Anxiety

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 276 of 501 · 20 per page

• From Middlesex (2002)

  bedroom. Just thenight before, Milton's exasperated voicehad reachedmy ears: "You stillgota headache?Christ,take some aspirin." "I took some already," my motherreplied. "Nothinghelps." Thenmy brother's name, andmy fathergrumbling somethingI couldn'tmake out. Then Tessie:"I'm worriedabout Callie,too.Shestill hasn'tgot- ten her period." "Hell,she's onlythirteen.""She's fourteen. Andlook howtall sheis.I think something's wrong."Silence a moment,after whichmy fatherasked, "Whatdoes Dr.Philsay?""Dr.Phil!He doesn'tsay anything. Iwanttotake hertosomeoneelse." The humming ofmyparents' voicesfrombehindmybedroom wall, whichthroughout my childhoodhadfilledmewithasenseof security,hadnow becomea sourceofanxietyandpanic.SoIex- changeditfor wallsofmarble, whichechoedonlywiththesoundof dripping water,oftheflushingofmy toilet,orofmyvoicesoftly readingTheIliadaloud. AndwhenIgottiredof Homer,Istartedreadingthewalls. Thatwasanothersellingpoint of the basementbathroom.Itwas coveredwithgraffiti.Upstairs, classphotosshowedrowsandrowsof studentfaces. Down hereitwas mostiybodies. Sketched inblueink were little men with gigantic sexual parts. Andwomenwithenor- mousbreasts.Alsovariouspermutations:menwithdinkypenises; andwomenwithpenises, too. It wasan educationbothinwhat was andwhatmightbe.Overthegraymarblethisnew, jagged etchingof bodies doingthings,growingparts,fittingtogether,changingshape. Plusalso jokes,wordstothewise,confessions.Inonespot:"Ilove sex."Inanother,"Patty C. is a slut."Whereelsewouldagirllikeme, hiding fromtheworld aknowledgeshedidn'tquiteunderstand her- self—where elsewould shefeelmorecomfortablethaninthis subter- raneanrealm where peoplewrote downwhat they couldn'tsay, wherethey gavevoice totheirmostshamefullongingsand knowl- edge? For thatspring, whilethecrocusesbloomed,whilethehead- mistress checkedonthe daffodilbulbsintheflowerbeds,Calliope, too,felt something budding.Anobscure object allherown,whichin addition to theneedforprivacy was responsibleforbringing her down tothe basementbathroom. Akindofcrocusitself,justbefore flowering. Apink stem pushing up throughdarknewmoss. Buta strange kind offlowerindeed, becauseit seemed togothrough a 329 numberof seasonsin a single day. It haditsdormantwinter when it slept underground.Fiveminutes later,itstirredin aprivatespring- time. Sitting inclasswith abookinmylap, orridinghome incar pool,I'dfeela thaw betweenmylegs,the soilgrowingmoist, arich, peaty aromarising,andthen—whileI pretendedtomemorize Latin verbs— thesudden,squirminglifein thewarmearth beneathmy skirt. Tothetouch, thecrocussometimes feltsoftandslippery,like the fleshof a worm.Atothertimesit wasashardas a root. HowdidCalliopefeelabouthercrocus? Thisis at oncethe easiest andthehardestthingtoexplain.Ontheone handshelikedit.Ifshe pressedthecornerof a textbookagainstit, thesensationwaspleasur- able. This wasn'tnew.Ithadalwaysfeltnice to applypressure there. Thecrocuswaspartofherbody,afterall. Therewasnoreasontoask questions. ButthereweretimeswhenIfeltthatsomething was different abouttheway I wasmade.AtCampPonshewaingI'dlearned,on certainhumidbunkhousenights,ofthebicycle seats andfence posts that had seducedmycampmatesat tender ages. Lizzie Barton,roast- ingamarshmallowon a stick,told us howshehadbecomefondof thepost of aleathersaddle.Margaret Thompson wasthe firstgirlin townwhoseparentsowned a massagingshowerhead.Iaddedmy ownsense datatothese clinicalhistories(thatwastheyearIfellin lovewith gymropes),butthereremainedavague, indefinable gap betweenthestirringsmyfriendsreportedandtheclutchingecstasyof myowndry spasms.Sometimes,hanging downfrommytopbunk intothebeam ofsomeone'sflashlight,I wouldfinishmylittleself- revelation with "Youknow?" Andinthe dimnessthreeorfour stringy-haired girls wouldnod,once,and bitethecorneroftheir lips, and shift their eyesaway.Theydidn'tknow. Iworried attimesthat my crocuswastoo elaborate a bloom,not a common perennial butahothouse flower, a hybridnamed by its originatorlike arose.IridescentHellene.Pale Olympus.GreekFire. Butno— that wasn'tright. Mycrocus wasn't forshow.Itwasina stateof becoming andmightturn out fineif Iwaitedpatientiy. Maybeit happened likethis to everybody.Inthe meantime,itwas best tokeep everything underwraps.Whichwas whatIwas doing downinthe basement. Another tradition atBaker&Inglis: every year theeighthgraders 330

• From Middlesex (2002)

  deny theirfits;and carriersofhereditarydiseases to neglect mention- ing them.My grandparents,unawareoftheirgeneticmutation, con- centrated onthemoreblatantdisqualifications. Anothercategory of restriction: "personsconvictedofacrime ormisdemeanorinvolving moralturpitude." And asubsetofthisgroup: "Incestuousrelations." Theyavoidedpassengerswhoseemed to be sufferingfrom tra- chomaorfavus.Theyfledanyonewith a hackingcough. Occasion- ally, forreassurance,Lefty tookoutthecertificate thatdeclared: ELEUTHERIOS STEPHANIDES HASBEEN VACCINATEDAND UNLOUSED ANDIS PASSEDASVERMIN-FREE THISDATE SEPT. 23, 1922 DISINFECTION MARITIME PIRAEUS Literate, marriedtoonly oneperson(albeit asibling),democratically inclined,mentally stable,andauthoritatively deloused,mygrandpar- entssawnoreasonwhy theywouldhavetroublegettingthrough. Theyeachhadthe requisitetwenty- fivedollarsapiece.Theyalsohad asponsor: theircousinSourmelina. Just theyearbefore,theQuota Act hadreducedthe annualnumbersofsouthernandeasternEuro- peanimmigrants from 783,000 to 155,000. Itwas nearly impossible to get into thecountry withouteither a sponsororstunningprofes- sional recommendations. Tohelptheir own chances,Lefty put away hisFrenchphrase bookand began memorizingfour linesofthe King James NewTestament. TheGiuliawas fullofinside sources familiar withthe Englishliteracy test. Differentnationalitieswere askedto translate differentbits of Scripture.ForGreeks,itwas Matthew 19:12: "Forthere aresomeeunuchs, whichweresoborn fromtheir mother's womb:andtherearesome eunuchs,whichwere made eunuchs ofmen: andthere be eunuchs,whichhavemade themselves eunuchs for thekingdomofheaven's sake." "Eunuchs?" Desdemona quailed. "Whotold youthis?" "Thisis a passagefrom the Bible." "WhatBible? Not the GreekBible. Goask somebodyelsewhat's on that test." ButLeftyshowed her theGreek at thetop of thecardandthe 74 English below.He repeated thepassage word by word,makingher memorizeit, whetherornotshe understoodit. "We didn'thave enougheunuchsinTurkey?Now we havetotalk about themat Ellis Island?" "The Americans letineveryone," Lefty joked."Eunuchsincluded." "They shouldletusspeakGreek ifthey're so accepting," Desde- mona grumbled. Summerwas abandoningtheocean.Onenightitgrew toocold inthe lifeboatto crackthecorset's combination. Insteadthey hud- dledunder blankets,talking. "Is Sourmelinameetingus in New York?" Desdemonaasked. "No.We havetotakea train to Detroit." "Whycan'tshemeetus?" "It'stoofar." "Just aswell.She wouldn'tbeontimeanyway." Theceaselesssea windmadethetarp'sedgesflap.Frost formedon thelifeboat's gunwales.TheycouldseethetopoftheGiulia's smoke- stack, thesmokeitselfdiscernibleonlyasastarlesspatch ofnightsky. (Thoughtheydidn'tknowit,that striped, cantedsmokestack wasal- readyinformingthemabout theirnew home;it waswhispering aboutRiverRougeandthe Uniroyalplant, andtheSeven Sistersand TwoBrothers, buttheydidn't listen;theywrinkled up theirnoses andducked downinthe lifeboatawayfrom thesmoke.) Andifthesmellofindustrydidn'tinsist onenteringmystory already, ifDesdemonaandLefty,whogrew uponapine-scented mountainand whocouldnevergetusedtothepollutedair ofDe- troit, hadn't duckeddownin thelifeboat, thentheymight havede- tected anewaromawaftinginonthebrisk seaair: a humidodor of mudand wetbark.Land.NewYork.America. "Whatarewe goingto tellSourmelina about us?" "She'llunderstand." "Willshe keepquiet?" "There are afewthings she'drather herhusbanddidn'tknow about her." "You meanHelen?" "Ididn't sayathing," saidLefty. They fell asleepafterthat,wakingtosunlight,and a face staring down atthem. 75 "Did you havea good sleep?"Captain Kontoulissaid."MaybeI could getyou a blanket?" "I'm sorry" Leftysaid."We won'tdoit again." "You won'tgetthe chance,"said thecaptain and, toprove his point, pulled thelifeboat'starpcompletely away. Desdemona and Leftysat up. Inthedistance,litbytherising sun,wastheskylineof New York.It wasn'ttherightshape for acity—no domes, no minarets— andittook them a minute to processthetallgeometric forms.Mist curledoffthebay.Amillionpink windowpanesglittered. Closer, crowned withherownsunrays anddressedlike a classical Greek, theStatueofLibertywelcomedthem. "How doyoulikethat?"CaptainKontoulis asked. "I'veseenenoughtorchestolasttherestof mylife,"saidLefty. But Desdemona,foronce,wasmore optimistic."Atleast it'sa woman,"she said. "Maybe here peoplewon't be killing eachother everysingleday." 76 BOOKTill C^D HEI1P FORD'S EJIGLISH-LM1GIIAGE IllELTIJIG POT Everyonewho builds a factorybuildsatemple. — CalvinCoolidge etroitwasalwaysmadeofwheels.Longbeforethe BigThreeand thenickname"Motor City"; beforetheauto factoriesandthe freighters and thepink,chemicalnights;before anyonehad neckedin a Thunderbirdorspoonedin a ModelT;previousto the dayayoungHenry Fordknocked downhisworkshopwallbecause, in devisinghis"quadricycle," he'd thoughtofeverythingbuthowto get the damnthing out;and nearly a centurypriortothecold March night,in 1896, whenCharlesKingtiller-steeredhis horselesscarriage down St.Antoine,along Jefferson, andupWoodwardAvenue (where the two-stroke engineprompdyquit);way,wayback, whenthecity was just a piece ofstolenIndian land locatedonthe straitfromwhich itgotits name, afortfought over bythe BritishandFrench until, wearing them out, itfellintothehandsoftheAmericans;way back then, before carsandcloverleaves, Detroit wasmade ofwheels. Iam nine yearsoldand holdingmyfather's meaty, sweaty hand. Weare standing ata windowonthetopfloorofthePontchartrain Hotel. I have come downtownforourannuallunch date. Iam wear- ing a miniskirt andfuchsiatights.Awhitepatentleatherpursehangs on a long strapfrommyshoulder. 79

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  He cocked his head a little when he saw us, looking confused—and, indeed, we made an odd couple, with Longwell’s pressed and pleated khaki pants and my I-keep-meaning-to-do-laundry blue jeans. “The speaker we picked is a friend of Miles’s dad,” Longwell said. “Dr. William Morse. He’s a professor at a university down in Florida, and he studies adolescent sexuality.” “Aiming for controversy, are we?” “Oh no,” I said. “I’ve met Dr. Morse. He’s interesting, but he’s not controversial. He just studies the, uh, the way that adolescents’ understanding of sex is still changing and growing. I mean, he’s opposed to premarital sex.” “Well. What’s his phone number?” I gave the Eagle a piece of paper, and he walked to a phone on the wall and dialed. “Yes, hello. I’m calling to speak with Dr. Morse?…Okay, thanks…Hello, Dr. Morse. I have Miles Halter here in my home, and he tells me…great, wonderful…Well, I was wondering”—the Eagle paused, twisting the cord around his finger—“wondering, I guess, whether you—just so long as you understand that these are impressionable young people. We wouldn’t want explicit discussions.…Excellent. Excellent. I’m glad you understand.…You, too, sir. See you soon!” The Eagle hung up the phone, smiling, and said, “Good choice! He seems like a very interesting man.” “Oh yeah,” Longwell said very seriously. “I think he will be extraordinarily interesting.” one hundred two days after MY FATHER PLAYED Dr. William Morse on the phone, but the man playing him in real life went by the name of Maxx with two x ’s, except that his name was actually Stan, except on Speaker Day his name was, obviously, Dr. William Morse. He was a veritable existential identity crisis, a male stripper with more aliases than a covert CIA agent. The first four “agencies” the Colonel called turned us down. It wasn’t until we got to the B ’s in the “Entertainment” section of the Yellow Pages that we found Bachelorette Parties R Us. The owner of the aforementioned establishment liked the idea a great deal, but, he said, “Maxx is gonna love that. But no nudity. Not in front of the kids.” We agreed—with some reluctance. To ensure that none of us would get expelled, Takumi and I collected five dollars from every junior at Culver Creek to cover “Dr. William Morse’s” appearance fee, since we doubted the Eagle would be keen on paying him after witnessing the, uh, speech. I paid the Colonel’s five bucks. “I feel that I have earned your charity,” he said, gesturing to the spiral notebooks he’d filled with plans. As I sat through my classes that morning, I could think of nothing else. Every junior in the school had known for two weeks, and so far not even the faintest rumor had leaked out. But the Creek was rife with gossips—particularly the Weekday Warriors, and if just one person told one friend who told one friend who told one friend who told the Eagle, everything would fall apart.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  First FatherMikedidtheleftsideofthechurch. In bluewaves, incense rolled overthegatheredheads.It dimmedthecircular lights of the chandelier. Itaggravated thewidows'lung conditions. Itsub- dued the brightnessofmycousins'suits.Asitwrapped mein itsdry- ice blanket,I breatheditinand begantopraymyself.Please Godlet Dr. Bauernot find anything wrongwithme.Andlet mebejust friends withthe Object.Anddon'tlether forget about mewhilewe're inTurkey. And helpmymothernottobesoworriedabout mybrother.And make ChapterElevengo backtocollege. Incenseserves a varietyofpurposesintheOrthodox church. Sym- bolically,it'san offering toGod.Liketheburntsacrifices inpagan times, thefragrancedriftsupwardtoheaven. Beforethedaysofmod- ernembalming,incensehadapracticalapplication. It covered the smellofcorpses duringfunerals.Itcanalso, wheninhaledinsuffi- cient amounts,create a lightheadednessthatfeelslikereligious rev- erie.Andifyoubreatheinenoughofit,itcanmakeyousick. "What'sthe matter?"Tessie'svoiceinmyear."Youlook pale." I stoppedprayingandopenedmyeyes. "Ido?" "Doyou feel okay?" Ibegantoanswerintheaffirmative.ButthenIstoppedmyself. "Youlookreallypale, Callie,"Tessie said again.She touchedher handtomyforehead. Sickness, reverie, devotion,deceit—theyallcametogether.IfGod doesn'thelp you,you havetohelpyourself. "It'smy stomach,"I said. "What haveyoubeeneating?" "Or notexactiy my stomach.It'slowerdown." "Do youfeelfaint?" Father Mike passed by again.Heswung thecensersohighit nearlytouched thetipofmynose.AndI widenedmynostrilsand breathedin asmuchsmoke as possibletomake myselfevenpaler thanIalready was. "It'slike somebody's twisting somethinginsideme,"I hazarded. Whichmusthave beenmoreorlessright.Because Tessiewasnow smiling. "Oh, honey," shesaid. "Oh,thank God." "You'rehappyI'm sick?Thanks a lot." "You're notsick, honey." 358 "Then what amI?I don'tfeelgood.It hurts? My mother tookmy hand,stillbeaming. "Hurry,hurry," shesaid. "We don't wantan accident." By the timeI closed myselfintoachurchbathroomstall,news ofthe Turkish invasionof CyprushadreachedtheUnitedStates. When Tessieand Iarrived backhome,thelivingroomwasfilled with shouting men. "Our battleshipsare sittingoffthe coastto intimidatetheGreeks," Jimmy Fioretoswas yelling. "Surethey're sittingoff the coast," Miltonnow,"what doyouex- pect? The Junta comesinand throwsMakarios out.So theTurksare gettinganxious. It'savolatile situation." "Yeah,but tohelptheTurks-" "The U.S. isn'thelping theTurks,"Miltonwenton."They just don't wantthe Junta togetoutofhand." In 1922, whileSmyrnaburned,Americanwarshipssatidlyby. Fifty-twoyearslater,offthecoast of Cyprus, theyalsodidnothing. Atleastostensibly. "Don'tbesonaive,Milt," Jimmy Fioretos again. "Whodoyou think'sjammingtheradar?Ifsthe Americans,Milt.It's us." "Howdoyouknow?"myfather challenged. Andnow Gus Panos throughthe holeinhisthroat:"It'sthat god- damned— sssss—Kissinger.Hemust have—ssssss— madea dealwith theTurks." "Ofcoursehedid."PeterTatakisnodded,sippinghisPepsi."Now thatthe Vietnamcrisisisover,HerrDoktorKissingercan get backto playingBismarck. HewouldliketoseeNATObasesinTurkey?This ishis way togetthem." Were theseaccusationstrue?Ican'tsayforsure.All Iknow isthis: on thatmorning, somebodyjammedtheCypriotradar,guaranteeing thesuccess of the Turkishinvasion.DidtheTurks possesssuchtech- nology? No.Didthe U.S. warships?Yes.Butthis isn'tsomethingyou can prove ... Plus,it didn'tmattertome,anyway.Themen cursed,andshook their fingers atthetelevisionand poundedtheradio,untilAunt Zo unplugged them.Unfortunately,shecouldn'tunplug themen. All through dinnerthemenshouted ateachother.Knivesand forks 359 waved inthe air.The argument overCypruslastedforweeks and would finallyput anendtothoseSundaydinnersonce andforall. Butas for myself, the invasionhadonly one meaning. As soonasIcould,I excusedmyself andranofftocalltheObject. "Guesswhat?" Icriedoutwithexcitement."We'renotgoing onva- cation. There'sa war!" Then ItoldherIhadcrampsandthatI'dberightover. 360 FLESHflllDBLOOD 'm quicklyapproachingthemomentofdiscovery:ofmyselfby myself,whichwassomethingIknewallalongandyetdidn't know;andthediscoverybypoor, half-blind Dr. Philobosian of whathe'dfailedtonotice at mybirthand continued tomissduring everyannualphysicalthereafter;andthediscoverybymyparentsof whatkindof childthey'dgivenbirthto (answer:the samechild,only different); andfinally,thediscoveryofthemutatedgenethathadlain buriedinour bloodlinefortwohundredand fifty years,bidingits time,waitingforAtatiirk toattack, forHajienestis to turninto glass, foraclarinettoplayseductively outa backwindow,until,coming to- gether withitsrecessivetwin,itstartedthechainofeventsthatled up tome,here, writinginBerlin. That summer—whilethePresident'slieswerealsogettingmore elaborate— Istartedfakingmy period.WithNixonian cunning,Cal- liopeunwrapped andflushedawayaflotillaofunused Tampax.I feigned symptoms fromheadacheto fatigue. Ididcramps theway Meryl Streepdidaccents.Therewasthetwinge, thedullache, the sucker punchthatmademecurlupon mybed.Mycycle,though imaginary, was rigorouslychartedonmydeskcalendar. Iusedthe catacomb fish symbol x> tomarkthe days.I scheduled myperiods right through December, by which timeIwascertainmyreal menar- chewould have finally arrived. My deception worked.Itcalmed my mother's anxieties andsome- 361

• From Middlesex (2002)

  And I: "Whatare we doing here?" It was rightthenthat thedooropened andDr. Lucepresented himself. Atthatstage,Ididn'tknow abouthisglamour statusinthe field. Ihadnoideaofthefrequency with whichLuce'sname appeared intherelevant journalsandpapers. ButIsawright awaythatLuce wasn'tyournormal-looking doctor.Instead ofamedical coathe wore asuedevestwithfringe.Silver hairtouched thecollarofhis beigeturtleneck.His pantswereflaredand onhis feet wereapairof ankle bootswithzippersonthesides.He hadeyeglasses, too,silver wire-rims,and agraymustache. "Welcometo New York,"hesaid."I'm Dr.Luce."Heshook my father'shand, thenmymother's,andfinallycame tome."Youmust beCalliope."He was smiling, relaxed."Let'sseeifIcanremember mymythology. CalliopewasoneoftheMuses,right?" "Right." "Inchargeofwhat?" "Epicpoetry." "Youcan'tbeatthat,"saidLuce.He was trying toact casual, but I couldseehewasexcited.Iwasanextraordinarycase,afterall.He wastakinghistime,savoringme. Toa scientistlikeLuceI was noth- ing lessthanasexualorgeneticKasparHauser.Therehewas,a famoussexologist, agueston DickCavctt^aregularcontributor toPlayboy ', andsuddenlyonhisdoorstep,arrivingoutofthewoods ofDetroitliketheWildBoyofAveyron, was me,CalliopeStepha- nides, age fourteen. Iwasaliving experimentdressedinwhite corduroys and a FairIslesweater.Thissweater, pale yellow, with a floral wreath attheneck,toldLucethat Irefutednatureinjustthe wayhistheory predicted.Hemusthave hardlybeenabletocontain himself,meeting me.He wasa brilliant, charming,work-obsessed man, andwatched mefrombehindhisdesk withkeeneyes. Whilehe chatted,speakingprimarily tomyparents, gainingtheir confidence, Luce was nevertheless makingmentalnotes. Heregisteredmy tenor voice.Henoted thatIsatwithonelegtucked underme.He watched howIexamined mynails,curlingmyfingers intomypalm.He paid attention tothewayIcoughed,laughed, scratchedmyhead, spoke; insum,allthe externalmanifestationsofwhat he calledmygender identity. 408 He keptupthe calmmanner, as if Ihadcometothe Clinicwith nothing more thanasprainedankle."Thefirst thing I'dliketodois give Calliope a shortexamination. Ifyou'dcare to waithereinmyof- fice, Mr.and Mrs.Stephanides." Hestoodup."Wouldyou come withme please, Calliope?" Igotup from mychair. Lucewatchedasthevarioussegments, likethose ofa collapsibleruler, unfoldedthemselves,andIattained my fullheight,an inchtaller thanhewashimself. "We'llbe righthere,honey,"Tessie said. "We're notgoinganywhere,"said Milton. Peter Lucewas considered theworld'sleadingauthorityonhuman hermaphroditism. The SexualDisordersandGenderIdentityClinic, whichhefounded in 1968, hadbecometheforemostfacilityinthe worldforthestudy andtreatment ofconditionsofambiguousgen- der.Hewasthe author ofa major sexologicalwork,TheOracular Vulva, which was standard ina varietyofdisciplines rangingfromge- neticsandpediatricstopsychology.Hehadwritten a column by the same nameforPlayboyfromAugust1972toDecember 1973 in whichtheconceit was that a personifiedandall-knowingfemale pu- dendumansweredthequeriesofmalereaderswithwittyandsome- timessibyllineresponses.HughHefnerhadcomeacrossPeterLuce's nameinthepapersinconnectionwitha demonstrationfor sexual freedom. SixColumbiastudents had staged anorgyin a tent on the maingreen, whichthecops broke up, andwhen asked whathe thoughtabout such activityoncampus,Prof.PeterLuce, 46, had beenquoted assaying, "I'minfavoroforgieswherevertheyhappen." That caughtHef's eye. Not wanting to replicateXavieraHollander's "CallMeMadam" column inPenthouse,HefnersawLuce'scontribu- tion asbeing devotedto thescientificandhistoricalsideofsex.Thus, inher firstthreeissues,the Oracular Vulva delivereddisquisitionson the erotic artofthe Japanese painterHiroshiYamamoto,theepi- demiology ofsyphilis,andthe sex lifeofSt.Augustine. Thecolumn proved popular,though intelligentquerieswerealwayshardtocome by,the readershipbeingmoreinterestedin the"PlayboyAdvisor" 's cunnilingus tipsor remediesforpremature ejaculation. Finally, Hefner told Luceto writehis ownquestions,whichhewas onlytoo glad to do. 409 PeterLucehadappearedonPhilDonahue along withtwo her- maphroditesand a transsexual to discuss boththe medical and psy- chological aspects ofthese conditions. Onthatprogram, Phil Donahuesaid,"Lynn Harriswasborn andraisedagirl.You wonthe MissNewportBeachContestin1964 ingoodoldOrange County, California?Boy,waittillthey hearthis.Youlived asa woman tothe ageoftwenty-nineandthenyouswitched tolivingas a man. Hehas theanatomicalcharacteristics ofbothamanand a woman. IfI'm lyin'J'mdyin'." Healsosaid,"Here'swhat'snot so funny. Theselive,irreplaceable sonsanddaughtersofGod,humanbeingsall, wantyoutoknow, amongotherthings,thatthat'sexactiywhat theyare,human beings." Becauseofcertaingeneticandhormonalconditions, itwassome- timesverydifficulttodeterminethe sexofanewbornbaby. Con- fronted with sucha child, theSpartanshadlefttheinfanton arocky hillsidetodie.Luce'sownforebears, theEnglish,didn'tevenlike to mentionthesubject,andmightneverhavedonesohadthe nuisance ofmysteriousgenitalianotthrown awrench into thesmoothwork- ingsofinheritancelaw.LordCoke,thegreatBritishjuristofthe sev- enteenthcentury, triedtoclearup the matterofwhowould get the landedestates by declaringthat a personshould"beeithermaleorfe- male, and itshall succeed according tothe kindofsexwhich doth prevail." Ofcourse,hedidn'tspecifyanyprecisemethodfordeter- miningwhich sexdid prevail.Formostofthetwentiethcentury, medicine hadbeenusingthesameprimitive diagnostic criterionof sexformulated by Klebs wayback in1876.Klebshadmaintained that a person's gonadsdeterminedsex.Incases ofambiguousgender, you looked atthegonadaltissueunderthemicroscope.Ifitwastes- ticular,the person wasmale;if ovarian,female.Thehunchherewas thataperson's gonadswouldorchestrate sexualdevelopment,espe- cially at puberty. Butitturnedoutto be more complicatedthanthat. Klebshadbegunthetask,buttheworldhadto waitanotherhundred yearsfor PeterLuce tocomealongandfinishit. In 1955, Lucepublished an articlecalled"ManyRoadsLead to Rome: SexualConceptsofHumanHermaphroditism." Intwenty- five pagesof forthright,high-tonedprose,Luceargued thatgenderis determined bya variety ofinfluences: chromosomalsex;gonadalsex; hormones;internal genital structures;external genitals;and,most 410

• From Middlesex (2002)

  There wasa pause.AndthenEd said,"Whathappened? Youlose a bet?" Standing insidethedoorbutlookingas thoughhemightflee back outof itwasa teenagekid,tall,stringy,andanoddmixifever Ed saw one.His hairwasahippie'sandcamedownpasthis shoul- ders. Buthewas wearing a darksuit.The jacketwasbaggy andthe trousers weretoo short,ridinghighabovehischunkytan,square- toed shoes.Even fromacrosstheshopEddetectedamusty,thrift- storesmell.Yet thekid'ssuitcasewasbigand gray, abusinessman's. "I'mjust tired ofthestyle," the kidanswered. "You andme both,"saidEdthebarber. Hedirected metoachair.I—theeasilyrechristenedCal Stephanides, teenrunaway—setmysuitcasedownandhungmy jacketon therack.Iwalkedacrosstheroom,concentratingasIdid onwalkinglikeaboy. Like a stroke victim,Iwashavingto relearn all thesimple motorskills.Asfar as walkingwent,thiswasn't too diffi- cult.Thetime whenBaker & Inglisgirlshadbalanced bookson their headswaslonggone.Theslightgracelessnessofmywalk,whichDr. Lucehadcommentedon,predisposedmetojointhegracelesssex. Myskeletonwasamale's,withitshighercenterofgravity.Itpro- motedatidy,forwardthrust.Itwas mykneesthat gavemetrouble.I hadatendency to walkknock-kneed,whichmade my hips swayand mybackendtwitch.Itriedtokeepmypelvissteadynow.Towalk like aboyyouletyourshoulderssway,notyourhips.Andyou kept yourfeet fartherapart.AllthisIhad learned inadayandahalfonthe road. Iclimbed intothechair,gladtostopmoving.Edthebarber tieda paperbibaround myneck.Nexthedrapedanapronoverme.Allthe while hewas takingmy measureandshakinghis head."Ineverun- derstood whatit was withyouyoungpeopleandthelong hair. Nearly ruined mybusiness. I get mostiy retiredfellasinhere. Guys who come inmyshopforahaircut,theydon't haveanyhair."He chuckled, butonlybriefly."Okay,sonowadaysthehairstylesare alit- tle bitshorter. Ithink,good,maybeIcan makealiving.Butno. Now everyone wants togo unisex.They wanttobeshampooed?He leaned toward me, suspicious."Youdon'twant a shampoo, doyou?" "Just ahaircut." He nodded,satisfied."How doyouwant it?" "Short," Iventured. 441 "Shortshort?"heasked. "Short,"Isaid, "but nottooshort." "Okay. Short but nottooshort. Goodidea. Seehowtheother halflives." I froze, thinking he meantsomething bythis.Buthewas only joking. Asforhimself,Edkept a neathead. Whathairhehadwas slicked back.He had a brutal,pugnacious face.Hisnostrilswere darkand fieryashelabored around me,pumping up thechairand stropping hisrazor. "Yourfatherletyoukeep yourhair likethis?" "Up untilnow." "Sotheold manisfinallystraightening youout.Listen, you won'tregretit.Womendon'twantaguylookslike a girl. Don'tbe- lievewhattheytellyou,theywantasensitive male. Bullshit!" Theswearing, thestraightrazors, the shaving brushes,allthese weremywelcometothemasculineworld.Thebarberhad the foot- ball game onthe TV Thecalendarshowed a vodka bottleandapretty girlinawhitefurbikini.Iplantedmyfeetonthewaffleironofthe footrestwhileheswiveledmebackandforth before the flashing mir- rors. "Holymackerel,when'sthelasttimeyouhadahaircutanyway?" "Rememberthemoon landing?" "Yeah.That's about right." Heturnedmetofacethemirror.And thereshewas,forthelast time, inthesilveredglass:Calliope.She stillwasn'tgone yet.She was likeacaptive spirit, peeking out. Edthe barberputacombinmylong hair.Helifteditexperimen- tally,making snippingsoundswithhis scissors.Thebladesweren't touchingmyhair.Thesnippingwasonlya kindofmentalbarbering, a limberingup. This gave metime forsecond thoughts.WhatwasI doing?WhatifDr. Lucewas right?Whatifthat girlinthemirrorre- allywas me?How did I thinkI coulddefecttothe otherside soeas- ily?What didIknow aboutboys, aboutmen?Ididn'tevenlike them thatmuch. "Thisislike taking downatree," opinedEd."Firstyougottago in andlopoff thebranches. Then youchopdown thetrunk." Iclosed myeyes.I refusedto returnCalliope's gazeanylonger. I 442 gripped thearmrests and waited forthe barber todo hiswork. Butin the next secondthe scissors clinked ontothe shelf.Withabuzz,the electric clippersswitched on.They circled myheadlike bees.Again Ed the barberlifted myhair with hiscomband Iheardthebuzzer dive intowardmyhead. "Here we go"hesaid. Myeyes werestill closed. But Iknew there wasnogoingback now. Theclippersraked across my scalp.Iheldfirm. Hairfell away in strips. "Ishould charge youextra," saidEd. NowIdidopenmy eyes,alarmed about thecost."How much is it?" "Don'tworry.Same price. Thisismypatriotic deedtoday.I'm makingtheworldsafefor democracy." Mygrandparentshadfled theirhome becauseof a war. Now, somefifty-twoyearslater,I wasfleeingmyself.Ifeltthat Iwassaving myselfjustas definitively. Iwasfleeing withoutmuchmoneyin my pocket andunderthe aliasofmynewgender.Aship didn'tcarryme acrosstheocean;instead, a series ofcarsconveyedmeacross a conti- nent.Iwasbecoming a newperson, too,justlikeLeftyandDesde- mona,andIdidn'tknowwhatwouldhappen to me inthisnew world towhichI'dcome. I wasalsoscared. I had neverbeen outonmyownbefore.I didn'tknowhowtheworldoperatedorhowmuchthingscost.From theLochmoorHotelIhadtakenacabtothebus terminal, not knowing theway.AtPort AuthorityIwanderedpastthetieshops andfast-food stalls, lookingforthe ticketbooths.WhenIfound them Ibought a ticketfora night bus toChicago,payingthefareas far asScranton,Pennsylvania, whichwasasmuchas IthoughtI could afford. Thebums and druggiesoccupyingthescoopbenches looked meover,sometimes hissingorsmacking theirlips.They scared me, too.Inearly gaveuptheidea ofrunningaway.IfI hur- ried,I could make itback tothe hotelbeforeMiltonandTessie returned from seeing Carol Channing.Isatinthe waitingarea,con- sidering this, theedge of theSamsonite clampedbetweenmy knees asthough anyminute someone mighttryto snatchitaway.Iplayed out scenes in my head whereI declaredmy intentionoflivingas a boy and myparents,at firstprotesting butthen breakingdown,ac- cepted me. A policeman passed by. When hewasgoneI went tosit 443

• From Middlesex (2002)

  path backto the school.In the distance, downthehill andacross the road, layLakeSt. Clair, wheremy grandfather Jimmy Zizmohad faked his death. Thelake still frozein winter, but bootieggers didn't drive over itanymore. Lake St.Clair hadlost itssinister glamour and, like everything else,had become suburban. Freightersstillplied the shipping channel, butnowyou mostlysawpleasureboats, Chris- Crafts, Santanas, Flying Dutchmen,470s. Onsunnydays thelake still managedto lookblue. Mostof thetime,however,itwas the colorofcoldpea soup. ButI wasn'tthinking aboutany ofthat.Iwas measuringmy steps, tryingtogoas slowly as possible.Iwaslookingatthe gymna- sium doorswithan expressionof warinessandanxiety. Itwasnow,when thegamewas overforeveryoneelse,that it be- ganforme.Whilemy teammateswere catchingtheirbreath,Iwas psyching myself up. Ihadtoact withgrace,withswift, athletictim- ing.I had to shoutfromthe sidelinesofmybeing,"Headsup, Stephanides!"Ihad tobe coach,star player,andcheerleaderallin one. FordespitetheDionysianrevelrythathad broken out inmybody (inmythrobbingteeth,inthewildabandonofmynose),not every- thing about mehad changed.Ayear and a halfafter Carol Horning cametoschoolwith brand-newbreasts, I was still without any.The brassiereI'dfinallywheedled out ofTessie was still,like the higher physics,ofonlytheoretical use.No breasts. Noperiod, either.All throughsixth gradeI'dwaited and thenthrough thesummer after- ward.NowI wasinseventhgradeandstillIwas waiting. Therewere hopeful signs.From timetotimemynipples becamesore. Gingerly touching them,Ifelt apebblebeneaththepink, tender flesh.Ialways thoughtthat thiswasthestartof something.Ithought Iwas bud- ding. Buttimeafter timetheswellingand sorenesswentaway,and nothing cameofit. Of allthethings Ihad togetusedto atmynew school,themost difficult, therefore, wasthelockerroom. Evennowwiththeseason over, CoachStork was standing by the door,barking."Okay,ladies, hitthe showers! Come on.Hustie up!" Shesaw mecomingand managed tosmile. "Good effort," shesaid,handingmea towel. Hierarchies existeverywhere, butespeciallyinlockerrooms.The swampiness, thenudity bring backoriginalconditions. Letmeper- 295 forma quicktaxonomyofourlockerroom.Nearesttheshowers werethe Charm Bracelets. AsIpassed by, I glanced downthe steamy corridorto seethemperformingtheir serious, womanly movements. OneCharm Braceletwasbending forward,wrappinga towel around herwet hair.Shesnappedupright, twistingitinto a turban.Next to her anotherBraceletwasstaring intospacewithemptyblue eyesas sheanointedherselfwithmoisturizer. Stillanother Braceletlifted a waterbottletoherlips,exposing thelongcolumnofherneck.Not wantingtostare,Ilooked away,butIcouldstillhearthesoundthey madegettingdressed.Abovethehiss ofshowerheads andtheslap of feet ontiles, a high,thintinkling reachedmyears,asoundalmost likethetappingofchampagneflutesbefore a toast.Whatwasit? Can'tyouguess?Fromtheslender wristsofthese girls,tiny silver charmswere chiming together.Itwastheringingoftinytennisrack- ets againsttinysnowskis,ofminiatureEiffelTowersagainsthalf-inch ballerinas onpoint. It wasthesoundofTiffanyfrogsandwhales chimingtogether;ofpuppiestinklingagainstcats,ofsealswithballs ontheirnoses hittingmonkeyswithhand organs, of wedges of cheeseringingagainstclowns'faces,ofstrawberriessingingwith inkwells,ofvalentinehearts strikingthe bellsaroundthenecks of Swisscows. In themidstofallthissoftchiming,one girlheld outher wristtoherfriends,like a ladyrecommendingaperfume.Herfather hadjustreturnedfrom abusinesstrip, bringingherbackthislatest present. The Charm Bracelets: theywerethe rulersofmynewschool. They'd beengoing to Baker&Inglis sincekindergarten.Sincepre- kindergarten! They lived nearthewaterand hadgrown up, likeall GrossePointers,pretending thatour shallow lakewasno lakeat all but actuallytheocean. TheAtianticOcean.Yes, thatwas the secret wish ofthe Charm Bracelets andtheir parents,tobe not Midwest- erners but Easterners, to affecttheirdress and lockjaw speech,to summer in Martha's Vineyard, to say "backEast" instead of"out East," as though their time in Michigan represented only abriefso- journaway from home. What canI say about my well-bred, small-nosed,trust-funded schoolmates?Descendedfrom hardworking, thriftyindustrialists (there weretwo girls in my class whohadthe samelastnamesas American car makers), did they show aptitudes for math orscience? 296

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  The people who lived in the area just wanted a little peace and quiet, that was all. He wasn’t aiming to run the tent revival out of town, just to get the speakers turned down. Cameras clicked and reporters scribbled away and we made the next day’s papers.One night as Brother Terrell paced and preached below the prayer ramp, two men in suits approached him from the middle aisle of the tent. One of them said something in his ear. Brother Terrell pointed the microphone at him, but he brushed it aside. Brother Terrell spoke for him.“He wants to know if I’m the Reverend David Terrell.” He looked at the man. “Yes, sir, I am.”The other man took Brother Terrell’s hand and placed an envelope in it, then both men turned and walked back down the aisle in no particular hurry. A couple of guys with beefy arms started toward them, but Brother Terrell waved them away.“Please, y’all, stay seated. We’ll not respond with violence of any kind here tonight.”He opened the envelope, pulled out the document inside, and stared at it for a moment. “I don’t read so good, so I don’t know what all this says, but I believe it’s from those devils that want to shut us down.”He held up the paper and ripped it down the middle, then shredded each half. “Whoever signed this, whoever has aligned himself with the powers of the enemy, will be dead within the month.”He tore the strips of paper into small pieces and tossed them into the air. They fluttered in the light around his shoulders and drifted to the ground. “That’s thus saith the Lord.”Reporters wrote that Brother Terrell had torn up a court order in the middle of a church service. People who had never been to a tent revival showed up to see what would happen next. The crowd was so large we couldn’t seat everyone, and the speaker volume crept up again. When the sheriff didn’t appear, people congratulated Brother Terrell on showing the devil who was boss. He said he wasn’t convinced it was all over, that he still felt uneasy in his spirit. Brother Terrell’s spirit was the divining rod in all things. If a tent man decided to marry a particular woman and Brother Terrell told him he didn’t feel settled in his spirit about it, there was no marriage. Increasingly, believers sought his input on changing jobs, taking trips, making major business decisions, and other life decisions. There was always talk among the inner circle about how he had saved someone from making not just a mistake, but a tragic mistake. His intuition held sway in his own business as well. If plans had been made to hold a revival in a certain place and Brother Terrell began to feel uneasy about it, plans were changed.His uneasiness didn’t necessarily lead to a clear view of what was wrong.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Inthe lateautumnof 1923, minotaurs hauntedmyfamily. To Desdemona theycameintheformof childrenwhocouldn't stop bleeding,orwhowerecoveredwithfur.Zizmo'smonster wasthe well-knownone with greeneyes. It staredoutof the river's darkness whilehewaitedonshoreforashipmentofliquor.Itleapt upfrom the roadside to confronthimthrough thePackard'swindshield.It rolledoverinbedwhenhegot home beforesunrise: a green-eyed monsterlyingnexttohisyoung,inscrutablewife, butthen Zizmo wouldblinkandthemonsterwoulddisappear. When thewomenwereeightmonthspregnant,thefirstsnow fell. Leftyand Zizmo wore glovesandmufflers asthey waited onthe shoreofBelleIsle.Nevertheless,despitehisinsulation,mygrand- fatherwas shivering.Twiceinthelastmonththey'dhadclosecalls withthepolice.Sickwithjealoussuspicions, Zizmo hadbeenerratic, forgettingto schedulerendezvous,choosingdrop-offpointswithin- sufficientpreparation.Worse,thePurpleGang wasconsolidatingits holdonthecity'srum-running.Itwasonlyamatter of timebefore theyranafoulofit. Meanwhile, back onHurlbut,aspoonwas swinging.Sourmelina, legsbandaged,laybackinher boudoir as Desdemona performed the firstofthemanyprognosticationsthatwould endwithme. "Tell meit'sa girl." "Youdon'twantagirl.Girls are too muchtrouble. Youhaveto worry about themgoingwiththeboys.You havetogetadowry and find a husband—" "They don'thavedowriesin America, Desdemona." Thespoon beganto move. "Ifies aboy, I'llkill you." "Adaughter you'llfightwith." "A daughter Icantalkto." "Ason youwill love." The spoon's arcincreased. "It's...it's.. ." "What?" "Startsaving money." "Yes?" "Lockthe windows." 118 "Isit? Isit really?" "Getready to fight." "You mean it's a .. ." "Yes.A girl. Definitely." "Oh, thankGod." .. .Anda walk-in closet being cleaned out.Andthewallsbeing painted whiteto serveasanursery.Two identicalcribsarrivefrom Hudson's.My grandmother sets them upinthenursery,thenhangs a blanketbetween themincaseherchildis aboy.Outinthehall,she stopsbeforethe vigillighttopraytotheAll-Holy: "Pleasedon'tlet mybabybe thisthingahemophiliac.LeftyandIdidn'tknow what wewere doing.Please, Iswear Iwillneverhaveanotherbaby. Just thisone." Thirty-threeweeks. Thirty-four.Inuterineswimmingpools, babies performhalf-gainers,flippingoverheadfirst.ButSourmelinaand Desdemona,sosynchronizedintheirpregnancies,diverged at the end.OnDecember 17, whilelisteningtoaradioplay,Sourmelinare- movedherearphonesandannouncedthatshewashavingpains. Three hourslater,Dr.Philobosiandeliveredagirl,asDesdemona predicted.The babyweighed onlyfourpoundsthreeouncesandhad tobekeptin anincubatorforaweek."See?" LinasaidtoDesde- mona,gazing atthe baby throughtheglass."Dr.Philwaswrong. Look.Herhair's black.Notred." Jimmy Zizmo approachedthe incubatornext.Heremovedhis hat andbentveryclose to squint.Anddidhewince?Didthebaby's pale complexionconfirmhisdoubts?Orprovideanswers?Astowhy awifemight complainofachesand pains?Orwhyshemightbecon- venientiy cured, inorderto provehispaternity? (Whatever his doubts,the child was his.Sourmelina's complexionhadmerelystolen the show. Genetics, a crapshoot, entirely.) AllI knowisthis:shortlyafter Zizmosawhisdaughter,hecame upwith his finalscheme.Aweek later,hetoldLefty,"Getready.We have business tonight." And nowthe mansions alongthelakearelit withChristmaslights. The great snow-coveredlawnofRose Terrace,theDodgemansion, boasts a forty-footChristmastreetrucked infromtheUpperPenin- 119 sula.Elves racearoundthe pineinminiature Dodge sedans. Santa is chauffeuredbya reindeer inacap. (Rudolphhasn't been created yet, sothereindeer'snoseisblack.) Outsidethe mansion's gates, a black- and-tanPackardpassesby.Thedriver looks straightahead. The pas- senger gazes out at theenormous house. Jimmy Zizmoisdriving slowlybecause ofthechains onthe tires. They've comeoutalongE. Jefferson,pastElectric Parkand theBelle IsleBridge.They've continuedthrough Detroit'sEastSide, follow- ing Jefferson Avenue. (Andnowwe'rehere, myneck ofthewoods: GrossePointe.Here'stheStarks'house, where ClementineStark and Iwill"practice"kissing thesummerbefore thirdgrade.And there's theBaker &InglisSchoolforGirls,high onitshill overthelake.)My grandfatheriswell awarethat Zizmo hasn'tcome toGrossePointe to admire thebighouses.Anxiously,he waitstoseewhatZizmo hasin mind.NotfarfromRoseTerrace, thelakefront opensup,black, empty,andfrozen solid.Nearthebank theicepilesupinchunks. Zizmo followstheshoreline untilhecomesto agapintheroad where boats launch insummer.Heturnsintoit andstops. "We'regoingovertheice?"mygrandfather says. "Easiest waytoCanadaatthemoment." "Areyousureitwillhold?" Inresponse tomy grandfather's question,Zizmoonlyopenshis door:tofacilitate escape.Leftyfollowssuit.ThePackard'sfront wheels dropontoice.Itfeels as iftheentirefrozenlakeshifts. Ahigh- pitched noise follows,aswhenteethbeardownonicecubes.After a fewseconds, thisstops.Therearwheelsdrop.Theicesettles. My grandfather,whohasn't prayedsincehewas inBursa, has the impulse togive itanothergo.LakeSt.Clairis controlled bythePur- pleGang. Itprovides notreestohidebehind,noside roads tosneak down.Hebites histhumbwherethenailismissing. Without amoon, theyseeonlywhatthe insectileheadlampsillu- minate:fifteen feet ofgranular,ice-blue surface,crisscrossedbytire tracks.Vortices of snowwhirlupinfrontof them. Zizmo wipesthe foggedwindshield withhisshirtsleeve."Keepa lookout for darkice." "Why?" "Thatmeansit'sthin." It'snotlong before thefirstpatchappears. Whereshoalsrise,lap- ping water weakens theice.Zizmosteersaround it.Soon, however, another patch appears andhehastogointhe other direction.Right. 120

• From Middlesex (2002)

  don'tlivelike theAmerikanidhes inhere.Yourwifeunderstands. Do you see herinthe salashowingherlegs andlisteningtotheradio?" Someoneknockedatthedoor. Zizmo, whohadaninexplicable aversiontounannouncedguests, jumped upandreachedunder his coat.HemotionedforLeftynottomove.Lina,noticingsomething, tookoffherearphones.Theknockcameagain."Kyrie"Linasaid, "if theyweregoingtokill you, wouldtheyknock?" "Who'sgoingtokill!" Desdemonasaid, rushinginfromthe kitchen. "Just away ofspeaking,"saidLina,whoknewmore abouther husband'simporting concernthatshe'd beenletting on.She glided tothedoorandopenedit. Twomenstoodonthewelcomemat.Theyworegraysuits, stripedties,blackbrogues. Theyhadshortsideburns.Theycarried matchingbriefcases.Whenthey removed theirhats,theyrevealed identicalchestnuthair,neatlypartedinthecenter.Zizmotookhis handoutofhiscoat. "We'refromtheFordSociologicalDepartment,"thetallonesaid. "IsMr.Stephanidesathome?" "Yes?"Leftysaid. "Mr.Stephanides, let metell you whywe'rehere." "Management hasforeseen,"theshortone seamlesslycontinued, "thatfivedollars aday inthehandsofsome menmightworka tremendoushandicap along thepathsofrectitudeandright living andmight makeofthem a menaceto societyin general." "Soit wasestablished by Mr.Ford"— thetalleroneagaintook over—"thatnoman istoreceivethe moneywho cannotuseitadvis- edlyandconservatively." "Also"—dieshort oneagain—"that wherea manseems to qualify undertheplanand laterdevelops weaknesses, thatitiswithinthe provinceofthe companyto takeaway his shareof the profits until suchtimeashecan rehabilitatehimself.May we comein?" Onceacrossthe threshold,theyseparated. The tallone tookapad from his briefcase. "I'mgoingto askyoua few questions,if youdon't mind.Doyou drink, Mr. Stephanides?" "No, he doesn't," Zizmo answeredfor him. "And whoareyou, mayI ask?" "My nameis Zizmo." 100 "Areyoua boarder here?" "This ismy house." "So Mr. and Mrs. Stephanides aretheboarders?" "That's right." "Won't do.Won't do," saidthe tallone. "Weencourageourem- ployees toobtain mortgages." "He's workingonit," Zizmo said. Meanwhile,the shortonehad enteredthekitchen.He waslifting lids offpots, openingthe ovendoor,peeringintothegarbage can. Desdemona startedto object, but Linacheckedherwith a glance. (Andnotice howDesdemona's nosehasbeguntotwitch.For two daysnow, hersenseof smellhasbeenincrediblyacute.Foodsare be- ginningto smellfunnyto her,fetacheeselikedirtysocks,oliveslike goat droppings.) "Howoftendoyou bathe,Mr.Stephanides?"thetallone asked. "Everyday, sir." "How oftendo you brushyourteeth?" "Every day, sir." "Whatdo you use?" "Bakingsoda." Nowtheshortonewasclimbingthestairs.Heinvaded my grand- parents'bedroomandinspectedthelinens.Hesteppedintothebath- roomandexaminedthetoilet seat. "Fromnow on,use this,"thetall onesaid."It's a dentifrice.Here's anewtoothbrush." Disconcerted, mygrandfathertooktheitems. "Wecomefrom Bursa,"heexplained. "It'sabigcity." "Brushalong thegumlines.Uponthe bottomsand downonthe tops.Two minutesmorningandnight. Let's see. Giveit atry." "Wearecivilized people." "DoI understand youtobe refusing hygieneinstruction?" "Listen tome,"Zizmosaid."The GreeksbuilttheParthenonand the Egyptiansbuilt the pyramids back whenthe Anglo-Saxonswere still dressing inanimalskins." The tall onetook a longlook atZizmoandmadeanoteon his pad. "Like this?" mygrandfather said.Grinninghideously,hemoved the toothbrush up anddown inhisdrymouth. 101 "That'sright. Fine." Theshortonenow reappearedfrom upstairs.He flippedopenhis pad and began:"Itemone.Garbagecaninkitchen hasnolid. Item two. Houseflyonkitchentable.Itemthree.Too muchgarlicinfood. Causes indigestion." (And nowDesdemonalocatestheculprit: theshortman's hair. Thesmellofbrilliantineonitmakes her nauseous.) "Very considerateof you tocomehereand takeaninterestinyour employee'shealth," Zizmosaid."Wewouldn't wantanybodytoget sick, now,wouldwe?Mightslowdownproduction." "I'mgoing topretendIdidn'thearthat,"said thetall one. "Seeing as youarenotan officialemployeeoftheFord MotorCompany. However"—turningbacktomygrandfather—"Ishouldadviseyou, Mr.Stephanides,thatin myreportIamgoing tomakeanoteof yoursocialrelations.I'mgoingto recommend thatyouandMrs. Stephanidesmoveintoyourownhomeassoonasitisfinanciallyfea- sible." "AndmayIaskwhat your occupationis,sir?"theshortone wantedtoknow. "I'min shipping,"Zizmosaid. "Nice of you gentiementostopby,"Linamovedin."Butif you'll excuseus,we'rejustabouttohave dinner. We havetogotochurch tonight.And,ofcourse,Leftyhastobeinbedby nine toget rest.He likestobefreshinthe morning." "That'sfine.Fine." Together,they put ontheirhatsandleft. Andsowecometothe weeks leadingupto the graduation pageant. ToDesdemonasewing a palikarivest, embroidering itwithred, white, andbluethread.To Lefty gettingoff workone Friday evening and crossingoverMiller Roadtobe paidfromthe armoredtruck.To Leftyagain, thenightof thepageant, takingthe streetcartoCadillac Squareand walkinginto Gold'sClothes. Jimmy Zizmomeetshim theretohelp himpick outasuit. "It'salmost summer.How about something cream-colored? With ayellowsilk necktie?" "No.The Englishteachertold us. Blueorgray only." "Theywantto turn youintoaProtestant. Resist!" 102

• From Middlesex (2002)

  decade inbed trying withgreat vitality to die, shewouldfinally agree that those two years betweenwarsa half centuryearlier hadbeen the only decent time inher life; butby theneveryoneshe'd known would be dead and shecould onlytellittothetelevision. Forthe greaterpartofanhourDesdemonahad beentrying toig- nore her forebodingby workinginthecocoonery. She'dcome out the back doorofthehouse, through thesweet-smelling grapearbor, and acrossthe terracedyardintothe low,thatch-roofedhut.The acrid, larvalsmellinsidedidn'tbotherher.Thesilkwormcocoonery wasmy grandmother'sownpersonal,reeking oasis.Allaroundher, in a firmament,softwhitesilkwormsclungto bundledmulberry twigs. Desdemona watchedthem spinning cocoons, moving their headsas thoughtomusic.Asshewatched,sheforgot aboutthe worldoutside,itschangesandconvulsions,itsterriblenewmusic (whichis abouttobe sungin a moment).Instead she heardher mother,EuphrosyneStephanides,speakinginthisverycocoonery yearsago, elucidating themysteriesof silkworms— "Tohavegood silk,youhavetobepure,"sheusedtotellherdaughter."Thesilk- worms know everything.Youcanalwaystellwhatsomebodyisupto bythewaytheirsilklooks"—and so on,Euphrosynegivingexam- ples—"MariaPoulos, who'salwaysliftingherskirtfor everyone? Haveyouseenhercocoons? A stainforeveryman.Youshould looknexttime"— Desdemonaonlyelevenortwelveand believing everyword,sothatnow, asayoung womanoftwenty-one,shestill couldn'tentirelydisbelieve hermother'smoralitytales, andexamined thecocoon constellationsfor a signofherownimpurity(the dreams she'd beenhaving!). Shelookedforotherthings,too, becauseher motheralsomaintained thatsilkwormsreactedtohistorical atroci- ties.After everymassacre, eveninavillage fiftymilesaway,the silk- worms' filamentsturned thecolorofblood— "I'veseenthembleed like thefeetofChristos Himself,"Euphrosyneagain, andherdaugh- ter, yearslater,remembering, squinting in theweak light tosee ifany cocoons hadturnedred. Shepulledouta trayandshook it;she pulled outanother;andit wasrightthenthat shefelt herheartstop, squeeze into a ball,and beginpunching her frominside.She dropped the tray,saw her tunicflutterfrom interior force,andun- derstood thatherheartoperated onitsown instructions, thatshehad no control over itor,indeed, over anythingelse. 22 So myyiayia^suffering the firstof herimaginarydiseases,stood lookingdownatBursa, asthough shemight spotavisibleconfirma- tionof herinvisible dread. Andthen itcamefrominside thehouse, by meansofsound:her brother, Eleutherios ("Lefty")Stephanides, had begun tosing.Inbadly pronounced, meaninglessEnglish: "Ev'rymorning, ev'ry evening,ain't wegotfun,"Leftysang, standingbeforetheir bedroom mirror as he dideveryafternoon about thistime,fastening thenew celluloidcollar tothenewwhite shirt, squeezing adollop ofhairpomade (smellingoflimes)intohis palmand rubbing itintohis newValentinohaircut.And continuing: "Inthe meantime, in-between time,ain't we gotfun."Thelyrics meant nothing to him, either, but the melodywasenough.Itspoke toLefty ofjazz-age frivolity,gincocktails,cigarette girls;itmadehim slickhis hair backwithpanache ... while, out inthe yard,Desde- monaheardthesingingand reacted differentiy. Forher,thesong conjuredonlythedisreputablebarsherbrother wenttodowninthe city, thosehashdenswheretheyplayedrebetikaandAmericanmusic andwheretherewereloosewomenwhosang...asLefty put onhis newstripedsuitandfoldedtheredpockethandkerchiefthatmatched hisrednecktie ... andshefelt funnyinside,especially herstomach, whichwasroiledby complicatedemotions,sadness,anger,and somethingelseshe couldn'tnamethathurtmostofall."Therent's unpaid,dear,we haven'tacar," Leftycroonedinthe sweet tenorI wouldlaterinherit; and beneaththemusicDesdemonanowheard her mother'svoice again, Euphrosyne Stephanides'lastwordsspoken justbefore she died froma bulletwound,"TakecareofLefty. Promiseme.Find hima wife!"...and Desdemona,throughher tears,replying,"I promise.I promise!"...thesevoicesallspeaking at once in Desdemona's head asshe crossedtheyardtogointothe house. Shecame through the small kitchenwhereshehaddinner cooking(forone) and marched straightintothe bedroomsheshared with her brother.He was still singing—"Not muchmoney,Oh! but honey"— fixing his cufflinks, parting hishair;butthenhe looked up and sawhissister— "Ain't we got"—and pianissimonow— "fun"— fell silent. For amoment, the mirror held theirtwofaces.Attwenty-one, long before ill-fitting dentures and self-imposed invalidism, my grandmother was something of a beauty. She woreher blackhair in 23

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "I'mnot going to." "You will,too! Everybody's sebaceous glands overproduce when they gothroughpuberty!" "Quiet, both ofyou," said Tessie, butshe didn'tneed to.I'd al- ready gottenquieton myown. It wasthat word: puberty.The source ofa greatamountofanxious speculation on mypart atthetime. A wordthat layin waitfor me,jumping outnow andthen, scaringme because Ididn'tknow exactiy what itmeant. But nowatleastI knew one thing:ChapterEleven wasinvolved init somehow. Maybethat explainednotonlythe pimples butthe otherthing aboutmy brother I'dbeennoticinglately. NotlongafterDesdemona tooktoher bed, I'd begun tonotice, inthevaguecreepywayof asisterwith abrother, anew,solitary pas- timeofChapterEleven's.It was a matter ofaperceptible activity be- hindthe lockedbathroomdoor. Ofacertainstrain tothereply, "Just a minute," whenIknocked.Still,I wasyoungerthanhe wasand ig- norantof thepressingneedsofadolescent boys. Butletme backtrackaminute.Threeyearsearlier, whenChapter Eleven wasfourteen andIwaseight,mybrotherhadplayed a trick on me.Ithappened ona nightwhenourparents hadgone outto dinner.It wasrainingandthundering.Iwaswatching television whenChapter Elevensuddenly appeared.He washolding out a lemon cake."Look whatI have!"hesang. Magnanimously hecut measlice.Hewatchedmeeatit.Then he said,"I'm telling! That cakewas for Sunday." "Nofair!" Iran athim.Itriedto hithim,but hecaughtmyarms. Wewres- tied standing up,until finally Chapter Eleven offeredadeal. AsIsaid: in those days, the worldwas always growingeyes.Here were two more.They belonged tomy brother,who,inthe guest bathroom, amid the fancy hand towels,stood watching as I pulled down my underpants and liftedmy skirt.(IfI showed him, he wouldn't tell.)Fascinated ashewas, he stayedatadistance.His Adam's apple roseand fell. He looked amazedandfrightened. He didn't have much to compare meto, but whathesawdidn't misin- form him either: pink folds,a cleft. Forten secondsChapter Eleven studied mydocuments, detecting no forgery,astheclouds burst overhead, and I made him getme one more pieceofcake. Apparendy, Chapter Eleven's curiosity hadn'tbeensatisfied by 279 lookingat hiseight-year-old sister.Now,I suspected,hewas looking at picturesofthe real thing. In 1971, allthemeninourlives weregone,Lefty todeath, Mil- tonto HerculesHot Dogs,andChapterEleven tobathroom soli- taire.LeavingTessieandmetodealwith Desdemona. We hadtocuthertoenails. Wehadtohuntdownflies thatfound theirway into herroom.Wehadtomove herbirdcagesaround ac- cordingtothelight. Wehadtoturnonthetelevision fortheday's soapoperasandwehadtoturnitoff before the murdersonthe eveningnews.Desdemona didn'twanttoloseherdignity,however. Whennaturecalled,shecalled uson theintercom, andwehelpedher outofbed andintothe bathroom. Thesimplestwaytosayitis:years passed.Astheseasonschanged outsidethewindows,astheweepingwillows shed theirmillion leaves,as snowfellontheflat roofandtheangleofsunlightdeclined, Desdemonaremainedin bed. Shewasstilltherewhenthesnow meltedandthe willows buddedagain.Shewastherewhenthesun, climbinghigher,dropped a sunbeamstraightthoughtheskylight, likealaddertoheavenshewasmorethaneagertoclimb. What happenedwhile Desdemonawasinbed: AuntLina'sfriendMrs.Watsondied,andwiththepoorjudg- ment griefalwaysbrings, Sourmelinadecidedto selltheiradobe houseand move backnorthtobeclosetoherfamily.She arrivedin DetroitinFebruary of1972.Thewinter weatherfeltcolderthanshe everremembered.Worse,hertimeintheSouthwesthad changed her. Somehow inthe course ofher lifeSourmelinahadbecome an American.Almostnothingofthevillageremained inher.Herself- entombedcousin, ontheotherhand, hadneverleftit.They were bothin their seventies,butDesdemonawas anold, gray-haired widowwaitingtodiewhileLina,anotherkind ofwidowentirely, wasa bottleredhead whodrovea Firebirdandwore belteddenim skirtswith turquoise beltbuckles.Afterher lifeinthe sexualcounter- culture,Linafoundmyparents'heterosexualityas quaintasa sam- pler. ChapterEleven'sacnealarmedher.She disliked sharinga shower with him.Astrainedatmosphereexisted inourhouse while Sourmelinastayed withus.Shewas as garishand out ofplacein our living roomasa retiredVegasshowgirl,and becausewe watched her so closely outof thecornersofoureyes, everythingshe didmade too 280

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "Stanford's in PaloAlto.You should get thatstraight ifyouwant anyone to believe you'reincollege."Hewaitedformeto speak.Then ina surprisingly tendervoice, a professionaltrick,too, nodoubt,but not without effect, Presto asked, "Listen, guy, yougotanyplaceto stay?" "Don't worryabout me." "CanIask you something, Cal?What areyou,anyway?" Without answeringIgotoutofthecarandopenedthebackdoor toget my suitcase.Prestoturnedaroundinhisseat,adifficultma- neuverfor him.Hisvoiceremainedsoft,deep,fatherly."Comeon. I'min thebusiness.I might beabletohelpyouout. You atranny?" "I'mgoingnow." "Don'tget offended.Iknowallaboutpre-opandpost-opandall thatstuff." "I don'tknowwhatyou'retalkingabout."Ipulledmy suitcaseoff theseat. "Hey,notsofast.Here.Atleasttakemy number.Icould usea kid likeyou.Whateveryouare. Youneedsomemoney,don'tyou?You needaneasywaytomake somegoodmoney,yougiveyourold friendBob Presto a call." Itookthenumberto get ridofhim.ThenIturnedandwalkedoff asthoughIknewwhereIwasgoing. "Watchoutintheparkat night,"Prestocalled aftermeinhis boomingvoice. "Lotoflowlifes inthere." Mymother usedtosay thattheumbilicalcordattachinghertoher children hadneverbeencompletelycut.As soon asDr.Philobosian hadsevered thecordofflesh, another,spiritual connectionhad grown upinits place. AfterIwentmissing,Tessiefelt that thisfanci- fulideawas truerthanever.Inthenights,whileshelayin bed wait- ingfor the tranquilizerstotakeeffect,sheoftenputherhandtoher navel,like afishermancheckinghisline.Itseemed to Tessie thatshe felt something. Faintvibrationsreachedher.Fromtheseshecould tellthatI wasstillalive,thoughfar away, hungry, andpossiblyun- well.All this cameinakindofsingingalongtheinvisible cord,a singing such as whales do, cryingout toone another inthedeep. For almost aweekafterIdisappeared,myparentshad remained at the Lochmoor Hotel,hopingImightreturn.Finally, theNYPD 463 detectiveassignedtothecasetoldthemthatthe bestthingto dowas returnhome."Yourdaughtermightcall.Or turnupthere. Kidsusu- allydo.If wefindher,we'llletyouknow. Believeme. Thebestthing todois gohome andstayby the phone."Reluctantly, myparents took thisadvice. Before leaving, however,theyhadmade an appointment with Dr. Luce."Alittleknowledgeisadangerous thing," Dr. Lucetoldthem, offeringan explanation formydisappearance. "Caliiemayhave stolen a look at herfilewhileIwasout ofmyoffice.Butshedidn't understandwhatshewasreading." "But what wouldmakeherrunaway?"Tessieasked.Her eyes werewide,imploring. "Shemisconstruedthe facts," Luceanswered."Sheoversimplified them." "I'llbehonestwithyou,Dr.Luce,"saidMilton. "Ourdaughter calledyou a liarinthatnote sheleft. I'dlike anexplanationwhyshe mightsaysomethinglike that." Lucesmiledtolerantly."She'sfourteen.Distrustfulofadults." "Can we takealookatthatfile?" "Itwon'thelpyouto see thefile.Genderidentity is verycomplex. It'snot a matterofsheergenetics.Neitherisit a matterofpurelyen- vironmentalfactors. Genesand environmentcometogether ata crit- icalmoment.It'snotdi-factorial.It'stri-factorial." "Let megetone thing straight,"Milton interrupted."Isit,or is it not,stillyourmedicalopinionthatCaliieshouldstaythewaysheis?" "From thepsychologicalassessmentIwas abletomakeduring thebrief timeItreatedCaliie,Iwouldsayyes,my opinionis that she hasafemalegenderidentity." Tessie's composurebrokeandshesounded frantic. "Why doesshe say she'sa boy,then?" "She never said thattome,"said Luce."That'sanew pieceofthe puzzle." "Iwantto seethatfile,"demandedMilton. "I'm afraidthat's notpossible.Thefileisfor myown privatere- searchpurposes.You'refreeto see Callie'sblood workandthe other testresults." Miltonexplodedthen.Shouting,swearingat Dr.Luce. "Ihold youresponsible.You hear me?Ourdaughter isn'tthekind tojustrun offlike that.Youmust have done somethingto her. Scared her." 464 "Hersituation scaredher,Mr. Stephanides,"said Luce."Andlet me emphasizesomethingtoyou."Herappedhisknucklesagainsthis desk. "Itisoftantamountimportancethatyoufindherassoonas possible. Therepercussions couldbesevere." "What areyousaying?" "Depression. Dysphoria. She'sin a very delicate psychological state." "Tessie," Miltonlooked athiswife, "youwanttosee thefileor shouldweget outofhere andletthisbastardgoscrewhimself." "I want tosee thefile." Shewassnifflingnow."Andwatchyour language, please.Let'stry tobecordial." Finally,Lucehadgiveninandlet themsee it. Aftertheyhadread thefile, heofferedtoreevaluatemy caseata futuretime, andex- pressed hopethatIwouldsoon be found. "I'dnevertakeCalliebacktohimin a millionyears,"mymother saidastheyleft. "Idon'tknowwhathedidtoupsetCallie,"saidmyfather, "but he didsomething." TheyreturnedtoMiddlesexinlateSeptember.Theleaveswere fallingfromtheelms,robbingthestreetofshelter.Theweatherbe- gan to turn colder,andfromherbedat nightTessie listenedtothe wind andtherustlingleaves,wondering whereI was sleeping andif I wassafe.Thetranquilizersdidn't subdue herpanicsomuch as dis- placeit.Under their sedationTessiewithdrewintoaninnercoreof herself, akind ofviewing platformfromwhichshecouldobserveher anxiety. Thefear wasa littlelesswithheratthosetimes.Thepills madeher mouthdry.Theymadeherhead feel asthough it were wrappedin cotton,andturnedtheperiphery ofhervision starry.She was supposed totakeonly onepillat a time,butsheoftentooktwo. There was aplace halfwaybetweenconsciousnessanduncon- sciousness whereTessiedidherbestthinking.Duringthedayshe busied herself withcompany— people were constantlystopping by the house with food, andshehad tosetout traysandclean up after them— butinthenights,approachingstupefaction,shehadthe courage to try tocometoterms with thenote I'dleftbehind. Itwas impossibleformymothertothinkofmeasanything but her daughter. Herthoughtswentin the samecircleagain andagain. With her eyes half-open, Tessie gazedoutacrossthedarkbedroom glinting and sparkinginthecorners,andsawbeforeherall theitems 465

• From Middlesex (2002)

  traffic, lurched off downMichigan Avenue towardCadillac Square. My grandparents' eyes glazedover atthesheer activity,streetcars rumbling, bells clanging,andthemonochrome trafficswervingin and out. Inthosedays downtownDetroitwas filledwithshoppers and businessmen. OutsideHudson'sDepartment Storethecrowd was tenthick,jostiingtogetinthe newfangled revolvingdoors.Lina pointedout thesights:theCafeFrontenac ... theFamily Theatre...andthe enormouselectricsigns: Ralston...Wait & BondBlackstoneMild 10<t Cigar.Above, a thirty-foot boyspread MeadowGoldButteronaten-foot slice of bread. Onebuildinghadarowof giantoillamps overtheentrancetopro- motea saleonuntilOctober31.Itwasallswirlandhubbub,Desde- monalyingagainst the backseat, alreadysufferingtheanxietythat modernconvenienceswouldinduceinherover the years,cars mainly,but toasters,too,lawnsprinklersandescalators;whileLefty grinnedandshookhishead.Skyscrapersweregoingup everywhere, and moviepalacesandhotels.Thetwentiessawtheconstructionof nearlyallDetroit'sgreat buildings,thePenobscotBuilding andthe second Buhl BuildingcoloredlikeanIndianbelt,theNewUnion TrustBuilding,theCadillacTower,the FisherBuildingwith its gildedroof.To my grandparentsDetroitwaslikeone bigKoza Han duringcocoonseason.What theydidn'tseeweretheworkerssleep- ing onthestreetsbecause ofthehousingshortage, andtheghetto justtotheeast,a thirty-square-blockareaboundedby Leland, Ma- comb,Hastings,andBrushstreets,teeming withthecity'sAfrican Americans, who weren'tallowed to live anywhereelse.Theydidn't see,inshort, theseedsofthe city'sdestruction—its seconddestruc- tion—because they werepartofit,too,allthese peoplecomingfrom everywhere tocashinon HenryFord's five-dollar-a-day promise. The East SideofDetroitwasa quiet neighborhoodofsingle- family homes, shadedbycathedralelms. The houseonHurlbut Street Lina drove themtowas a modest, two-story buildingofroot- beer-colored brick. My grandparentsgapedat it fromthecar,unable to move, until suddenlythefrontdooropened and someone stepped out. Jimmy Zizmo was so manythingsIdon't know wheretobegin. Amateur herbalist; antisuffragist;big-game hunter;ex-con; drug pusher; teetotaler— take yourpick.Hewas forty- five yearsold,nearly 88 twiceas oldas hiswife.Standingonthe dimporch, heworeaninex- pensive suit andashirt with a pointycollarthathadlost mostofits starch. Hisfrizzy blackhair gave himthewildlookofthe bachelor he'd beenforso manyyears,andthisimpressionwasheightened by his face, whichwas rumpled likeanunmadebed.Hiseyebrows, however,wereas seductivelyarched asa nautch girl's,hiseyelashes sothick hemight havebeenwearingmascara. Butmygrandmother didn'tnoticeany ofthat.She was fixatedonsomething else. "An Arab?"Desdemonaaskedassoonasshewasalone withher cousinin thekitchen."Isthatwhyyoudidn'ttell usabouthimin your letters?" "He'snotanArab.He'sfromtheBlackSea." "Thisisthesala" Zizmo wasmeanwhileexplainingtoLefty ashe showedhimaroundthehouse. "Pontian!"Desdemona gasped with horror,whilealsoexamining theicebox."He's not Muslim,ishe?" "Noteverybody from thePontusconverted,"Linascoffed."What doyouthink,aGreek takesa swimintheBlack Seaandturnsintoa Muslim?" "ButdoeshehaveTurkishblood?"Shelowered hervoice."Isthat whyhe's sodark?" "Idon't knowandIdon'tcare." "You'refree tostayaslongasyou like"—Zizmo wasnowleading Lefty upstairs— "buttherearea fewhouserules. First,I'mavegetar- ian.If yourwife wantstocook meat,shehas touseseparatepots and dishes.Also, nowhiskey.Doyoudrink?" "Sometimes." "Nodrinking. Gotoaspeakeasy ifyou wanttodrink. Idon't want any troublewith the police.Now,aboutdierent.Youjustgot married?" "Yes." "What kind of dowry didyouget?" "Dowry?" "Yes. How much?" "But did youknowhewassoold?"Desdemona whispered down- stairs as sheinspected the oven. "At leasthe's notmybrother." "Quiet!Don't evenjoke." 89 "I didn'tgeta dowry," answeredLefty. "Wemetontheboatover." "No dowry!" Zizmostoppedonthestairs to look backatLefty with astonishment. "Whydidyougetmarried, then?" "We fellinlove," Leftysaid.He'dnever announcedittoastranger before, and itmade himfeelhappyandfrightened all at once. "Ifyou don'tget paid,don't getmarried,"Zizmosaid. "That's why Iwaitedso long.Iwasholdingout fortherightprice."He winked. "Lina mentionedyouhaveyourownbusiness now," Leftysaid withsudden interest,followingZizmointo thebathroom."What kindof businessisit?" "Me?I'man importer." "Idon'tknowofwhat,"Sourmelinaansweredinthekitchen."An importer.All Iknowis he bringshome money." "Buthowcanyoumarrysomebodyyoudon'tknowanything about?" "To get outofthatcountry,Des,Iwouldhavemarriedacripple." "Ihavesome experiencewithimporting,"Leftymanagedtogetin as Zizmodemonstratedtheplumbing."BackinBursa. Inthesilkin- dustry." "Yourportionoftherentistwentydollars." Zizmodidn't take the hint.He pulledthechain, unleashing a floodofwater. "AsfarasI'mconcerned,"Linawas continuingdownstairs,"when itcomes tohusbands,theolderthe better."She opened the pantry door. "Ayounghusbandwouldbeafterme allthetime.Itwouldbe too muchof a strain." "Shame onyou,Lina."But Desdemonawas laughingnow, de- spiteherself. It was wonderful tosee herold cousin again, a little pieceof Bithynios stillintact. Thedarkpantry, fullof figs,almonds, walnuts,halvah, anddriedapricots,made herfeel better, too. "Butwhere canI get therent?"Lefty finally blurtedoutasthey headedback downstairs."Idon'thaveany money left.WherecanI work?" "Nota problem." Zizmo waved hishand. "I'll speaktoafewpeo- ple."They came through thesola again. Zizmo stoppedandlooked significantly down. "Youhaven'tcomplimented my zebraskinrug." "It'svery nice." "I broughtitback fromAfrica.Shotit myself." 90

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  It was very Freudian, Reese thought, that this anxiety centered on the nose—the protuberant nose as phallus, the phallus as Amy’s former self. But Reese didn’t say this, because in truth, quirks of dysphoria did not follow a Freudian pattern—no, they sequenced themselves according to an alchemist’s mixture of beauty standards, consumerism, and liberal doses of self-loathing. It took only a brief search of any transsexual forum to note, for instance, that a large percentage of trans women tend to focus dysphorically on the brow ridge, which thickens with exposure to testosterone during puberty and which avaricious facial feminization surgeons dubiously tout as an instant marker of a masculine face. More to the point, Reese maintained that foreheads drive trans women insane precisely because there is a surgery to alter it. The surgery created the dysphoria even as the dysphoria created a need for surgery. To know that surgery is out there, but that you can’t yet have it, even as you stare in the mirror and want to die, means that the temptation of want will forever taunt you. Large hands, though? Yes, they suck, but short of lopping off your fingers, no surgeon has yet to devise a procedure to shrink them, so most of the women Reese knew just learned ways to minimize them and get over it, as Reese did herself. The instant that some surgeon invented a hand-shrinking procedure, though, Reese knew she would die rather than have that surgery denied to her. Therefore, the fact that Amy’s dysphoria had taken up residence in the nose, and that Amy could get a nose job paid for by her agency’s insurance, meant that in Reese’s opinion, Amy must go through with it, because otherwise, the nose would torment Amy forever.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  By day, no words; by night, hundreds. Every evening at quitting time my exhausted grandfather would come out of the factory and tramp across to an adjacent building housing the Ford English School. He sat in a desk with his workbook open in front of him. The desk felt as though it were vibrating across the floor at the Line's 1.2 miles per hour. He looked up at the English alphabet in a frieze on the class- room walls. In rows around him, men sat over identical workbooks. Hair stiff from dried sweat, eyes red from metal dust, hands raw, they recited with the obedience of choirboys: "Employees should use plenty of soap and water in the home. "Nothing makes for right living so much as cleanliness. "Do not spit on the floor of the home. "Do not allow any flies in the house. "The most advanced people are the cleanest." Sometimes the English lessons continued on the job. One week, after a lecture by the foreman on increasing productivity, Lefty speeded up his work, grinding a bearing every twelve seconds instead of fourteen. Returning from the lavatory later, he found the word "RAT" written on the side of his lathe. The belt was cut. By the time he found a new belt in the equipment bin, a horn sounded. The Line had stopped. "What the hell's the matter with you?" the foreman shouted at him. "Every time we shut down the line, we lose money. If it happens again, you're out. Understand?" "Yes, sir." 97 "Okay! Let her go!" And the Line started up again. After the foreman had gone, O'Malley looked both ways and leaned over to whisper, "Don't try to be a speed king. You understand? We all have to work faster that way."

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "Daddeee," saidGaia, embarrassed. "Betterto haveflatfeetthan tobeknocked offyourfeetforever," said Lefty. "That'sright,"agreedGeorgia Vasilakis. "You'relucky they wouldn't takeMilton.Idon'tthink it'sanykind ofdishonor atall.I don't know whatI'ddoifIhad tosend asonoff to war." Everyso often during thisconversation, Desdemonahad patted Gaia Vasilakison theknee andsaid,"Miltie heiscoming. Soon." She had been sayingitsinceher guestsarrived. Shehadbeen sayingit everySunday forthepastmonthand a half,and notonly to Gaia Vasilakis.Shehad said itto Jeanie Diamond, whose parentshad broughther lastSunday, andshehadsaid ittoVickyLogathetis, who'dcome theweekbeforethat. Desdemonahadjustturnedforty-three and,inthe mannerof womenofher generation, shewaspractically anoldwoman.Gray hadinfiltratedher hair. She'dbeguntowearrimlessgold eyeglasses that magnifiedher eyes, making herlookevenmoreperpetually dis- mayedthanshealready was. Hertendency to worry (whichthe swingmusicupstairshadaggravatedoflate)hadbrought backher heartpalpitations.Theywere a dailyoccurrencewithhernow. Withinthesurroundofthisworrying,however,Desdemonare- mained abundleofactivity,always cooking,cleaning,doting onher childrenand thechildren ofothers,alwaysshriekingatthetopofher lungs, fullofnoiseandlife. Despite mygrandmother's correctivelenses,theworldremained outoffocus. Desdemona didn'tunderstandwhatthe fighting wasall about.At Smyrnathe Japanese had beentheonlycountiy to send ships torescue refugees. My grandmothermaintainedalifelongsense ofgratitude. Whenpeople broughtup thesneakattackonPearlHar- bor,she said,"Don'ttell meabout anislandinthe middle ofthe ocean. This countryisn't big enoughthey have to havealltheislands, too?"The Statueof Liberty's genderchanged nothing.Itwasthe samehere as everywhere: menand theirwars. Fortunately,Milton had been turneddownby the Army.Instead ofgoingoffto war he was going to nightschool and helpingoutat thebar during theday. Theonly uniform he wore wasthat ofthe BoyScouts,wherehewas atroop leader. Every so oftenhetook his scouts camping upnorth. After fivemore minutes, when Milton stillhadnotmaterialized, Desdemona excused herselfand climbed the stairs.Shestopped out- 171 side Milton's bedroom, frowning atthemusiccoming frominside. Then, without knocking,sheentered. Infront ofthewindow,clarineterect, Miltonplayedon,oblivi- ous. His hipsswayedinan indecent fashion andhis lips glistened as brightiyas hishair.Desdemonamarched acrosstheroom and slammedthewindowshut. "Come, Miltie,"shecommanded. "Gaiaisdownstairs." "I'm practicing." "Practicelater." Shewas squintingout thewindow at theO'Toole Boardinghouseacrosstheyard.Atthethird-floorwindow she thought she saw a headduckdown, butshecouldn'tbesure. "Whyyoualways play by thewindow?" "I gethot." Desdemonawasalarmed."Howyoumeanhot?" "Fromplaying." Shesnorted."Come.Gaiabroughtyou cookies." For sometimenowmygrandmotherhadsuspectedthegrowing intimacybetweenMiltonandTessie.ShenotedtheattentionMilton paid to Tessie whenever Tessie came overfor dinnerwithSourmelina. Growingup,ZoehadalwaysbeenTessie'sbestfriendandplaymate. ButnowitwasMiltonwhomTessiesatintheporchswingwith. Desdemona hadasked Zoe, "Whyyouno go outwithTessieno more?"AndZoe, inaslightlybittertone,hadreplied,"She'sbusy." Thiswaswhatbrought on thereturnofmygrandmother'sheart palpitations.Aftereverything shehad donetoatoneforher crime,af- tershehadturned hermarriageintoan arcticwasteland andallowed a surgeon totieherfallopiantubes,consanguinitywasn'tfinished withher.Andso,horrified, my grandmotherhadresumedanactivity atwhichshehadtried herhand oncebefore,withdecidedlymixed results.Desdemona wasmatchmaking again. From Sundayto Sunday, asinthehouse inBithynios, aparade of marriageablegirls camethroughthefront doorofHurlbut. Theonly difference wasthatin this casetheyweren'tthe sametwo girlsmulti- plied overandover. In Detroit,Desdemona hadalarge poolto choose from.There weregirls withsqueaky voicesorsoftaltos, plump girlsandthin ones,babyish girlswho woreheartlocketsand girls whowere old beforetheirtimeandworkedas secretaries inin- surance firms. There wasSophieGeorgopoulos, whowalkedfunny 172 ever since stepping onhotcoalsduringa campingtrip,and therewas Mathilda Livanos, supremely boredinthewayof beautifulgirls, who'd shown nointerest inMiltonandhadn'tevenwashed herhair. Week afterweek, aidedorcoercedbytheirparents, theycame,and week afterweek MiltonStephanidesexcused himselftogouptohis bedroom andplay hisclarinetoutthewindow Now,with Desdemonaridingherdbehind,hecamedowntosee Gaia Vasilakis. Shewassittingbetweenherparentsontheoverstuffed sea-foam-green sofa,a large girlherself, wearing awhite crinoline dress with a ruffledhem and puffedsleeves. Hershortwhite socks had ruffles,too.They reminded Miltonofthelacecoveroverthe bathroomtrashcan. "Boy,those are alot ofbadges," Gus Vasilakissaid. "Milton needed onemore badge andhecouldhavebeenanEagle Scout," Leftysaid. "Whichoneisthat?" "Swimming,"saidMilton."Ican'tswimforbeans." "I'mnot a very goodswimmereither,"Gaiasaid,smiling. "Have a cookie,Miltie,"Desdemonaurged. Miltonlooked downatthetinandtookacookie. "Gaiamadethem,"Desdemonasaid."How you like it?" Milton chewed,meditatively.After a moment,he heldup the Boy Scoutsalute."I cannottellalie,"hesaid."Thiscookieislousy." Isthere anything asincredibleasthe love storyofyourownparents? Anything ashardtograsp as thefactthatthose twoover-the-hillplay- ers, permanendy onthedisabledlist,wereonceinthestartinglineup? It's impossible to imaginemy father, whoinmyexperiencewas aroused mainly bytheloweringofinterestrates, suffering the acute, adolescent passions oftheflesh.Miltonlyingonhis bed, dreaming about my mother inthesameway Iwould laterdreamabouttheOb- scure Object.Milton writinglovelettersandeven,afterreadingMar- veil's "To HisCoyMistress" at nightschool, \o\tpoems.Miltonmixing Elizabethan metaphysicswiththerhyming styles ofEdgarBergen: You're justasamazing, Tessie Zizmo assomenewmechanicalgizmo a GEexecmight givea pal you'reaWorld'sFair kind of gal... 173

• From Middlesex (2002)

  making things up. Sherationalized herlying bytellingherself that thiswasherlastyear of freedom.Bynext summershe'd beapriest's wife,livingsomewhereinGreece.Tomitigate herdishonesty, she de- flected allhonorfromherself,filling herletterswith praiseforZoe. "She works sixdaysaweekbutonSundays getsupbright andearly totakeMrs.Tsontakistochurch—poor thing'sninety-three andcan barely walk.That'sZoe.Alwaysthinking ofothers." Meanwhile,DesdemonaandMiltonwere writing to each other,too. Before goingofftowar,myfatherhadpromised hismotherthathe'd finallybecomeliterateinGreek. Now,fromCalifornia,lying onhis bunkintheevenings,sosorehecouldbarely move,Miltoncon- sulted a Greek-Englishdictionary to piece togetherreportsonhis navylife.Nomatterhowhardheconcentrated,however, bythetime hislettersarrived at HurlbutStreetsomethinghad beenlostintrans- lation. "Whatkind ofpaperthisis?"Desdemonaaskedherhusband, holdingupaletterthatresembledSwisscheese.Likemice,military censorshadnibbled at Milton'slettersbefore Desdemonagottodi- gestthem.Theybitoffanymentionoftheword"invasion," any ref- erence to"San Diego" or"Coronado." They chewed through whole paragraphsdescribingthenavalbase,thedestroyersandsubmarines docked at thepier.Sincethecensors'Greek was evenworsethanMil- ton's,theyoftenmademistakes,loppingoffendearments,x'sando's. Despitethe gaps inMilton'smissives(syntacticalandphysical), mygrandmotherregistered the danger of hissituation.Inhisbadly pennedsigmasanddeltasshespiedtheshakinghandofherson's growinganxiety. Over hisgrammaticalmistakesshedetectedthenote offearinhis voice.The stationery itself frightenedherbecauseital- readylooked blowntobits. SeamanStephanides,however,wasdoing hisbesttopreventin- jury.On a Wednesday morning, hereportedto thebaselibraryto takethe admittance examforthe U.S. Naval Academy.Overthenext fivehours,everytimehelookedupfrom histest paper, he sawhis shipmates doing calisthenicsinthehot sun.He couldn'thelpsmil- ing. Whilehisbuddieswerebakingout there, Miltonwassittingun- der aceilingfan,workingouta mathematical proof. While they were forced torunup and downthe sandygridiron, Miltonwasreadinga paragraph by someone named Carlyleand answering thequestions 190 that followed. And tonight,whentheywouldbe gettingcreamed against the rocks,he would be snuginhisbunk,fast asleep. By the timethe earlymonthsof1945rolledin, everyonewas looking for exemptions from duty.Mymother hidfromcharitable worksby goingtothe movies. My father ducked maneuversbytak- ing a test. But whenitcametoexemptions,mygrandmothersought onefrom nothingless thanheavenitself. One Sunday inMarch,shearrived at AssumptionbeforetheDi- vine Liturgyhad started.Goinginto a niche,sheapproachedtheicon of St. Christopherandproposed a deal."Please, St. Christopher," Desdemonakissed herfingertipsandtouchedthemtothesaint's forehead, "ifyoukeep Miltie safeinthewar,Iwillmakehimpromise togoback toBithyniosandfixthechurch."Shelookedupat St. Christopher, themartyrofAsiaMinor. "If theTurksdestroyedit, Miltiewillbuilditagain.Ifitonlyneedspainting,he'llpaint." St. Christopherwasagiant.Heheldastaffandfordedarushingriver. OnhisbackwastheChristChild,theheaviestbabyinhistorybe- causehehadtheworldinhishands.Whatbettersaintto protect her ownson,inperilonthe sea? Intheshadowy,lamplitspace,Desde- monaprayed.Shemovedherlips,spellingouttheconditions."I wouldalsolike, ifpossible, St. Christopher, ifMiltiehecould beex- cusedfromthe training.Hetellsmeitisvery dangerous.He's writ- ing tomein Greeknow,too,St. Christopher.Nottoogoodbut okay.Ialsomake himpromisetoput inthechurchnewpews.Also, if youlike,some carpets."Shelapsed intosilence,closinghereyelids. Shecrossed herselfnumeroustimes,waiting for ananswer.Thenher spine suddenlystraightened.Sheopenedhereyes,nodded,smiled. She kissedher fingertipsandtouched them to the saint's picture,and shehurried home towrite Miltonthegoodnews. "Yeah, sure," myfathersaidwhenhegotthe letter. "St. Christopher totherescue." Heslippedthe letterintohisGreek-Englishdictionary and carried bothtotheincinerator behindtheQuonsethut.(That wasthe end ofmy father'sGreeklessons.Thoughhecontinuedto speak Greek tohisparents, Miltonnever succeeded inwritingit, and ashe got older he begantoforgetwhateventhesimplestwords meant. Inthe endhe couldn't say muchmorethanChapterEleven or me, which was almost nothing at all.) Milton's sarcasm was understandable under thecircumstances. 191 Onlythe daybefore,his CO. hadgiven Miltonanew assignment in the upcominginvasion.The news,likeallbadnews,hadn't registered at first.ItwasasiftheC.O.'swords,theactualsyllables headdressed to Milton,had beenscrambledbytheboysoverin Intelligence. Mil- tonhadsalutedandwalked out. He'd continueddowntothe beach stillunaffected,the badnewsactingwith a kind of discretion, allow- inghimtheselastfewpeaceful,deluded moments.Hewatched the sunset.Headmired a neutralSwitzerland ofseals out ontherocks. He took offhis bootstofeelthesandagainsthisfeet, as iftheworld wereaplacehewasonlybeginningtolivein insteadofsomewhere he would soonbeleaving.Butthenthefissures appeared. Asplit in thetopofhisskull,throughwhichthe bad news hissinglypoured; a groove inhis knees,whichbuckled,andsuddenlyMiltoncouldn't keepitoutanylonger. Thirty-eightseconds.That wasthenews. "Stephanides,we'reswitching youover tosignalman.Report to BuildingBat0700hourstomorrowmorning.Dismissed."Thatwas whattheCO.hadsaid.Onlythat.Anditwasnosurprise,really.As theinvasion neared,therehadbeena suddenrashofinjuries tosig- nalmen.Signalmenhad been choppingofffingersdoingKPduty. Signalmenhad beenshootingthemselvesin thefeetwhilecleaning theirguns.Inthenighttimedrills,signalmenlustily flungthemselves ontotherocks. Thirty-eightseconds wasthe lifeexpectancy of a signalman.When thelandingtookplace, Seaman Stephanideswould standin the front oftheboat.He wouldoperateasortof lantern, flashingsignalsin Morsecode.Thislantern wouldbe bright, clearlyvisibletoenemy positionsonshore. That was whathewas thinkingaboutashestood onthe beachwith hisbootsoff.Hewas thinkingthathe wouldnever takeoverhisfather's bar.Hewas thinkingthat hewould never see Tessieagain.Instead, afewweeks fromnow,he wouldstandupina boat, exposedto hostile fire,holdinga bright light.Foralittlewhile, atleast. Not includedintheNewsoftheWorld:a shot ofmyfather'sAKA transport shipleavingCoronadonavalbase, headingwest.AttheEs- quire Theater,holdingherfeetoffthesticky floor,Tessie Zizmo watches aswhitearrowsarc acrossthePacific.The U.S. Naval Twelfth Fleet forges aheadonits invasion of the Pacific, the announcersays. Final 192

• From Middlesex (2002)

  At firstshethoughtsomeonehadcomeinto theroom. Butwhen she turned,noonewasthere. "MYFATHERWASALPHONSO, ANEBONY-HUED MAN OF THETRIBEOFSHABAZZ.MY MOTHER'SNAME WAS BABYGEE.SHE WAS A CAUCASIAN,ADEVIL." Awhat? Desdemonacouldn't quite hear.Ordetermine theloca- tionofthevoice.Itseemedtobecomingfrom thefloornow."my FATHERMETHER IN THEHILLS OFEASTASIA.HE SAW POTENTIAL INHER.HE LED HERINTHERIGHTEOUS WAYSUNTILSHEBECAMEAHOLYMUSLIM." Itwasn'twhat thevoicewas sayingthatintrigued Desdemona— shedidn't catchwhatitwas saying.It was the soundofthevoice, a deepbassthatsetherbreastbonehumming.Shelet go ofthe dancing silk.Shelowered her kerchiefed headto listen.And whenthevoice started upagain,shesearchedthroughboltsofsilkforitssource. "WHYDIDMYFATHERMARRYACAUCASIANDEVIL?BE- CAUSE HEKNEWTHAT HIS SONWAS DESTINED TO SPREADTHEWORDTOTHELOSTPORTIONOFTHE tribeofshabazz." Three, four,fivebolts, and thereitwas: a heatinggrate.Andthevoicewasloudernow."therefore,he FELTTHATI,HISSON,SHOULDHAVEASKINCOLOR THAT WOULDALLOWMETO DEALWITHBOTHWHITE ANDBLACKPEOPLE JUSTLY AND RIGHTEOUSLY. SO I AMHERE, A MULATTO,LIKEMUSABEFOREME,WHO BROUGHTTHECOMMANDMENTSTO THE JEWS." FromthedepthsofthebuildingtheProphet's voicerose.Itbegan in theauditorium threefloors below.Itfiltered downthrough the trapdoor inthe stage outofwhich,atthe oldtobacconistconven- tions,the Rondegagirl used topop,clad innothingbutacigarrib- bon.The voice reverberatedin thecrawlspace thatledtothewings, whereupon itenteredaheatingventand circulated aroundthebuild- ing, growingdistorted andechoey, untilitrushed horiyoutthegrate atwhichDesdemona nowcrouched, "my education,as WELLASTHE ROYALBLOOD THATRUNS INMYVEINS, MIGHTHAVE LEDMETOSEEK A POSITIONOFPOWER. BUTI HEARD MY UNCLEWEEPING, BROTHERS.I HEARD MY UNCLEIN AMERICAWEEPING." She couldmake out a faintaccentnow.She waited formore,but 152 therewas only silence. Furnace smellblewintoherface. Shebent lower, listening.But thenext voicesheheardwasSister Wanda'son the landing: "Yoo-hoo! Des!Weready for you." Andshe tore herselfaway. My grandmotherwas theonlywhitepersonwhoeverheard W D.Fard sermonize, andsheunderstood less thanhalfofwhathe said.Itwasa result oftheheating vent'sbadacoustics, herownim- perfect English,and thefactthatshekept liftingherhead tohearif anyonewas coming. Desdemonaknewthatitwasforbiddenforher to listen to Fard's lectures.Thelastthingshewantedwastojeopar- dizehernewjob.But there was nootherplaceforhertogo. Everyday,at oneo'clock,thegratebegantorumble.Atfirstshe heardthe noiseofpeoplecomingintothe auditorium. Thiswasfol- lowedby chanting.Sherolledextraboltsofsilkinfrontofthegrate tomufflethesound.Shemovedherchairto thefar corneroftheSilk Room.Butnothing helped. "PERHAPS YOURECALL,INOURLAST LECTURE,HOW I TOLD YOU ABOUTTHEDEPORTATIONOFTHEMOON?" "No,Idon't,"saidDesdemona. "SIXTYTRILLIONYEARSAGO AGOD-SCIENTISTDUG AHOLETHROUGHTHEEARTH,FILLEDIT WITHDYNA- MITEAND BLEWTHEEARTHIN TWO. THESMALLER OF THESE TWO PIECESBECAMETHEMOON. DOYOU RE- CALL THAT?" My grandmotherclamped herhandsoverher ears; onher face wasalookof refusal.Butthroughher lipsaquestionslipped out: "Somebodyblew uptheearth?Who?" "TODAY I WANTTOTELLYOU ABOUTANOTHER GOD-SCIENTIST. ANEVILSCIENTIST. BYTHENAMEOF YACUB." Andnow herfingersspreadapart, lettingthevoicereachher ears ... "YACUB LIVED EIGHTY-FOUR HUNDREDYEARSAGO INTHE PRESENT TWENTY-FIVE-THOUSAND-YEAR-CYCLE OF HISTORY. HEWASPOSSESSED, THISYACUB,OF AN UNUSUALLY LARGECRANIUM. ASMARTMAN. ABRIL- LIANT MAN. ONEOFTHE PREEMINENT SCHOLARS OF THE NATION OFISLAM. THIS WASAMANWHO DISCOV- 153 EREDTHE SECRETSOFMAGNETISM WHEN HE WAS ONLY SIX YEARSOLD.HEWASPLAYING WITH TWO PIECESOFSTEELANDHEHELD THEMTOGETHER ANDDISCOVEREDTHATSCIENTIFIC FORMULA: MAG- NETISM." Like a magnet itself,thevoiceworkedonDesdemona. Nowit waspullingherhandsdowntohersides.Itwas makingherleanfor- wardinherchair ... "BUTYACUBWASN'TCONTENT WITHMAGNETISM. WITHHISLARGECRANIUMHEHAD OTHERGREAT IDEAS.AND SOONE DAY YACUBTHOUGHTTOHIMSELF THATIFHECOULDCREATEARACEOFPEOPLECOM- PLETELYDIFFERENTFROMTHEORIGINALPEOPLE- GENETICALLY DIFFERENT—THATRACECOULDCOMETO DOMINATETHEBLACKNATIONTHROUGHTRICKNOL- OGY." .. .Andwhenleaningwasn'tenough,shemovedcloser.Walking acrosstheroom,movingsilkboltsaside,shekneltdownbeforethe grate, as Fardcontinuedhisexplanation:"everyblackmanis MADE OFTWO GERMS: ABLACK GERMAND A BROWN GERM.AND SO YACUBCONVINCEDFIFTY-NINE THOU- SAND NINE HUNDRED AND NINETY-NINEMUSLIMSTO EMIGRATE TOTHEISLANDOFPELAN. THEISLANDOF PELAN IS IN THE AEGEAN. YOU WILLFINDITTODAYON EUROPEANMAPS,UNDERAFALSE NAME.TOTHISIS- LANDYACUBBROUGHTHIS FIFTY-NINETHOUSAND NINE HUNDREDAND NINETY-NINEMUSLIMS.AND THEREHECOMMENCEDHISGRAFTING." Shecouldhear other thingsnow.Fard'sfootsteps ashepacedthe stage. The squeakingofchairs as hislisteners bent forward,hanging onhis every word. "INHISLABORATORIESONPELAN, YACUBKEPTALL ORIGINALBLACK PEOPLE FROM REPRODUCING. IFA BLACK WOMAN GAVEBIRTHTO A CHILD,THAT CHILD WAS KILLED.YACUB ONLYLET BROWN BABIESLIVE.HE ONLYLET BROWN-SKINNEDPEOPLE MATE." "Terrible,"Desdemona said,up onthethird floor."Terrible,this Yacub person." 154

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  they were horses on the same racetrack, released from the gates at the same moment. And that was just for your run-of-the-mill queer. Now imagine that you were trans! You would have to go through at least two puberties! By age thirty, the financial ads said, you should have saved two years’ income for retirement. But at age thirty, the trans girls Reese knew held most of their investment portfolios in the form of old MAC lipstick shades they’d worn once; they spent workdays sending each other animated gifs and occasionally got trolled online by actual thirteen-year-olds. Reese’s own temporal anxiety congealed in the form of a dining room table. At one of her first jobs in New York, an attractive woman name Angela had taken an interest in Reese. Angela had been waitressing and bartending for most of her twenties, scraping by while trying to make it in photography. Reese liked Angela’s photos: textured black- and-whites taken from jarring vantages. Over the course of the year that Reese worked with her, Angela began to date an upwardly mobile mechanical engineer named Chuck, who had cofounded a firm that secured a lucrative contract to weatherproof the city’s new electronic parking meters, which through a previous design flaw, shorted out in the wet weather. By the end of the year Angela had moved into Chuck’s brick townhouse in Jersey City. Soon after, she invited Reese to dinner. Reese arrived to an upsettingly well-appointed interior. Greeting Angela in the living room—softly illuminated by recessed lights—she considered pretending that she hadn’t actually brought wine, so as to avoid them seeing the twelve-dollar bodega brand. Immediately, Chuck apologized for the mess—of which Reese saw none but a box and some tools by a closed door. They had bought new faucets for the downstairs bathroom, Chuck said, and he had been overconfident that he could install them before Reese arrived. “What happened to the old faucet?” Reese asked. “Tt was hideous,” Angela interjected. Reese nodded stupidly. She guessed that Angela was her first-ever friend to replace a faucet that wasn’t broken. “I’m sure the new ones are gorgeous.” Chuck sorted through the pile of tools, unsheathed a faucet from plastic wrap, and held it up for Reese to admire. It looked to Reese like any other faucet. Perhaps a bit more square. “It’s Italian,” Chuck informed her. “T can tell,” Reese replied, unsure if she had spoken ironically or fawningly.