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.

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• 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?”

• From Middlesex (2002)

  boat's stern. In moonlight,neatly stacked,twelvewooden crates gleam. "NowIrun a railroad ofmyown,"saysZizmo. "Startunloading." Theprecisenatureof Jimmy Zizmo's importing businesswas thus revealed. Hedidn'tdealindriedapricots fromSyria,halvah from Turkey,andhoneyfromLebanon.He imported HiramWalker's whiskeyfromOntario, beerfromQuebec, andrumfromBarbados by wayoftheSt.LawrenceRiver.A teetotalerhimself,hemade his livingbuyingandselling liquor. "If theseAmerikaniarealldrunks, whatcan I do?"hejustified,driving away minutes later. "Youshouldhave told me!"Lefty shouted,enraged."Ifwe get caught,I won'tgetmycitizenship.They'llsend mebacktoGreece." "Whatchoice doyouhave?Youhaveabetter job? Anddon'tfor- get.YouandI,wehavebabiesonthe way." Sobeganmygrandfather's iifeofcrime.Forthenexteight monthsheworkedinZizmo'srum-runningoperation,observingits odd hours, gettingupinthemiddleofthenightandhavingdinnerat dawn.Headoptedtheslangoftheillegaltrade,increasinghisEn- glish vocabularyfourfold.Helearnedtocallliquor"hooch,""bingo," "squirreldew," and "monkey swill."Hereferredto drinkingestablish- ments as "boozeries," "doggeries,""rumholes,"and "schooners." He learnedthelocationsofblindpigsalloverthecity,thefuneralparlors thatfilled bodiesnotwithembalmingfluidbut withgin,the churches thatofferedsomethingmorethansacramentalwine,and thebarbershops whoseBarbicidejarscontained "blueruin."Lefty grewfamiliar withtheshorelineoftheDetroitRiver, itsscreenedin- letsandsecretlandings. Hecouldidentify policeoutboardsatadis- tanceof aquartermile.Rum-runningwasatricky business.The majorbootiegging was controlled by thePurpleGang andtheMafia. Intheirbeneficence theyallowedacertain amount ofamateursmug- gling to goon— the day tripstoCanada,the fishing boats out for a midnight cruise. Womentooktheferryto Windsor withgallonflasks undertheirdresses.Aslong as suchsmuggling didn't cut into the mainbusiness,thegangsallowed it.But Zizmo was farexceeding the limit. Theywentout five tosixtimes a week.The Packard's trunkcould fitfour cases of liquor, itscommodious, curtained backseateight more.Zizmorespected neitherrules nor territories. "Assoonasthey 112 voted in Prohibition,Iwenttothelibraryandlooked ata map,"he said, explaining howhe'd gottenintothebusiness."Theretheywere, Canadaand Michigan,almost kissing.SoIbought atickettoDe- troit. WhenIgothere,Iwasbroke.I wentto seea marriagebroker in Greektown.The reason IletLinadrive thiscar?Shepaidfor it." Hesmiled withsatisfaction, butthenfollowedhis thoughts a little further andhisfacedarkened."I don'tapproveof womendriving, mindyou.Andnow they gettovote!" Hegrumbled to himself. "Re- memberthat play wesaw?Allwomen arelikethat.Given thechance, they'dall fornicatewith abull." "Thoseare just stories, Jimmy," said Lefty."Youcan't takethem literally." "Whynot?"Zizmocontinued. "Womenaren't likeus.Theyhave carnalnatures.Thebestthing todowiththemis toshutthem up in a maze." "Whatareyoutalkingabout?" Zizmo smiled."Pregnancy." It was like amaze.Desdemona kept turning thiswayandthat,left side,rightside, tryingtofindacomfortable position.Withoutleav- ingher bed,shewanderedthedarkcorridors ofpregnancy, stum- bling overthe bonesofwomenwhohad passedthiswaybeforeher. Forstarters, her mother,Euphrosyne(whomshe wassuddenly be- ginning toresemble), her grandmothers, hergreat-aunts, andallthe women beforethemstretchingbackinto prehistoryright back to Eve, onwhose wombthecursehadbeenlaid. Desdemonacameinto aphysical knowledge ofthesewomen,sharedtheir painsandsighs, theirfear and protectiveness, theiroutrage, theirexpectation. Like them she put a hand toher belly,supporting theworld;shefeltom- nipotent and proud;andthenamuscleinherback spasmed. Igive you nowtheentire pregnancyin timelapse.Desdemona, at eight weeks, lies on herback,bedcoversdrawn uptoherarmpits. The light at thewindow flickerswiththe changeofdayandnight. Her body jerks; she'son herside,herbelly;thecoverschange shape. A wool blanket appearsand disappears. Foodtraysflytothebedside table, then jump away beforereturning. But throughout themad dance of inanimateobjectsthecontinuityofDesdemona'sshifting body remains at center.Herbreastsinflate.Hernipples darken. At fourteen weeks herface begins togrow plump, so that forthefirst 113 timeI canrecognizetheyiayiaofmychildhood. Attwenty weeks a mysterious linestartsdrawing itselfdownfromhernavel. Herbelly rises like Jiffy Pop.Atthirtyweeksherskin thins,andherhair gets thicker.Hercomplexion,palewithnausea atfirst,growsless sountil there itis: a glow.The biggershegets,themorestationary. Shestops lyingonherstomach.Motionless,sheswells towardthecamera.The window'sstrobeeffectcontinues. Atthirty-six weeks shecocoons herselfinbedsheets.Thesheetsgoupand down,revealingherface, exhausted,euphoric,resigned,impatient. Hereyesopen.Shecries out. Lina wrappedherlegsin putties topreventvaricoseveins.Wor- riedthatherbreathwasbad,shekeptatinofmintsbesideher bed. Sheweighedherselfeach morning, bitingherlowerlip.Sheenjoyed her new buxom figurebut fretted about the consequences."My breastswillneverbethesame.Iknowit.Afterthis,justflaps.Likein theNationalGeographic."Pregnancymadeherfeel too muchlike an animal.Itwasembarrassingtobesopubliclycolonized.Herfacefelt onfireduringhormonesurges.Sheperspired;hermakeupran.The entireprocess wasa holdoverfrommoreprimitive stages ofdevelop- ment.Itlinkedherwiththelowerformsoflife.Shethoughtof queen bees spewing eggs. Shethoughtofthecollienextdoor,dig- gingitsholeinthebackyardlastspring. The onlyescapewas radio. She woreherearphonesinbed,onthe couch,inthebathtub.Duringthesummershe carriedherAeriola Jr. outsideand satunderthecherrytree.Filling herheadwithmusic, sheescaped herbody. Onathird-trimesterOctobermorning, a cab pulled up outside 3467Hurlbut Streetandatall,slender figureclimbedout.He checkedthe addressagainst a pieceofpaper, collectedhisthings— umbrellaand suitcase—andpaidthe driver.Hetook offhishatand staredintoit asthoughreadinginstructions alongthe lining.Thenhe putthe hatbackon andwalked up ontothe porch. Desdemona andLina both heardthe knocking.Theymetatthe frontdoor. Whenthey opened it,the man lookedfrom bellyto belly. "I'mjust in time,"he said. It was Dr. Philobosian. Clear-eyed, clean-shaven, recoveredfrom hisgrief. "I saved youraddress." Theyinvited him inandhetoldhis 114

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Milton hadn't told Tessiewherehe was goingfor a numberofrea- sons.First, he was afraidshewould stophim.She wouldtellhim to callthe police, andhedidn't want tocallthepolice. Thekidnapper had told him nottoinvolve thelaw. Besides,Milton hadhadenough of cops and theirblaseattitude. The only wayto get something done was to doit yourself.Ontop ofall that,thiswholething might be a wild-goosechase. IfhetoldTessieaboutitshewouldonlyworry.She might callZoeand thenhe'd get anearful fromhis sister.In short, Milton was doingwhathe alwaysdid whenitcameto important de- cisions. Likethetimehejoinedthe Navy, orthetimehemovedusall to GrossePointe, Miltondidwhateverhe wanted, confidentthathe knew best. Afterthelast mysteriousphonecall,Miltonhadwaited for an- other.The followingSundaymorningitcame. "Hello?" "Goodmorning,Milton." "Listen,whoever you are.Iwantsomeanswers." "I didn'tcalltohearwhatyouwant,Milton. What'simportantis whatIwant." "Iwantmydaughter.Whereisshe?" "She'sherewithme." The music,orsinging, was stillperceptibleinthebackground.It reminded Miltonof something long ago. "How do I knowyouhaveher?" "Whydon't you ask me aquestion? She'stoldmealotabouther family. Quite a lot." Therage surging through Miltonatthat momentwasnearlyun- bearable. Itwas allhe coulddotokeepfrom smashing the phone againstthe desk.At the sametime,he was thinking,calculating. "What's thename of thevillagehergrandparentscamefrom?" "Just aminute." The phone was covered.Thenthevoicesaid, "Bithynios." Milton's knees went weak. Hesatdown at thedesk. "Do youbelieve me yet,Milton?" "Wewent tothesecaverns in Tennessee once. Arealrip-off tourist trap. Whatwere theycalled?" Again thephone wascovered. In amomentthevoicereplied, "The Mammothonics Caves." 500 Atthat Miltonshot upout ofhischair again.Hisfacedarkened andhe tuggedat his collarto helphimselfbreathe. "Now Ihavea question, Milton." "What?" "How muchis it worth to you togetyourdaughter back?" "How muchdoyou want?" "Is thisbusiness, now?Arewe negotiating adeal?" "I'mreadyto makeadeal." "How exciting." "What doyouwant?" "Twenty-five thousanddollars." "Allright." "No, Milton,"thevoicecorrected, "youdon't understand. Iwant to bargain." "What?" "Haggle,Milton.Thisis business." Miltonwas perplexed.Heshookhisheadattheoddityofthisre- quest.But intheendhefulfilledit. "Okay. Twenty-five'stoomuch.I'llpay thirteen thousand." "We'retalkingaboutyourdaughter,Milton.Nothotdogs." "Ihaven'tgotthatkindofcash." "Imighttaketwenty-twothousand." "I'llgive youfifteen." "Twentyis aslowas I cango." "Seventeenismyfinal offer." "How aboutnineteen?" "Eighteen." "Eighteenfive." "Deal." Thecaller laughed. "Oh,thatwasfun, Milt." Then,inagruff voice: "ButIwant twenty-five."Andhehung up. Backin 1933, adisembodiedvoicehadspoken to my grand- motherthrough theheating grate.Now, forty-two yearslater, adis- guised voice spoke tomyfatheroverthephone. "Goodmorning, Milton." There was themusic again,thefaintsinging. "I'vegotthe money," saidMilton. "NowIwant mygirl." "Tomorrow night,"the kidnapper said. And thenhe toldMil- 501 ton whereto leavethemoney, andwheretowait formeto be re- leased. Across the lowland downriverplain Grand TrunkrosebeforeMil- ton's Cadillac. Thetrainstationwasstillinusein 1975, though just barely. The once-opulentterminalwasnowonly a shell. FalseAmtrak facades concealed theflaking,peelingwalls. Most corridorswere blocked off. Meanwhile,all around theoperativecore, thegreatold buildingcontinued tofallintoruin,theGuastavino tilesinthePalm Court falling, splinteringontheground, the immensebarbershop now ajunk room,theskylightscavedin,heapedwith filth.Theoffice towerattachedto theterminalwasnowathirteen-story pigeon coop, all fivehundredofits windowssmashed, as ifwithdiligence.Atthis same trainstationmygrandparentshadarrived a half centuryearlier. Lefty and Desdemona,onetimeonly,hadrevealedtheirsecrethere toSourmelina;and now theirson,who never learned it,waspulling inbehindthestation,alsosecretiy. A scenelikethis, a ransom scene, callsfor a noirishmood:shad- ows,sinistersilhouettes.Butthe sky wasn'tcooperating.Wewere havingone ofour pink nights. Theyhappenedeveryso often,de- pending ontemperatureandthelevelof chemicalsinthe air.When particulatematterin the atmospherewassufficient,lightfromthe groundgottrapped andreflectedback, andtheentire Detroitsky would become thesoftpinkofcottoncandy.It never gotdarkon pink nights, butthelight wasnothinglike daytime.Ourpinknights glowedwith therawluminescence ofthe nightshift,offactories run- ningaround the clock. Sometimesthesky wouldbecome asbrightas Pepto-Bismol, butmore oftenit wasa muted,afabric-softenercolor. Nobody thought it wasstrange. Nobody saidanythingaboutit. We hadall grownup with pinknights. They werenotanatural phenom- enon, buttheywere natural tous. Under thisstrange nocturnal sky Miltonpulledhiscar ascloseto the train platformas possible and stopped. Heshutoff theengine. Taking thebriefcase,he got outinto thestill, crystalline winterairof Michigan. Allthe world wasfrozen, the distanttrees,the telephone lines, the grassin the yards of thedownriverhouses, theground itself. Out onthe rivera freighter bellowed.Herethere wereno sounds, the station completely deserted atnight.Milton hadon his 502

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  In fact, HIV is one of the original trans flavors! Check your recipe books. Back in the eighties the big institutions looking at AIDS noticed a population with wildly high rates of infection—a population that wasn’t captured in the usual categories of “gay” or “Men Who Have Sex with Men.” A certain kind of people slipped through the gaps, people who went by all sorts of names: transvestites, drag queens, sissies, cross-dressers, transgendered, transsexuals, fairies, and on and on. But institutions require categorical names in order to function—the guys at the CDC can’t be writing a new grant or reworking studies every time a nancy starts calling herself a nelly. So they assigned a name to this population: the umbrella term “transgender’—and since transgender women wanted access to resources, that’s what we ended up calling ourselves. But make no mistake, HIV and the invention of transgender women are inextricable. Transgender is the name selected to recognize a vector of disease. But maybe it couldn’t have been any other way? Don’t HIV and gentrification always go together? How else do you forget a plague? Isn’t HIV exactly the symbol of an indigestible queerness that even the most assimilated queers haven’t figured out how to break down? No, those wounds have never healed, they have only been built over and moved past—only been gentrified. No wonder Katrina choked when she caught even a whiff of HIV flavor. At this point in her rant, Reese’s fury begins to sputter. The more she thinks about it, the more she loses her grip on righteousness, and the more the hurt of betrayal licks at her. Maybe motherhood with Katrina would never have worked in the first place. If Katrina would give up over this, maybe it was inevitable that she would give up at some point anyway—she was just waiting for the spell to break. And Reese doesn’t want a fight. She wants Katrina to understand that Reese hasn’t done anything wrong—or okay, nothing that is really any of Katrina’s business, certainly nothing on the level of ending life plans. They have a child together! Sort of! How could Katrina put their baby at risk? Reese sets her laptop to the side of her in bed, her email still open, half-written. Isn’t this what this exercise was for anyway? To burn out her anger before she does something stupid? To show her what really matters? A despondence indistinguishable from sleep overcomes her.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Reese shook her head unhappily. Everyone knew that rules didn’t apply to Babs. Babs was like if the Most Interesting Man in the World from the Dos Equis beer commercials were actually a trans femme. One of those nonbinary beauties whose impossible-to-properly- gender gorgeousness was so discomfiting that, faced with her, people took an involuntary and alarmed step backward, as if they had just opened the door to their house and glimpsed inside to see all their belongings ablaze. One could not include Babs in any kind of meaningful comparison. Babs and her daughter were probably riding around the mangrove forests on a pair of manatees or something, even as Reese and Thalia discussed them. “Look,” Thalia finally said, after Reese had refused any hope that a Babs comparison might offer, and so forced Thalia to move on to a more aggressive line of argument, “I can’t make you stop feeling sorry for yourself.” She raised her voice to cut any attempt for Reese to disagree. “But,” Thalia continued, “I can drag you to Riis with me. It’s supposed to be the first warm day of the year, so everyone is going, and maybe there you will remember you have friends who aren’t detransitioners and yuppies.” Thalia is right. They arrive at a beach clear of both Ames the Detransitioner and Katrina the Yuppie. But Reese cannot twist this lack into a benefit. Something has curdled in her overnight. Ricky, the trans boy with the motorcycle whom Reese had once dated many years back, sits beside Reese on her towel and recounts his spring, mentioning a series of protests he helped to organize in response to bathroom bills and the banning of trans children in schools and sports. Reese has not attended any protests. Ricky’ monologue, though seemingly about his own exploits, is a manner of gentle prodding that he has mastered the last few years, as he’d entered his thirties and made the move from party boy to trans activist. Reese reads his meaning plainly: What has happened to you, Reese? Why don’t we see you anymore? Aren’t you one of us? In fact, don’t you have a responsibility to us? She is unable to respond clearly to this subtext, and dissembles, unwilling to talk to him about anything so square as the child or family that preoccupy her, then lapses into silence. He waits a few moments, then makes an excuse, and goes off to talk to a group of guys admiring each other’s swim shorts beside a boom box thumping Latin trap. Reese watches him go. She wishes she had said to him: I am angry. I don’t care about your protests. They are not enough. Then she feels ashamed of herself. Why does she deserve to be so angry? What has she truly lost? Quietly, to herself, she answers her own question: I have lost a child.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  future moment, Amy would find the shame of this moment intolerable, the image of herself reflected in Reese’s scorn—scorn for the posturing vestigial instinct of a once-male, indignant with the rage of insulted masculinity, dressed ridiculously in the outfit of a demure woman. But in the present Amy didn’t have the time nor inclination to gather up the implications of Reese’s expression. Amy’s anger had a blinkered momentum unto itself. She could as much parse the meaning of Reese’s scorn from inside her rage-fugue as count the passing floors while falling from a skyscraper. Meanwhile, Stanley had stepped closer. He really was very big. “Yeah, I know all about you. You were the one who moved her out of my apartment. You came into my apartment and took what was mine. You violated my space and stole from me. I have a lot I owe you.” He seemed to be talking almost to himself now. Working himself up. “Stanley!” Reese shrieked. She pushed past Amy’s shoulder to throw herself between them. Casually, Stanley grabbed her as she came and flung her into a heap on the grass behind him. Reese was larger than Amy, and he tossed her without strain. Fury roared over the chorus that pleaded for caution at the edge of Amy’s mind. Amy hit Stanley then, striking with a guttural bellow as Stanley turned back away from Reese. Closed fist, solidly on his jaw, near his ear. Stanley staggered, taking a step backward. Reese screamed, and Amy looked away from Stanley, over at her. Then Amy saw white, like when she was a kid, lying on her back in gym class, staring up at those big aluminum-caged halide lights that left trails across her vision, even with her eyes closed. The concrete of the sidewalk cracked against the side of her face, and a thump to her midsection stole all breath from her. She gasped but her lungs would not fill. Short breaths in the fading halide light. She cracked her eyelids, and saw Stanley opening the door to his SUV. “Reese, get in the car,” he commanded. But Reese, still on the ground, ignored him, and half pulling herself up, moved toward Amy. “Faggots,” Stanley spat. Amy heard the jingle of his keys, the slam of a car door, and the ignition. She opened her mouth to pull in more air. And when she exhaled, it was a loud deep sob. The shock of what had just happened, how quickly, pressed away all will. Her white blouse was turning transparent in the rain. Her skirt had ripped, and her legs and panties were showing. Her tuck had come partially undone—balls out the side of her panties, hanging dainty and vulnerable over the damp concrete. She pressed her legs together in shame. People in the park had stood up to peer and drivers had stopped, trying to make sense of the scene through the streaks of their windshield wipers.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  “What? Not at all. I’ve only seen a handful since I moved here, and I don’t know them.” The question amuses Thalia. She turns, taking a couple backward steps. “Reese and Iris are trying to escape the rest of us.” “Oh, okay.” Katrina nods. “I asked because there’s a sign that says ‘Tranny’ right there.” Of literally all the things this cis lady might say in front of Thalia! Reese flinches. Thalia’s graceful body freezes rigor mortis—stiff and she asks, “Did you say ‘tranny’?” Katrina points across the street. “Right there. Tranny.” Reese whirls. Pasted on the front wall of the Brooklyn Bazaar is an amateurish black-and-white graffiti-style poster with a single giant word: TRANNY. Reese can’t make sense of it. She and Thalia have come fresh from a funeral. As she stands there gaping, anti-transgender bills ferment in various state senates. Even the liberal media—The New York Times and The New Yorker and New York magazine—have taken to publishing anti-trans screeds penned by conservatives, the editors disingenuously wringing their hands and pleading “balance” or “wait for the science.” Radical feminists and Christian fundamentalists have teamed up to insist that trans women are all pedophiles, that such predators can’t be trusted around children or in women’s spaces. Every year, the list of murdered trans women, most of color, grows longer. Among those cases, the number of victims who were misgendered in their own obituaries is greater than the number of victims whose murderer has been identified. But all of that has been far away from Reese. She lives in Greenpoint specifically because it is all far away. That is news that lives on the Internet. Not on her walk down the street. She spots another similar poster: TRANNY. Only this one has an indistinct face and a date. Suddenly, she realizes what the posters want to advertise: a promotional tour by Laura Jane Grace, the transgender lead singer of the punk band Against Me!, for the release of a memoir titled with the same slur. And suddenly Reese is furious. These rich trans bitches. These fucking assholes who transition with hundreds of thousands or millions of dollars to protect them from ever hearing someone say “tranny” to them on the street, so that one day, they can write tranny on the streets themselves, and congratulate themselves on being so punk. As if, in a climate of political dread, no one has ever written jew, or faggot, or hung a noose, or painted a swastika where some poor target tried to pass a small life. Katrina looks back and forth, from Reese to Thalia, aware that a minor drama largely illegible to her is being written. “T guess it’s the title of a memoir,” Reese says, forcing herself to shrug. “Laura Jane Grace,” she adds to Thalia, who clearly can’t yet make sense of the poster.