Contempt

Passages

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

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

  oO It’s extremely unlikely that anyone in the ancient world would have made up a crucified messiah. In fact, crucifixion was precisely the problem in convincing people that Jesus was the messiah. © Asecond reason for believing in the existence of Jesus is that the apostle Paul knew one of Jesus’s brothers, James. © Scholars are absolutely confident that Jesus existed, but the mythicist controversy hasn’t died out. Scanned by CamScanner e Another recent controversy is one surrounding the discovery of an alleged gospel fragment written in Coptic, the Gospel of Jesus's Wife. Most scholars who have examined this gospel have concluded that it is probably a modern forgery. e New discoveries often lead to new controversies, but even standard scholarly knowledge can lead to controversy. Critical scholars recognize discrepancies, forgeries, and historical problems in the text of the New Testament, but many readers hold that the Bible ts perfect, infallible, and inerrant. e Is there something about Christianity that makes it an inherently controversial religion? Early on in Christianity, it was decided that Jesus alone was the way of salvation and that without Jesus, one could not have salvation. In other words, from the beginning, Christianity was an exclusivistic religion that insisted that it was right and all other religions were wrong. This exclusivity made Christianity unique in the ancient world. o Notonly were all other religions wrong for the early Christians, but all nonorthodox interpretations of the writings of his apostles were wrong. If being right is what matters before God and there are many opinions about being right on many issues, then there are many people who could be wrong, and all of them are in danger of eternal damnation. o The stakes are particularly high for an exclusivistic religion, such as Christianity, which is why the controversies, for those inside the religion, matter. It is also why Christianity has been and always will be a controversial religion. Suggested Reading Ehrman, After the New Testament. _ Truth and Fiction in The Da Vinci Code. Gamble, The New Testament Canon: Its Making and Meaning. 159 Scanned by CamScanner Bibliography a Allison, Dale. Jesus of Nazareth: Millenarian Prophet. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1998. An authoritative but readable account of the historical Jesus that explains his life and teachings in light of his apocalyptic worldview. . Resurrecting Jesus: The Earliest Christian Tradition and Its Interpreters. New York: T&T Clark, 2005. Chapter 6 of this collection of essays gives a highly insightful discussion of the historical problems surrounding the resurrection, written by one who nonetheless believes in it. Bauer, Walter Orthodoxy and Heresy in Earliest Christianity. English Translation of 1934 German original. Philadelphia: Fortress, 1971. The classic study of early Christian diversity; written at a very erudite, scholarly level but required reading for all graduate students in early Christian studies!

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  the ecstatic audience yelled for the author to appear onstage. Wilde made them wait and wait, then finally emerged, smoking a cigarette and wearing an expression of total disdain. "It may be bad manners to appear here smoking, but it is far worse to disturb me when I am smoking," he scolded his fans. The Count d'Orsay was equally impudent. At a London club one night, a Rothschild who was notoriously cheap accidentally dropped a gold coin on the floor, then bent down to look for it. The count immediately whipped out a thousand-franc note (worth much more than the coin), rolled it up, lit it like a candle, and got down on all fours, as if to help light the way in the search. Only a Dandy could get away with such audacity. The insolence of the Rake is tied up with his desire to conquer a woman; he cares for nothing else. The insolence of the Dandy, on the other hand, is aimed at society and its conventions. It is not a woman he cares to conquer but a whole group, an entire social world. And since people are generally oppressed by the obligation of always being polite and self-sacrificing, they are delighted to spend time around a person who disdains such niceties. Dandies are masters of the art of living. They live for pleasure, not for work; they surround themselves with beautiful objects and eat and drink 50 • The Art of Seduction with the same relish they show for their clothes. This was how the great Roman writer Petronius, author of the Satyricon, was able to seduce the emperor Nero. Unlike the dull Seneca, the great Stoic thinker and Nero's tutor, Petronius knew how to make every detail of life a grand aesthetic adventure, from a feast to a simple conversation. This is not an attitude you should impose on those around you—you can't make yourself a nuisance— but if you simply seem socially confident and sure of your taste, people will be drawn to you. The key is to make everything an aesthetic choice. Your ability to alleviate boredom by making life an art will make your company highly prized.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  conducive to the ascension of a brother like Marius to the corner soapbox. It was suddenly cool to know stuff, to expatiate on the causes of the Spanish Civil War. Che Guevara had asthma, too. And Marius wore a beret. A black paramilitary beret with black glasses and a little fledgling soul patch. In beret and glasses Marius stood on the corner waking people up to things. "Zebra Room," he pointed a bony finger, "white-owned." Then the finger went down the block. 229 - . "TV store, white-owned. Grocery store, white-owned. Bank . . "You got it. No bank. They don't give Brothers looked around . loans to black folks." Marius was planning to become a public advo- cate. As soon as he graduated from law school he was going to sue the city of Dearborn for housing discrimination. He was currently number three in his law school class. But now it was humid out, his childhood asthma acting up, and Marius was feeling unhappy and unwell when I came roller-skating by. ." . "Hi, Marius." He did not vocally respond, a sign with him that he was in low spirits. But he nodded his head, which gave me the courage to con- tinue. "Why don't you get a better chair to stand on?" "You don't like my chair?" "It's all broken." "This chair is an antique. That means it's supposed to be broken." "Not that broken." But Marius was squinting across the street at the Zebra Room. "Let me ask you something, little Cleo." "What?" "How come there's always at least three big fat officers of the so- called peace sitting at the counter of your dad's place?" "He gives them free coffee." "And why do you think he does that?" "I don't know." "You don't know? Okay, I'll tell you. He's paying protection money. Your old man likes to keep the fuzz around because he's scared of us black folks." "He is not," I said, suddenly defensive. "You don't think so?" "No." "Okay, then, Queenie. You know best." But Marius's accusation bothered me. After that, I began to watch my father more closely. I noticed how he always locked the car doors when we drove through the black neighborhood. I heard him in the living room on Sundays: "They don't take care of their properties. They let everything go to hell." The next week, when Lefty took me to the diner, I was more aware than ever of the broad backs of police 230 men at the counter. I heard them joking with my father. "Hey, Milt, you better start putting some soul food on the menu." "Think so?"— my father, jovially—"Maybe a little collard greens?" I snuck out, going to look for Marius. He was in his usual spot but sitting, not standing, and reading a book. "Test tomorrow," he told me. "Gotta study."

• From Books That Have Made History: Books That Can Change Your Life (2005)

  182 Lecture 35: Churchill, My Early Life; Painting as a Pastime; WWII Churchill, My Early Life; Painting as a Pastime; WWII Lecture 35 Churchill describes his early education as being like a cave into which he was forced, and from which he never learned anything worthwhile. T his lecture closes our discussion of three great individuals who made history and wrote books that can be read today for their wisdom and guidance. We have discussed Cicero, Gandhi, and now, Winston Churchill. Churchill played a role in the parliamentary debates of the 1920s and 1930s about Indian independence and whether India should receive dominion status. Gandhi had brought the British Empire and its government to a halt and forced the government to accede to his demands. Churchill called Gandhi “a fakir of a type well-known in the East. He further said that the sight of Gandhi “striding half-naked up the steps of the Viceregal palace” was “nauseating” and an “encouragement to all the forces that are hostile to the British authority.” Churchill’s stand was opposed by the British Liberal Party, as well as by most members of his own party, the Conservative Party. Churchill was convinced that the British Empire was a great force for good and liberty under the law. Churchill believed that India could never govern itself. He said that concessions to Gandhi were a symbol of the lack of moral fi ber that was eroding Britain and its government and would ultimately destroy its empire, as well as its liberty. Many believe that Churchill was the greatest man of the 20 th century, perhaps the greatest man of all history. Although Gandhi and Churchill were different in many ways, both wrote books that touch us. Churchill wrote good books, not great books, but good books can teach a person to love great books and can give profound Many believe that Churchill was the greatest man of the 20 th century, perhaps the greatest man of all history.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "She's a Detroiter. We're both East Siders." "And you need space for your two children, is that right?" "Yes, ma'am. Plus we have my folks living with us, too." "Oh, I see." And now pink gums disappear as Miss Marsh begins to add it all up. Let's see. Southern Mediterranean. One point. Not in one of the professions. One point. Religion? Greek church. That's some kind of Catholic, isn't it? So there's another point there. And he has his parents liv- ing with him! Two more points! Which makes—five! Oh, that won't do. That won't do at all. To explain Miss Marsh's arithmetic: back in those days, the real estate agents in Grosse Pointe evaluated prospective buyers by some- thing called the Point System. (Milton wasn't the only one who wor- 255 ried about the neighborhood going to hell.) No one spoke of it openly. Realtors only mentioned "community standards" and selling to "the right sort of people." Now that white flight had begun, the Point System was more important than ever. You didn't want what was happening in Detroit to happen out here. Discreedy, Miss Marsh now draws a to "Stephanides" and circles it. As she does so, however, she feels some- thing. A kind of regret. The Point System isn't her idea, after all. It was in place long before she came to Grosse Pointe from Wichita, where her father works as a butcher. But there is nothing she can do. Yes, Miss Marsh feels sorry. J mean, really. Look at this house! Who'sgo- ing to buy it ifnot an Italian or a Greek. Fll never be able to sell it. Never! tiny "5" next Her client is still standing at the window, looking out. "I do understand your preference for something more 'Old World,' Mr. Stephanides. We do get them from time to time. You just have to be patient. I've got your telephone number. I'll let you know if anything comes on the market." Milton doesn't hear her. He is absorbed in the view. The house has a roof deck, plus a patio out back. And there are two other, smaller buildings beyond that. "Tell me more about this Hudson Clark fella," he now asks. "Clark? Well, to be honest, he's a minor figure." "Prairie School, eh?" "Hudson Clark was no Frank Lloyd Wright, if that's what you mean." "What are these outbuildings I see here?" "I wouldn't call them outbuildings, Mr. Stephanides. That's mak- ing it a bit grand. One's a bathhouse. Rather decrepit, I'm afraid. I'm not sure it even works. Behind that is the guest house. Which also needs a lot of work."

• From Middlesex (2002)

  She was referring to the service band on the Iron Duke. Every night, as officers dined, the band began playing on the ship's deck. Strains of Vivaldi and Brahms floated out over the water. Over brandy, Ma- Si jor Arthur Maxwell of His Majesty's Marines and his subordinates passed around binoculars to observe the situation ashore. "Jolly crowded, what?" "Looks like Victoria Station on Christmas Eve, sir." "Look at those poor wretches. Left to fend for themselves. When word gets out about the Greek commissioner's leaving, it's going to be pandemonium." "Will we be evacuating refugees, sir?" "Our orders are to protect British property and citizens." ." "But, surely, sir, if the Turks arrive and there's a massacre . "There's nothing we can do about it, Phillips. I've spent years in the Near East. The one lesson I've learned is that there is nothing you can do with these people. Nothing at all! The Turks are the best of the lot. The Armenian I liken to the Jew. Deficient moral and intel- lectual character. As for the Greeks, well, look at them. They've burned down the whole country and now they swarm in here crying for help. Nice cigar, what?" . "Awfully good, sir." "Smyrna tobacco. Finest in the world. Brings a tear to my eyes, Phillips, the thought of all that tobacco lying in those warehouses out there." "Perhaps we could send a detail to save the tobacco, sir." "Do I detect a note of sarcasm, Phillips?" "Faintiy, sir, faintiy." "Good Lord, Phillips, I'm not heartless. I wish we could help these people. But we can't. It's not our war." "Are you certain of that, sir?" "What do you mean?" "We might have supported the Greek forces. Seeing as we sent them in." "They were dying to be sent in! Venizelos and his bunch. I don't think you fathom the complexity of the situation. We have interests here in Turkey. We must proceed with the utmost care. We cannot let ourselves get caught up in these Byzantine struggles." "I see, sir. More cognac, sir?" "Yes, thank you." "It's a beautiful city, though, isn't it?" "Quite. You are aware of what Strabo said of Smyrna, are you 52 not? He called Smyrna the finest city in Asia. That was back in the time of Augustus. It's lasted that long. Take a good look, Phillips. Take a good long look." By September 7, 1922, every Greek in Smyrna, including Lefty Stephanides, is wearing a fez in order to pass as a Turk. The last Greek soldiers are being evacuated at Chesme. The Turkish Army is only thirty miles away— and no ships arrive from Athens to evacuate the refugees. Lefty, newly moneyed and befezzed, makes his way through the maroon-capped crowd at the quay. He crosses tram tracks and heads uphill. He finds a steamship office. Inside, a clerk is bending over passenger lists. Lefty takes out his winnings and says, "Two seats to Athens!"

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

  Pilate outside the New Testament e This heightened emphasis on Jewish culpability in the death of Jesus is continued in later gospels that are not found in the New Testament, such as the Gospel of Peter. o This fragmentary gospel begins in the middle of a sentence: “but none of the Jews washed his hands, nor did Herod or any of his judges. Since they did not wish to wash, Pilate stood up.” In other words, Pilate had washed his hands of Jesus's blood, but none of the Jews would do so. In the next verse, we’re told that King Herod—not Pilate—ordered Jesus to be taken away. o Later on, in verse 5, we learn that Herod delivered Jesus to the people, who pushed him about and mocked him. We're told in verse 17 that the Jewish people “thus brought all things to fulfillment.” o In verse 25, after the death of Jesus, the Jews—the elders and the priests—tealized the extent of their evil and began beating their breasts in woe. Because of their sins, they say, the judgment and the end of Jerusalem are near. Scanned by CamScanner A second noncanonical account is from the Acts of Pilate, a gospel probably from the middle of the 4" century. This gospel tells the events of Jesus’s death from the perspective of Pontius Pilate himself. o In the Acts of Pilate, we're told that the Jewish people came to Pilate, accusing Jesus of many deeds. Pilate, however, wasn't convinced of Jesus’s guilt. When Jesus was brought before Pilate, the soldiers, who were holding the Roman standards bearing the image of Caesar, bowed down to Jesus; in effect, Caesar bowed before Jesus, as well. © The Jewish authorities were incensed and unconvinced when the soldiers claimed that the standards had bowed down of their own accord. Twelve burly Jewish men were recruited to hold two standards, and Jesus was brought in again. Once again, the standards bowed in reverence. o In this account, Jesus is the divine king to whom all others bow down, but the Jews refuse to accept this fact. From around the same time as the Acts of Pilate is another account called the Report of Pilate. This is a legendary account of a report that Ponuus Pilate allegedly sent back to the emperor Tiberius after he had crucified Jesus, in which he explains what he has done. The report was invented by a later Christian author more than 350 years after the events it allegedly narrates. o Here, Pilate says, “The entire multitude of the Jews came together and handed over to me a certain man, named Jesus, bringing endless charges against him, but they were not able to convict him of a single crime.” o In the aftermath of Jesus’s death, Pilate says, all the synagogues but one were destroyed by fire, undoubtedly a punishment of God visited on the Jews for killing Jesus.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  and women,tiredof being thesame,wanttobedifferentagain. Therefore,it's alsonosurprise thatDr.Luce'stheoryhadcome under attack by the 1990s. The childwasnolongerablankslate; every newbornhadbeeninscribed by geneticsandevolution.My life existsat thecenterofthisdebate. Iam,in a sense,itssolution.Atfirst when Idisappeared,Dr.Lucewasdesperate,feeling thathehadlost his greatestfind. Butlater, possiblyrealizingwhy Ihad run away,he cametothe conclusionthat Iwasnotevidenceinsupportof histhe- orybut againstit.HehopedI wouldstayquiet.Hepublishedhisar- ticlesabout meandprayedthat Iwouldnevershow up torefute them. Butit'snotas simple asthat.Idon'tfitintoanyofthesetheories. Notthe evolutionary biologists'andnotLuce'seither.Mypsycho- logicalmakeupdoesn'taccordwiththeessentialismpopularinthe intersexmovement,either.Unlike otherso-calledmalepseudo- hermaphrodites whohavebeenwritten about in the press, Inever feltoutofplacebeing a girl.Istilldon'tfeelentirely at homeamong men.Desiremademecrossovertotheotherside,desireandthefac- ticityofmybody.Inthetwentiethcentury,geneticsbroughttheAn- cientGreeknotionoffateintoourverycells.Thisnewcenturywe've just begunhasfoundsomethingdifferent. Contrary to all expecta- tions,the codeunderlying ourbeingiswoefullyinadequate.Instead oftheexpected 200,000 genes,wehaveonly 30,000. Notmany morethan amouse. And so astrangenew possibilityisarising.Compromised,indefi- nite,sketchy, butnot entirely obliterated:freewillismaking a come- back.Biology givesyoua brain.Lifeturnsitinto a mind. At anyrate, inSan Franciscoin 1974, lifewasworkinghardto giveme one. There it is again:the chlorinesmell.Underthenasallysignificant odor ofthe girlsittingastridehislap,distinct,even,fromthebuttery popcorn smell thatstillpervadestheoldmovieseats, Mr. Gocande- tectthe unmistakablescentof a swimmingpool.Inhere?InSixty- Niners? Hesniffs.Flora,thegirlon hislap,says,"Doyoulikemy perfume?" But Mr.Godoesnotanswer.Mr.Gohasawayofignor- ing the girlshe paystowiggleinhislap.What helikesbestistohave 479 one girlfrog-kickingontopofhimwhile hewatches anothergirl dancingaround theglitteryfiremen's poleonthe stage.Mr. Gois multitasking.Buttonightheisunabletodivide hisattentions. The swimmingpoolsmellisdistractinghim. Ithasdonesofor overa week. Turninghishead,whichisgendy bobbingunderFlora's exer- tions, Mr. Go looks atthe lineforming beforethevelvet rope.The fiftyorsotheaterseatshereintheShow Roomarealmostentirely empty. Inthebluelight onlyafewmen'sheadsarevisible, some alone facing thestage,afewlikeMr.Gowith a companion riding them:thoseperoxideequestriennes. Behindthevelvetroperisesaflightofstairs edged withblinking lights.Toclimbthesestairsyoumust payaseparateadmissionoffive dollars.Uponreachingtheclub'ssecondfloor(Mr.Gohasbeentold), youronlyoptionistoenter a booth,whereit isthennecessarytoin- serttokens,which you must buydownstairsforaquartereach.Ifyou doallthis,youwillbeaffordedbriefglimpses ofsomething Mr. Go doesnotquiteunderstand.Mr.Go'sEnglishismorethanadequate. HehaslivedinAmericaforfifty-twoyears.Butthesignadvertising the attractionsupstairs doesn'tmakemuchsensetohim.Forthatrea- sonheiscurious.Thechlorinesmellonlymakeshimmoreso. Despitetheincreasedtrafficgoingupstairsinrecentweeks, Mr. Gohasnot yet gonehimself.Hehasremainedfaithfultothefirst floorwhere, forthesingleadmissionprice oftendollars,hehasa choice ofactivities.Mr. Go might,ifhesodesires,quittheShow Roomand gointotheDarkRoomattheend ofthehall.IntheDark Roomthere areflashlightswithpinpointbeams. Therearehuddled men,wielding saidflashlights.If you workyourwayinfar enough, youwillfind agirl,orsometimestwo, lyingon a risercarpetedin foamrubber. Ofcourse it isinsomesenseanact offaithtopostulate theexistence ofan actual girl,oreventwo.Youneverseea complete girlintheDark Room.You seeonly pieces.Youseewhat yourflash- light illuminates. Aknee, forinstance, or a nipple.Or, ofparticularin- terestto Mr. Goand hisfellows,youseethesource oflife,the thingof things, purified asitwere,withouttheclutterofa personattached. Mr.Go might also ventureintotheBall Room.Inthe BallRoom there aregirls who long toslow-dance withMr.Go.He doesn't care fordiscomusic, however, and at his age tireseasily. Itistoo muchef- fort to pressthe girls upagainstthe padded wallsof theBall Room. Mr.Gomuch prefers tositintheShowRoom, inthe stained Art 480 Deco theaterseats thatoriginally belongedtoamovie house inOak- land, now demolished. Mr. Goisseventy- three yearsold.Everymorning,toretainhis virility,he drinks a teacontainingrhinoceros horn.Healsoeatsthe gall bladdersof bearswhen hecan get them attheChineseapothe- cary shop nearhisapartment.These aphrodisiacsappeartowork. Mr.Go comesintoSixty-Ninersnearlyevery night.Hehasajokehe likesto tellthegirls who sitonhislap."Mr. Gogoforgo-go."Thatis the onlytime helaughsor smiles,whenhetellsthemthat joke. Iftheclub isnotcrowded— whichitrarelyisdownstairsany- more—FlorawillsometimesgiveMr. Go her companyforthreeor four songs.Fora dollar shewillridehimforonesong, but shewill sitthroughoneortwomoresongsfor free. ThisisoneofFlora's rec- ommendationsin Mr. Go'smind.Sheisnotyoung,Flora, but she hasnice, clearskin.Mr. Go feels sheishealthy. Tonight,however,afteronly twosongs, Flora slides off Mr.Go, grumbling."I'mnot a creditbureau, you know." She stalksoff. Mr. Gorises,adjustinghispants,andrightthentheswimmingpoolsmell hitshimagainandhiscuriositygetsthebetterofhim.Heshufflesout oftheShowRoomandgazesupthestairsattheprintedsign: G&RsftEscNr* KW/.6 1fce NerffloiJ ! dlfo «J far U«K|U! AncI ovr SpeciALfOtWfcofl No q,M[fflci<f n* u M c (Dorf 481

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

  o What's stnking in the Apostolic Constitutions is that the authors, claiming to be apostles, urge their readers not to read the heretical books that claim to be written by apostles but aren’t. In other words, the author condemns what he himself did. o This condemnation of forgery was a ploy of ancient forgers to throw people off the trail of the forgers’ own deceit. ¢ Some people have argued that it was common to practice pseudepigraphy in the philosophical schools without condemnation, but in fact, philosophers condemned the practice as much as anyone else. We know of no philosopher or head of any philosophical school from ancient times up to the 2 Christian century who spoke approvingly of forgery. Scanned by CamScanner 1 and 2 Peter e We've seen already seen that there are several forgeries allegedly by Peter from outside the New Testament. In the New Testament, books 1 and 2 Peter are letters claiming to be written by Peter. But virtually every critical scholar agrees that whoever wrote 1 Peter did not write 2 Peter. The writing styles are completely different. In the opinion of many scholars, neither of these authors was Peter. © Strekphoto Thinkstck : The book known as the Apocalypse ¢ One prominent reason for of Peter, claiming to be written by this assertion is that Peter the disciple, is the first example we 7 - ~ i : couldn’t write. Like John. a guided tour of heaven and hell the son of Zebedee, Peter was a lower-class, Aramaic-speaking fisherman without the time or money needed for the years of study required to leam to write and then to learn to write in a foreign language—Greek. e Is it possible that Peter dictated these books to a secretary, who then wrote them down? That would mean that Peter would have had to compose the letters orally in Greek. There is nothing in either letter to suggest that they were originally composed in Aramaic, and again, to compose orally in Greek would have required a high level of education, which Peter almost certainly did not have. e Even if we assume that a secretary composed the letters under Peter's direction, recent scholarship has shown almost no evidence that a secretary would be commissioned to write a lengthy treatise in someone else’s name in the ancient world. It’s more likely that 97 Scanned by CamScanner these letters are by two different authors claiming to be Peter; in other words, they’re forgeries. Reasons for Committing Forgery 98

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Amy attached the socket and handed it to him. She noticed that he gripped the chain without regard for the grease getting all over his hands. So masculine. Last time she had seen him he had one of those ironic bowl cuts that queers inexplicably loved. Having worn that cut herself as a little child, Amy couldn’t quite shake her infantile associations with that look, the faded memory of sitting in a barber’s chair with a balloon-printed bib around her tiny neck, hair falling away from the sides of her head in tufts under the buzzer’s drone, while the barber called her “littke man” and her mom tutted “Handsome!” Still, she always complimented bowl cuts, because she’d made enthusiastic appreciation of queer style an important part of her social approach, regardless of her actual opinions. Since she’d last seen him, thank god, he had shaved off the bowl and left his hair and stubble the same length, which Amy could compliment with much more genuine gushing. “Reese doesn’t tell you what’s true,” Ricky concluded. “She tells you what you most need to hear. Stuff that you’d told yourself no one would ever understand about you—she figures it out and tells you. Tells you that the thing about you that you most want to be is exactly what she loves about you. It’s fucking intoxicating. It’s like drinking validation from some psychoactively seductive source. She loves being that source. She loves being the thing you need so bad. She means it all too, but only for the moment she’s directing her charm at you. Like the love and joy you feel on Molly or something, it’s real while you feel it, but only for that long.” He grimaced as he pried a bolt loose. “She’s not intentionally cruel. That’s why I say she’s just got, like, personality disorders. And she ends up hurting people, so then she’s alone, which makes her lonely enough to do it even more.” Amy didn’t know how much to believe. The tendency of lay queers to assign other people psychological pathologies struck her as boring and tautological: A certain person does a thing because that person is the type of person who is compelled to do that thing. No capacity for either change or responsibility or even a consideration of the why, much less the how, of a particular human. Why does the cat torture the injured mouse? Because the cat is a cat—and so shall it be forever. Besides, rumor was, famously stoic Ricky had gotten drunk and then loudly, inconsolably, and theatrically sobbed in the corner of a Hey Queen! party the night he discovered Reese had left him to move in with a finance guy. Maybe he had to pathologize Reese into a sociopathic, manipulative, emotional mastermind in order to explain his own vulnerability to heartbreak.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  She examinesthemsternly,going downtheline, justasagnat, at- tractedby thelotionperfumingherlegs, landsonherbig toenail and getsstuck. "Oh, shoot," Tessie says."Darnbugs." Shesetstowork again,pickingthegnatoff,reapplyingpolish. Onthiseveninginthemiddleof WorldWarII, aserenade is abouttobegin.It'sminutes away. If youlistenclosely youcanhear a window scraping open, a freshreedbeing insertedintoawoodwind's mouthpiece.Themusicwhichstarted everythingandonwhich, you could say, myentire existencedepended,isonitsway. But before the tunelaunchesintofullvolume,letmefill you in onwhathashap- penedtheselasteleven years. Prohibition hasended,foronething.In 1933, by ratification of allthe states, theTwenty-first AmendmentrepealedtheEighteenth. AttheAmericanLegionConventioninDetroit, Julius Stroh re- movedthebungfrom a Gilded Keg ofStroh's Bohemian beer. Presi- dent Rooseveltwasphotographedsippingacocktail at theWhite House.AndonHurlbut Street,mygrandfather,LeftyStephanides, took down thezebraskin,dismantiedhisundergroundspeakeasy, andemergedonceagaininto theupper atmosphere. Withthemoneyhe'dsavedfrom the auto-erotica,heputadown paymenton a buildingonPingree Street,just off West GrandBoule- vard.The above-groundZebraRoom wasa bar&grill,setinthe middleof abusy commercialstrip.Theneighboringbusinesseswere stillthere whenI wasa kid.Icandimly rememberthem:A.A.Lau- rie'soptometrist's shopwithitsneonsignin theshapeofapairof eyeglasses; NewYorkerClothes,inwhose frontwindowIsawmy first nakedmannequins,dancing a murderoustango. Thentherewas ValueMeats,Hagermoser's FreshFish,and the Fine- Cut Barber Shop.Onthe cornerwasourplace,a narrow single-storybuilding withawoodenzebra'sheadprojectingoverthe sidewalk.Atnight, blinkingredneon outiinedthe muzzle, neck, and ears. Theclientele weremainlyauto workers.They cameinaftertheir shifts.Theycame in, quiteoften, before theirshifts. Leftyopenedthe barateightinthemorning,andby eight-thirty thebarstoolswere filled withmen dulling themselvesbefore reportingtowork.Ashe filled theirshells withbeer, Leftylearned what wasgoingoninthe city outside.In1935 his patronshad celebrated the forming of the United Auto Workers.Twoyearslater,they cursedthe armedguards 168 from Ford whohadbeatuptheirleader,Walter Reuther,inthe"Bat- tle of the Overpass."Mygrandfather tooknosidesin these discus- sions. His jobwas tolisten, nod,refill,smile. Hesaidnothingin 1943 when talkatthebarturned ugly.On a Sundayin August,fist- fights had brokenoutbetweenblacksand whitesonBelleIsle. "Some niggerrapeda whitewoman," onecustomersaid. "Nowallthose niggersare goingtopay.Youwait andsee."ByMonday morninga raceriotwas underway.Butwhen agroup of mencamein, boasting of havingbeatena Negro todeath,mygrandfather refusedtoserve them. "Whydon'tyou goback toyourowncountry?"one ofthem shouted. "Thisismycountry,"Leftysaid,andtoproveit, hedid a very Americanthing:hereached under thecounterandproduced apistol. Theseconflicts lieinthe past now— as Tessie paintshertoenails— overshadowedbyamuch bigger conflict.AlloverDetroitin 1944, automobile factorieshavebeenretooled.AtWillow Run,B-24sroll offtheassemblylineinsteadofFordsedans.Over at Chrysler,they're makingtanks.Theindustrialistshavefinallyfoundacureforthe stalledeconomy:war.TheMotorCity,whichhasn'tbeendubbed Motownyet,becomesforatime the"ArsenalofDemocracy."Andin the boardinghouse onCadillac Boulevard,TessieZizmopaintsher toenailsandhears the soundofaclarinet. ArtieShaw's big hit"Beginthe Beguine"floatsonthehumidair. Itfreezes squirrelsontelephone lines,whococktheirheadsalertlyto listen.It rustiestheleaves ofappletreesandsetsa rooster ona weathervane spinning. Withitsfastbeat andswirlingmelody,"Begin the Beguine"risesoverthe victorygardensandthe lawn furniture, thebramble-choked fences and porchswings;ithopsthefence into thebackyard of theO'Toole Boardinghouse, steppingaround themosriy maletenants' recreational activities— a lawn-bowling swath, someforgottencroquet mallets— andthenthesongclimbs theragged ivy along the brick facing,pastwindows wherebachelors snooze, scratch their beards,or, inthecase ofMr. Danelikov, formu- late chess problems;up andup itsoars, ArtieShaw'sbestandmost beloved recordingfromback in '39, whichyou canstillhearplaying from radios allover thecity, music so freshandlivelyitseems to ensure the purityofthe Americancause and theAllies'eventual tri- 169 umph;butnowhereit is,finally, comingthrough Theodora's win- dow,as shefans hertoestodrythem.And,hearing it,my mother turnstowardthe window andsmiles. Thesourceofthemusicwasnoneother thanaBrylcreemed Or- pheuswholiveddirectlybehindher. Milton Stephanides,atwenty- year-oldcollege student,stoodat hisownbedroomwindow, dexterouslyfingeringhisclarinet. Hewaswearing a Boy Scoutuni- form.Chin lifted, elbowsout,rightknee keepingtimewithinkhaki trousers,heunleashedhislovesongonthe summer day, playingwith anardorthat had burnedoutcompletely by the timeI found that fuzz-cloggedwoodwindinourattictwenty-five yearslater.Milton had beenthird clarinetin theSoutheastern HighSchoolorchestra. ForschoolconcertshehadtoplaySchubert,Beethoven, and Mozart, butnowthathehadgraduated,hewas free toplaywhateverheliked, whichwasswing.HestyledhimselfafterArtieShaw.Hecopied Shaw's exuberant,off-balance stance,as if beingblownbackwardby theforceofhisownplaying.Now,atthewindow,heflourishedhis stickwith Shaw's precise,calligraphicdips and circles.He looked alongthelengthoftheshiningblackinstrument,sightingonthe housetwobackyardsaway,andespeciallyonthe pale,timid,excited faceatthethird-floorwindow.Treebranchesandtelephonelinesob- scured hisview,buthe could makeout thelongdarkhairthatshone likehisclarinetitself. She didn'twave.Shemadeno sign—otherthansmile—thatshe heardhim at all.Inneighboringyardspeople continuedwhatthey weredoing,oblivioustotheserenade.They wateredlawnsorfilled birdfeeders; youngkidschased butterflies.WhenMiltongottothe endofthesong,heloweredhisinstrumentand leanedoutthewin- dow,grinning. Thenhe startedagain,fromthe beginning. Downstairs, entertainingcompany, Desdemona heardherson's clarinetand, as iforchestrating a harmony,letouta longsigh.For thelastforty-fiveminutesGusandGeorgia Vasilakisandtheir daughter Gaiahadbeen sittingintheliving room. Itwas Sunday af- ternoon.Onthecoffeetablea dishofrose jellyreflected lightfrom die sparkling glassesofwine theadultswere drinking. Gaia nurseda glassoflukewarmVernor'sgingerale. Anopen tin ofbuttercookies satonthe table. "What doyou thinkabout that,Gaia?" her fatherteasedher. "Milton's got flatfeet.Doesthatsourthe deal foryou?" 170

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  In the stone courtyard of the church, Thalia gives Reese a hug, then asks, “Want to hear a joke I thought up during the service?” Reese does. The joke is this: Q: What do you call a remake of a nineties romantic comedy where you cast trans women in all the roles? A: Four Funerals and a Funeral. Another girl, early in transition, wearing a black velvet dress, is standing near them. Reese recognizes her as one of those Twitter girls eager to offer theory-laden takes on gender. The girl has listened in on the joke and shakes her head—insensitive!—staring at them over her black-framed glasses with watery, wounded eyes. Reese pulls rank. “Oh come on.” She points to Thalia. “You know who gave Tammi her first shot? Thalia. Right in the butt. Who are you to say if she can make a joke or not?” “Maybe just not where other mourners can hear it,” the girl sniffs. “Here’s a better idea,” Reese snaps. “Maybe don’t stand around eavesdropping.” “Reese,” says Thalia simply, “it’s fine.” Then to the girl: “Sorry.” The girl bobs a tight acknowledgment, then raises a brow at Reese, waiting for her apology as well. But Reese refuses. She is granite willing the girl to go away. Fuck that girl. Let her go to as many of these things as Reese has been to and see if she doesn’t manage to develop a sense of humor. Eventually, the girl leaves, and almost immediately Reese regrets whatever enmity she made for herself in that unnecessary encounter. She’s lost patience for the baby transes—never a good look on an older girl. A little fountain burbles in the courtyard. It smells pleasantly of algae, and Reese moves closer, drawn by the cool of ionized air. Pennies flash in the pool at the base of the fountain, which seems blasphemous: wishing on coins in a church courtyard, when you could be inside praying for whatever it is that you want. “IT heard this thing’—Thalia holds the back of Reese’s elbow, pulling Reese back to the present—“from Andy, who made arrangements with the funeral home. He went to those two older women who run that family funeral home in Bed-Stuy—those two nice black ladies who did Eve’s funeral. After a few hours of setting things up, one of the two ladies asks him, ‘I’m sorry, but was Tammi a transgender woman?’ And Andy goes, ‘Yeah,’ and they, like, kind of exchange looks. One of them says they’re going to change their plans and will be getting the body from the morgue within the next few hours to bring to their funeral home.” “Why? Why would it matter that she was trans?” “The accident was out on Long Island, and I guess she got transferred to a morgue here. Apparently one where the morgue workers gawk at bodies of trans women—poke and laugh and shit.”

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  How is it, Reese wonders, that a bunch of New York men wearing flannel and slamming whiskey in a cabin is seen as a sorely needed release of their barely tamed and authentic manliness, but when she, a trans, delights in dolling up, she’s trying too hard? It’s not that Reese thinks her desire to dress up reflects some authentic self. It’s just that, unlike bros, she’s willing to call dress-up time what it is. Meanwhile, this starched woman has practically soaked her panties over the homoerotic escapades of her man upstate. Can you imagine if Reese confided in these women, with the same apparent horniness, about her Truvada birth control regimen? Social disaster! She decides for the ten thousandth time that heterosexual cis people, while willfully ignoring it, have staked their whole sexuality on a bet that each other’s genders are real. If only cis heterosexuals would realize that, like trans women, the activity in which they are indulging is a big self-pleasuring lie that has little to do with their actual personhood, they'd be free to indulge in a whole new flexible suite of hot ways to lie to each other. Sexy-Smart clinks on a wineglass with a spoon to ask for everyone’s attention, which mercifully averts Reese’s building desire to tender her opinions on gender to someone. “And now, the moment we've been waiting for,” Sexy-Smart says seductively, although, from the way that the women seem content to stay in the kitchen eating snacks, there is no way that anyone has been waiting for this moment. “We can move to the living room for the dOTERRA essential oils demonstration!” Shuffling with the herd into the sunset-drenched living room, Reese and Katrina take a comfortable love seat, and the other women settle in on the couch, chairs, and plush rug, in the way Reese remembered from middle school sleepovers, everyone finding a spot to watch the TV. Only instead of a TV there’s Sexy-Smart handing out brochures, and instead of blankets or pillows, each woman sets beside her a designer leather tote handbag in differing brands but the same essential boxy style, the sort that gets sold at Nordstrom to women who aspire to vacation in the Hamptons. Reese feels entitled to be judgy about boxy tote handbags, because she herself carries at that moment her own boxy Coach tote and her secret self aspires to aspire to vacation in the Hamptons. Sexy-Smart opens a copy of the brochure she has passed out, indicates a blank box, and tells the assembled women to write all of their ailments—both physical and mental—within that square.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  “It’s fine,” Reese says. Though she doesn’t like it and so says, “He was coming then he was going, but then he came back again. Pretty clear, right?” She smiles sweetly. Before the Empress can say no, Katrina jumps back in. “He was born a man, and transitioned, then transitioned back.” “So he was cheating on you, Reese, with you, Katrina?” Kathy asks. “No,” says Reese. “We broke up years ago. We dated as women.” “Ah,” says Kathy, clearly not getting it. “So how did you, Reese, get back into the picture?” Before Reese can say anything, Katrina tries again to explain: How she doesn’t want to be a single mother. How Ames had suggested a queer family. How actually, queer families have all these opportunities that she didn’t realize she was missing back when she was married, and that she sensed were missing in her marriage with Danny. That she always had an affinity for queerness, although because it wasn’t cut-and-dry gayness, she had never known what to call it. Oh, is that how it happened? thought Reese. Now she’s spinning it. But even more than spinning it, Katrina seemed to believe it. She’d re-narrativized her divorce. Those amorphous diffusely unhappy reasons she needed to divorce Danny? Now it was that she had recognized, but been unable to name, a need for the possibilities of queer relationships. One of the other women, a cute plump girl, whose doTERRA confession had been irritation and low moods, broke in. “I feel like I get that. Like, you realize when you get married how much the institution changes things. I remember that in the first few months I was married, how often, if I was out by myself, people would be like, ‘Where’s Max?’ and I would want to be like, ‘Max and I have a marriage where we don’t have to account for each other.’ And maybe I even said that a few times, but eventually, it was just easier to be like, ‘He knows I’m out.’ Everyone says that you can make marriage what you want, but sometimes the institution of marriage really wins out. It’d be freeing to just make up your own rules.” This, to Reese, was the straightest, most married thing anyone had ever said. But Katrina says, “Exactly!” The other women are coming around. Reese sees suddenly why Katrina might be so good at her job. In the span of time it takes to consume a few dessert items, Katrina had begun to convince these women of the soundness of child-rearing with transsexuals. The Empress of Dry Cleaning is the one holdout. As everyone else offers their tentative endorsements, she frowns as if the thought pains her, and says, “I just don’t know. I think everyone wants something queer now. It’s like a fad. And a lot of us end up getting hurt.”

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  He roamed the audience, calling people out and telling them all the details of their mostly invisible maladies. A young man hindered by a lack of confidence in his call to preach would from that day forward possess a new boldness for Christ. A woman suffered from female problems for years. From the top of her head to the soles of her feet, she was now whole. Another woman had lost her family in a car accident and couldn’t stop grieving. God mended her broken heart on the spot.After two or three hours, Brother Terrell made his way back to the front, the music came up, and several men fanned out in front of the platform holding the big white offering buckets I remembered. Only there were more of them. Brother Terrell walked to the back of the platform and turned his back on the audience. When he turned around he was wearing a chef-style apron with pockets, lots of pockets. He nodded to the organist and the music became a low purr. The apron, he told the audience, was for love offerings, personal donations that went to support him and his family. Everything that went into the buckets was spent on the ministry and nothing else. Forty-five minutes later the offering was over and bills spilled out of the buckets and apron pockets. Brother Terrell took off the apron and spoke into the microphone.“The Lord is showing me right now that there are a hundred people here tonight that need to prove God with a hundred dollars. You know who you are. If you stand with this ministry, that loved one who needs healing or deliverance will be taken care of.”About fifty people, mostly women, approached the front and arranged themselves in a semicircle around Brother Terrell, heads bowed. He took the money from each of their hands and prayed with them individually. They stood straight and still, absorbing whatever it was Brother Terrell and God promised. As they walked away, Brother Terrell once again issued his call.“There are fifty more of you out there. God is dealing with you right now. Come on up here and help us take the message of Jesus to hundreds of thousands in India who have never heard his name. We need your support.”Another twenty made their way down the ramp. “I’m not asking for me. I’m asking for God. You better think twice about denying God.”Thirty minutes of coaxing and mild threats yielded a total of about eighty believers willing to part with a hundred dollars. In the end Brother Terrell handed out twenty pledge envelopes addressed to his office in Dallas. The Lord would have to rely on a lick and a promise to get the rest of his ten thousand dollars.As the service wound down, Pam leaned over and asked if I wanted to come back to the motel and spend the night with her. She put her arm around me. “Don’t look so shocked.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  “As a yoga instructor, ’m not really versed in the medical chemistry of essential oils,” the yoga instructor explains to the room with an expression that conveys genuine regret for the inadequacy of her career choice. “So I brought my boyfriend to tell you how essential oils really do work. He is a celebrity acupuncturist and uses doTERRA essential oils with his patients.” Prior to that moment, Reese had not realized that the adjective “celebrity” applied to acupuncturists. The yoga instructor steps to stage left of the living room, allowing her boyfriend center stage, in front of the flat-screen TV. “Hi, ladies, my name is Steve. And it’s true: I’m an acupuncturist. I practice traditional Chinese medicine.” He looks at Kathy as he says this, then smiles. “But some people just call me the most satisfying prick in town.” Reese gapes. Just like that, all of his handsomeness has vanished. Reese waits for one of the other women to tell him off. Do you know what would happen if a man walked into a room of queer women and declared his prick satisfying? The prospect was hideous to contemplate. Death by outrage. But instead of sentencing him to die by lethal callout, the assembled women laugh politely. Even Katrina. Steve winds up into his doOTERRA sales pitch, a narrative about how his girlfriend, the gorgeous yoga instructor, had been such a bitch before she started using essential oils. But after she made oils a daily habit, she chilled out and he liked her much better. Reese glances around the room—surely now, the women will rise up! The revolution is now! The revolution is not now. The women listen, or even nod politely, draped docilely around and below him. Steve stands too close to one of the women sitting on the rug, in Reese’s estimation of proper personal space. His crotch—the most satisfying prick in town—bobs at her eye level. He waves his hands as he speaks, and a few times it seems as though he might pat her on the head. The woman at Reese’s feet, she of the eating disorder and low sex drive, takes out a pad of paper and makes notes as Steve speaks; very sincere notes, Reese observes, on which oils, in particular, had made his yoga instructor girlfriend less of a bitch. At the end of his speech, Steve offers to prescribe the proper essential oil for each of the women’s ailments. But with Steve in the room, the women list different problems than those they’d shared earlier. When it’s Katrina’s turn, she smiles, pauses dramatically, then looks around the room at her friends, making eye contact, then asks, “What’s good for pregnancy?” A moment of gasps follows, and Steve responds by pointing at his girlfriend and saying, “Don’t give her any ideas.” Sexy-Smart hides a wince.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Katrina blinks. Wisps of hair have freed themselves from her ponytail and tremble in the light breeze. She swallows before speaking. “Youre, like, actually crazy.” Her tone borders on shock. “Like a sociopath or something. No one could believe you'd ask that. No one will believe it.” She doesn’t sound angry. She sounds as if she’s speaking to herself. “Just think about it.” “What am I, some kind of walking uterus to you? Have you seen pregnant women? Do you think I would choose to go through that just to play a part in giving a baby to your ex-lover? Do you have any respect for my body? Do you value me at all?” Ames tries to calm down, reminding himself how much he really cares about her. “Katrina. Please understand I mean this: I will support you however I can. But you’re not being exploited here. You actually do have the power. You say no, that’s a no. You tell me what to do, and I'll do it. But you’ve asked me for honesty all week—to tell you what I really think would work, and now I have.” Katrina stares at him in a strange wonder. Then with a sudden gesture of her hand she waves back the wonder, tucks away the moment the way you pocket the business card of someone you're sure you'll never call. At just that moment, Ames’s phone rings. It’s Biz Dev. He tilts the screen so she can see. “Take it?” he asks her. “Yeah, you better.” On Thursday, the pet insurance representatives sign a contract to add Web functionality to the app. No one mentions Katrina’s dinner behavior or drunken revelation. Only once does Ames catch Biz Dev scrutinizing him. On a break, Katrina says to him, “Maybe it will be fine? Maybe they just thought I was drunk.” To Ames it feels like wishful thinking, but too many other things crowd out his attention, so he agrees, and slowly begins to indulge in that same line of thought. It will be fine. Those guys don’t care, right? And so what if they do? On the plane ride home, they fly business, sitting beside each other. Katrina rubs his arm in a friendly, distracted way that he can’t make sense of, so he pats her hand in an avuncular manner that immediately dismays him. At LaGuardia, when he asks if she wants to share a cab, she declines. “I need some space. I need you to give me some time to myself. I’ll call when I feel like talking again.”

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  Anyway, I thought you guys should know.” “Thanks,” I said curtly, and she stood for a while, looking at us, her mouth opening as if to speak, but the Colonel was staring at her through half-closed eyes, his jaw jutting out and his distaste uncontained. I understood how he felt: I didn’t believe in ghosts who used Morse code to communicate with people they’d never liked. And I disliked the possibility that Alaska would give someone else peace but not me. “God, people like that shouldn’t be allowed to live,” he said after she left. “It was pretty stupid.” “It’s not just stupid, Pudge. I mean, as if Alaska would talk to Holly Moser. God! I can’t stand these fake grievers. Stupid bitch.” I almost told him that Alaska wouldn’t want him to call any woman a bitch, but there was no use fighting with the Colonel. twenty days after IT WAS SUNDAY, and the Colonel and I decided against the cafeteria for dinner, instead walking off campus and across Highway 119 to the Sunny Konvenience Kiosk, where we indulged in a well-balanced meal of two oatmeal cream pies apiece. Seven hundred calories. Enough energy to sustain a man for half a day. We sat on the curb in front of the store, and I finished dinner in four bites. “I’m going to call Jake tomorrow, just so you know. I got his phone number from Takumi.” “Fine,” I said. I heard a bell jangle behind me and turned toward the opening door. “Y’all’s loitering,” said the woman who’d just sold us dinner. “We’re eating,” the Colonel answered. The woman shook her head and ordered, as if to a dog, “Git.” So we walked behind the store and sat by the stinking, fetid Dumpster. “Enough with the fine ’s already, Pudge. That’s ridiculous. I’m going to call Jake, and I’m going to write down everything he says, and then we’re going to sit down together and try and figure out what happened.” “No. You’re on your own with that. I don’t want to know what happened between her and Jake.” The Colonel sighed and pulled a pack of Pudge Fund cigarettes of his jeans pocket. “Why not?” “Because I don’t want to! Do I have provide you with an in-depth analysis of every decision I make?” The Colonel lit the cigarette with a lighter I’d paid for and took a drag. “Whatever. It needs to be figured out, and I need your help to do it, because between the two of us we knew her pretty well. So that’s that.” I stood up and stared down at him sitting smugly, and he blew a thin stream of smoke at my face, and I’d had enough. “I’m tired of following orders, asshole! I’m not going to sit with you and discuss the finer points of her relationship with Jake, goddamn it. I can’t say it any clearer: I don’t want to know about them.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Reese pauses a moment, then accedes. She'll tell him the truth. Why not? So here it is sketched as quickly as she can: her cowboy, what she knows about his wife, how he’s the same as all the other guys, hiding her away in hole-in-the-wall restaurants, walking a few feet in front of her in public unless she protests, at which point he protests—unconvincingly—that he is ashamed of the affair, not that she is trans. All the shit that Ames already knew because Ames had lived it, both vicariously and on his own. “What about the HIV?” Ames asks. “What?” The question takes Reese aback. “What about it, who cares? I’m on PrEP and he’s undetectable.” “Katrina is freaking out about it. She’s close with Diana. Apparently she feels like she was the one who picked up the pieces when this guy—what’s his name, Garrett or something?— seroconverted. She spent a lot of time up in Diana’s relationship. Katrina was going through her divorce, and Diana went back and forth with her a lot about leaving her own husband. He seroconverted with a trans girl, you know.” “Yeah, I know. Again, so what?” Reese feels a surprising pang at the news that Diana considered a divorce. Then she reminds herself that, even if divorced, her cowboy would never have gotten over himself to be out with a trans woman. “So what,” Ames says, “is that Katrina has spent a lot of time hearing about that couple’s anguish from Diana’s point of view. About some trans girl who ruined her friend’s life. And then when they decided to have a baby, Katrina learned about what it means to wash sperm. About IVF treatments. And then, here’s you, a trans girl he’s cheating with again. Katrina is not taking it well.” “Is she having an AIDS panic or something?” Ames pauses. “Yeah. She wouldn’t call it that. But that’s what it is.” Reese snorts. “How retro.” “That’s what I told her. She was so starry-eyed these past few weeks. This whole idea that what she’d needed her whole life was queerness. And now she’s having the most basic freak-out. Talking how you put yourself and her and the baby at risk.” “At risk of what?” “HIV I guess?” “Can you talk her down?” “T tried. She told me to leave.”

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  perpetually pale and skinny from months of fasting, had taken to shaving their heads, a look locals associated with Charlie Manson or Hare Krishna devotees, neither of whom were popular in and around Brown County. Some believers applied Old Testament admonishments to modern life and went about their daily business dressed in sackcloth and ashes. One early arrival told a reporter, “You think we look bad? Wait’ll you see the ones coming from behind.” They came from California, the Dakotas, New York, Colorado, Maryland, Pennsylvania, Kansas, Florida, and from all across the South. The influx began in 1972. Within a year, Bangs’s population of twelve hundred had almost doubled, and the Terrellites were spreading to surrounding communities. Other Blessed Areas scattered across the South experienced similar growth. The population of rural areas around Fort Payne, Alabama, increased by twenty-eight percent. No one in Bangs could figure out why these people were coming or how long they would stay. Finally they read the explanation in the paper: The Terrellites were there to wait out the apocalypse. They would be there until the end of the world. Meanwhile, they would build a tabernacle. The tent would remain up until the church was finished. This put no one’s mind at ease. Locals blamed Brother Terrell for bringing the first homosexuals, hippies, and blacks to the community. The town of Coleman in nearby Hamilton County saw its black student population increase from sixty to one hundred and twenty within months. Just a few years earlier a sign posted inside the city limits of the Hamilton County seat had read: IF YOU’RE BLACK, DON’T LET THE SUN SET ON YOU IN HAMILTON. Believers were blamed for everything from vandalism to cattle mutilations, but nothing stuck until the death of that little girl I’d read about in the Mexia paper. The sheriff, judge, and district attorney had called for an investigation. Reporters from Dallas, Fort Worth, Abilene, and the wire services swarmed. An AP story quoted the stepfather of the girl as saying he didn’t just let his stepdaughter die. “I believe it was the will of God, and if he wanted her to die, it didn’t make no difference if I took her to fifty doctors.” Brother Terrell and his followers said the child died because the parents did not have enough faith. Even in my new nonrebellious mode, this explanation was hard to swallow. The girl’s parents had prayed and they had asked Brother Terrell and several of the ministers close to him to pray, and now everyone said the parents didn’t have enough faith. I argued the issue with a friend in the ministry. Jesus had said that faith equal in size to a mustard seed could move mountains. Surely these people had at least that much faith, or they wouldn’t