon as hewasclearofthe Customsbooth, however,hestompedatasseledloaferdownonthe acceleratorandthe squealingCadillacrocketed away. Nowitwas something like acarchase.For out onthebridge,Fa- ther Mike, too,hadsteppedonthegas.Snakingbetweenthecarsand trucks,hewasracing toward the international divide,whileMilton pursued,flashinghisbrights to getpeopleoutofthe way. Thebridge roseupover the river in a gracefulparabola,itssteel cablesstrung withredlights.TheCadillac'stireshummedoveritsstriatedsurface. Milton hadhisfoottothefloor, engaging what hecalled thegoose gear.Andnowthedifferencebetween a luxuryautomobileand a newfangledcartooncar beganto showitself.TheCadillacengine roaredwith power. Its eightcylinders fired,thecarburetor suckingin vast quantitiesoffuel.Thepistonsthumpedandjumpedandthe drive wheel spun likemad,asthelong, superherocar passedothersas ifthey were standing still.Seeingthe Eldoradocoming sofast,other drivers moved aside.Milton cut straight throughthe trafficuntilhe spotted the green Gremlin upahead."So muchforyourhigh gas mileage," Milton cried. "Sometimesyou need a littlepower!" Bythis time Father Mikesawthe Eldoradolooming, too.He flooredthe accelerator, buttheGremlin'sengine wasalready working at capacity. The car vibrated wildlybutpickedup no speed.Onand on camethe Cadillac. Milton didn'ttakehisfoot off thepedaluntil hisfront bumper was nearly touchingtheGremlin'srear.Theywere travelmgnow at seventy milesperhour.Father Mike looked up to see Milton'savenging eyesfilling therearviewmirror.Milton,gazing ahead into the Gremlin's interior, sawaslice ofFather Mike'sface. The priestseemed to be asking forforgiveness,or explaininghisac- 508

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Lefty said nothing. After hisoutbursthe hadresumed combing his hair. "Maybe you wanta haremgirl.Isthatright? Youthink Idon't know about those types ofloosegirls,those poutanes) Yes,I do. I'm not so stupid. You like a fatgirlshakingher bellyinyourface? With a jewelin herfat belly?Youwantoneofthose?Letme tellyousome- thing. Doyou know whythoseTurkishgirls covertheirfaces? You thinkit's because ofreligion?No.It'sbecause otherwisenoone can standtolook atthem!" Andnow sheshouted,"Shameon you, Eleutherios! What's the matterwithyou? Whydon'tyouget a girlfrom thevillage?" Itwas atthispoint that Lefty,whowasnowbrushingoff his jacket, called hissister'sattentiontosomething shewasoverlooking. "Maybeyou haven'tnoticed,"hesaid, "but therearen't anygirlsin thisvillage." Which, in fact,waspretty muchthe case.Bithynioshadnever been a bigvillage, but in1922it was smallerthanever.People had begunleavingin 1913, whenthephylloxerablightruinedthecur- rants.Theyhadcontinued toleaveduringtheBalkanWars.Leftyand Desdemona'scousin,Sourmelina,hadgonetoAmericaand was liv- ingnowin aplacecalledDetroit.Builtalongagentieslopeofthe mountain,Bithynios wasn'ta precarious,cliffsidesortof place. It was anelegant, oratleastharmonious,clusterofyellowstuccohouses withred roofs. Thegrandesthouses,ofwhich therewere two, had gikma,enclosed bay windowsthathungoutoverthestreet.The poorest houses, ofwhichthereweremany,were essentiallyone-room kitchens. And thentherewerehouseslikeDesdemonaandLefty's, with an overstuffed parlor,twobedrooms,akitchen, and a backyard privywith aEuropean toilet.Therewerenoshopsin Bithynios, no postoffice or bank,only a church andone taverna.Forshoppingyou hadtogointo Bursa, walkingfirstandthen takingthehorse-drawn streetcar. In1922 there werebarely a hundredpeople livinginthevillage. Fewer than half of thosewerewomen.Of forty-sevenwomen, twenty-onewere old ladies.Anothertwenty were middle-agedwives. Threewereyoung mothers,eachwith a daughter in diapers.One was hissister.That left two marriageablegirls. Whom Desdemonanow rushed to nominate. 28 "What doyoumean mere aren't any girls?What aboutLucille Kafkalis?She's a nice girl. Or Victoria Pappas?" "Lucillesmells,"Lefty answered reasonably. "Shebathes maybe oncea year.On hername day. And Victoria?" Heran afingeroverhis upperlip. cc Victoriahas amustache bigger than mine.Idon't wantto share a razorwith mywife." Withthat, he putdownhisclothing brushand putonhis jacket. "Don'twait up,"hesaid, andleft:the bedroom. "Go!" Desdemona called afterhim. "SeewhatI care. Just remem- ber. WhenyourTurkish wife takesoffher mask,don't comerunning backto thevillage!" But Leftywas gone.Hisfootsteps fadedaway. Desdemona felt the mysterious poisonrisingin herbloodagain. Shepaidno atten- tion. "I don't like eatingalone!" sheshouted,tonoone. Thewind fromthevalleyhadpicked up,asitdidevery afternoon. Itblewthroughtheopenwindowsofthehouse. Itrattledthelatch onherhopechestandherfather'soldworry beadslyingontop.Des- demona pickedthebeadsup.Shebegantoslipthem onebyone through herfingers,exactiyasherfatherhaddone,andhergrandfa- ther,andhergreat-grandfather,performingafamilylegacyofprecise, codified,thorough worrying.As thebeads clicked together,Desde- mona gaveherselfupto them.Whatwasthematterwith God?Why had Hetakenher parentsandlefthertoworryaboutherbrother? What wasshesupposed todo withhim?"Smoking, drinking,and now worse!Andwhere doesheget themoneyforallhisfoolishness? From mycocoons, that's how!"Eachbeadslippingthroughherfin- gers wasanother resentment recordedandreleased.Desdemona, withher sadeyes, her faceofa girlforcedtogrowuptoofast,wor- ried withherbeadslike all the Stephanidesmenbeforeandafterher (right down to me,if I count). Shewent to the window andput herheadout,heardthewind rustiing in thepine trees and the whitebirch.Shekeptcountingher worry beads and, little by little,they did their job. Shefeltbetter.She decided to go on with herlife. Lefty wouldn't comebacktonight. Who cared? Who needed him anyway? Itwouldbe easierforher ifhe never came back. But she oweditto hermothertoseethathedidn't catch someshameful disease or, worse, runoffwithaTurkishgirl. The beads continued to drop, one by one, through Desdemona's 29

• From Middlesex (2002)

  hum of therefrigeratorandthe tickingof theclock.To allthis was added therush ofhis blood,roaring throughthechannelsinhis head. Butno soundcamefrom the doorway. Miltonrelaxed. He tookanother biteofthe sandwich.Gently,ex- perimentally, heloweredhis head ontothecounter. Just for a minute. Whenhe closedhiseyes,the pleasure was immediate. Thenthe door- knob rattled again,and Milton jumped.He shookhishead,tryingto wake himselfup. He putdown thesandwichand tiptoedoutfrom behindthe counter,holding thegun. Hedidn't intendto useit.Theideawas toscarethelooteroff.If thatdidn't work,Milton waspreparedtoleave. TheOldsmobilewas parked outback.Hecouldbe homeintenminutes.Theknobrattled again.AndwithoutthinkingMilton steppedtowardtheglassdoor and shouted,"I'vegotagun!" Exceptitwasn'tthegun.It was the hamsandwich!Miltonwas threateningthelooterwithtwopiecesof toasted bread, asliceof meat,andsomehotmustard.Nevertheless,becauseit was dark out, thisworked. The looteroutsidethe doorhelduphishands. It was Morrison from acrossthe street. Miltonstared at Morrison.Morrisonstared back. Andthen my fathersaid—thisiswhatwhitepeoplesayinasituationlikethis, "CanIhelpyou?" Morrison squinted, disbelieving."Whatyoudoinghere,man? Youcrazy? Ain'tsafeforno whitepeopledownhere."Ashotrang out.Morrison flattened himselfagainstthe glass."Ain'tsafe forno- body." "I've gottaprotectmy property." "Youlife ain't you property?" Morrisonraisedhiseyebrowstoin- dicate theunimpeachable logicofthisstatement.Then hedropped thesuperior expression altogether andcoughed."Listen,chief, long asyouhere, maybeyoucan help meout."Heheldup smallchange. "Came overfor some cigarettes." Milton's chindipped, fatteninghisneck, andhiseyebrowsslanted in disbelief. In a dry voicehe said,"Now'd bea goodtimetokickthe habit." Another shot rang out, thistime closer. Morrison jumped,then smiled. "It sureisbad formy health.And gettin'moredangerous all the time." Then he smiled broadly. "This'llbemylastpack," he said, 245 "sweartoGod."Hedroppedthechangethrough themail slot."Par- liaments."Milton lookeddown atthecoinsfora momentand then wentandgotthecigarettes. "Gotanymatches?" Morrisonsaid. Milton slippedthesethrough, too.Ashedid,theriots, hisfrayed nerves,thesmelloffirein theair,andtheaudacity ofthisman Mor- risondodging sniperfirefor a packof cigarettesallbecame toomuch forMilton.Suddenlyhe waswavinghisarms,indicating everything, andshouting throughthedoor,"What'sthe matterwith youpeo- ple?" Morrisontookonly a moment. "Thematterwith us," he said,"is you."Andthenhe wasgone. "Thematterwith us is you."Howmanytimesdid Ihearthatgrow- ing up?Delivered by Miltoninhis so-calledblackaccent,delivered whenever anyliberalpundittalkedaboutthe"culturally deprived"or the"underclass"or "empowermentzones,"spoken out ofthe belief that thisonestatement,havingbeendelivered tohimwhilethe blacksthemselves burneddownasignificantportionofourbeloved city, proveditsown absurdity. Astheyearswenton,Miltonuseditas ashieldagainst anyopinionstothecontrary,andfinallyitgrewinto akindofmantra,theexplanationfor whytheworldwasgoingto hell,applicable notonlytoAfricanAmericansbuttofeministsand homosexuals; andthenof course heliked touse iton us, whenever we werelate fordinnerorworeclothesTessiedidn'tapproveof. "The matterwith us isyou!"Morrison'swordsechoedinthe street,butMilton didn'thavetimetoconcentrateon them. Because rightthen,like acreakyGodzillain a Japanese movie,thefirstmili- tary tanklumbered intoview. Soldiersstoodonbothsides,notcops nowbutNational Guardsmen,camouflaged, helmeted,nervously holdingrifleswith bayonets.Pointingthoseriflesupat alltheother riflespointing down.There wasa momentof relativesilence,enough for Miltontoheartheslamming of Morrison's screen dooracross the street.Thentherewas apop,asound like a toygun,and suddenly thestreetlit up withathousand bursts offire . .. Iheardthem,too,from aquartermileaway. Followingthe slow tank at a discreetdistance,Ihadriddenmybike fromIndianVillage onthe EastSideallthewaytothe West. Itriedtokeep mybearings 246

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  daycare she liked the thoughtless way a child would reach to take her hand. She liked watching kids puzzle out something new, their wonder, their awe and excitement, which was, when she let it be, contagious. She liked their sudden acts of altruism. She recalled this one kid at the daycare, maybe four years old, who built a tower out of blocks then tugged on her sleeve with the offer, “Do you want to kick it down?” He understood that the knockdown was the best part of building and he wanted to give it to her. Who else could give you something so pure but a child? In the lobby, the group of trans women from the cable show whom Reese had noticed earlier swirl by in their gowns, and one of them gives Reese a nod. She might have stopped to chat, but something about Reese’s face, or the intensity on the faces of these two people who sat with Reese stopped her. Reese waits for her to pass, and when she responds to Katrina the words flow easily, borne by a current of anger, with none of her usual arch reticence. “I want to be a mom for the usual reasons. Most people have a hard time putting them into words. The kind of thing that people usually call a biological clock, which isn’t a term that works for me, but still describes something I feel in my body. Yes, I agree with you. The women you're talking about, the marginalized women—they’re told that they shouldn’t have children, not that they shouldn’t want children. The wanting of children seems to be an accepted universal fact for women everywhere. Not to play the trans exception card, but I’m sorry, it’s not the same for transsexuals. It’s not considered natural when I say that my biological clock is ticking, because I’m not granted a biological clock in the first place. I ache when I see other moms with kids. I’m so jealous. It’s a jealousy of my body, like hunger. I want children near me. I want that same validation that other moms have. That feeling of womanhood placed in a family. That validation is fine for cis women, but it gets treated as perverted for me. Like, the only reason ‘a man in a dress’ would want to be near kids is not a good one. Let’s come out and admit it: Everyone acts like moms are real women and real women become moms. Women who never have kids get treated like silly whores, obsessed with themselves, lacking some basic capacity to love.” Ames, silent until now, allowing the discussion to play out, interjects, “No one thinks that women without children are silly whores.”

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  “All right, all right,” said Ben, like a baby Matthew McConaughey, and stepped on the gas, so that the Beamer peeled out, streamers of blonde trailing. It was, in high school boy terms, a really cool moment. Even the captain’s lieutenants betrayed her. They gossiped that when she had tried to break up with James, he didn’t even give a fuck. He just hopped into a convertible car without saying a word, without even opening a door. The whole thing was yet another little deus ex machina that turned Amy’s anguished dissociated yearning into the act of an aloof coolness, cementing Amy’s reputation as a broody James Dean to be reckoned with, but furthering her from any possibility of anyone she knew ever seeing past that. Years later, the deus ex machina had returned, another slick reddish BMW to chariot her through a crucial moment of humiliation. 9 I “All right,” said the Uber driver when she slid in, assessing her curled hair and the way her work skirt had snagged and ridden nearly up to her ass. He punched the gas and they were off. “T need you to drive fast,” Amy told the driver, a young guy who had a Dominican flag hanging from the mirror and reggaeton playing softly, a compromise with the tastes of Manhattanite Uber customers ordering a luxury car. “Can you do that?” He grinned. “Oh, hell yes.” As the RPMs revved, the stereo automatically adjusted the music volume higher to compensate, giving the man a beat to which to drive. Still, flying cinematically across lower Manhattan cannot actually occur without the necessary movie permits and advance planning to facilitate it, so they less shot through lower Manhattan than crept their way through it, with her driver honking and gesticulating heroically. “Why the rush, though?” he asked at a stoplight. “My partner is cheating on me,” Amy said, divulging to him the purpose of a mission she hadn’t at that point even permitted herself to acknowledge. “Oh, you have a boyfriend?” The tone made his disappointment clear. “Sort of,” said Amy. She had stopped declaring herself a lesbian to strange men a long time ago. “Sort of?” Then he answered his own query. “Yeah, I guess you won't have one after you catch him, huh?” At this conclusion he redoubled his efforts. On the Williamsburg Bridge he finally had the room to show off his car’s acceleration, and so he did, hitting seventy miles an hour before braking hard and wrenching the wheel to the left at the backup at the entrance to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, slurring his car across a lane, cutting off a Maytag appliance truck and barreling out the exit chute onto Broadway. Amy checked her phone. Reese’s R was moving. It was heading northward. 9 I “Oh shit,” she cried. “They’re on the move “Are they running? Did they get a tip-off that you’re coming?”