Despair

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)

  Jewish Apocalypticism e Jewish apocalypticists subscribed to four major tenets, the first of which was dualism, a belief that there were two fundamental components of reality: the forces of good and the forces of evil. The forces of good have as their head God himself; the forces of evil have a personal counterpart to God, the devil. 27 Scanned by CamScanner Lecture 4: is Jesus in the Dead Sea Scrolis? 28 o Throughout most of the Hebrew Bible, there’s no word of the devil or Satan. When Satan appears in the Hebrew Bible, for example, in the Book of Job, he’s not an evil force that’s opposed to God but one of God's advisors. By the time of the Jewish apocalypticists, however, God had a personal enemy in Satan. o The world was not just a place where humans lived, but one where supernatural powers were in constant conflict. People had to side either with good and God or with evil and the devil. o This cosmic dualism worked itself out in a historical scenario so that history itself was understood to be dualistic. The historical age in which people were living was controlled by the forces of evil. That’s why there was so much pain and suffering in the world—because forces that are inimical to God were in control. But in the future, God would destroy the forces of evil and bring in his good kingdom. The second major tenet of apocalypticism was pessimism about the possibilities of life in this world. Apocalypticists believed that things were not going to get better, the forces of evil were gaining power and would continue to rule until the end of the age, when, literally, all hell would break loose. The third tenet was vindication: God would ultimately vindicate himself and his people. He would intervene in the course of affairs to destroy the forces of evil. We should not think that we can improve our lot in this world and build ourselves into the kingdom of God. The kingdom would be brought by an act of God at the end of the age. At that time, everything that had sided with evil and everything that was evil, including people, would be judged and destroyed. o When God intervened, there would be a resurrection, an idea that was also developed by Jewish thinkers at this time. The future resurrection of the dead was meant to explain why there was so much suffering in this world among righteous people. Scanned by CamScanner o At the end of time, all people would be raised from the dead, and if they had sided with God and suffered as a result, they would be rewarded. If they had sided with the powers of evil, they would be judged and annihilated.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  person with a terminal illness, I was eager to ignore the immediate symptoms, hoping for a last-minute cure. I veered back and forth be- tween hope and its opposite, a growing certainty that something ter- rible was wrong with me. But nothing made me more desperate than looking in the mirror. I opened the door and stepped back into the room. "I hate this hotel," I said. "It's gross." "It's not too nice," Tessie agreed. "It used to be nicer," said Milton. "I don't understand what hap- pened." "The carpet smells." "Let's open a window." "Maybe we won't have to be here that long," Tessie said, hope- fully, wearily. In the evening we ventured outside, looking for something to eat, and then returned to the room to watch TV Later, after we switched off the lights, I asked from my cot, "What are we doing tomorrow?" "We have to go the doctor's in the morning," said Tessie. "After that we have to see about some Broadway tickets," said Mil- ton. "What do you want to see, Cal?" "I don't care," I said gloomily. "I think we should see a musical," said Tessie. "I saw Ethel Merman in Hello, Dolly!" Milton recalled. "She came down this big, long staircase, singing. When she finished, the place went wild. She stopped the show. So she just went right back up the staircase and sang the song over again." "Would you like to see a musical, Callie>" 405 "Whatever." "Damnedest thing I ever saw," said Milton. "That Ethel Merman can really belt it out." No one spoke after that. We lay in the dark, in our strange beds, until we fell asleep. The next morning after breakfast we set off to see the specialist. My parents tried to seem excited as we left the hotel, pointing out sights from the taxi window. Milton exuded the boisterousness he reserved for all difficult situations. "This is some place," he said as we drove up to New York Hospital. "River view! I might just check myself in." Like any teenager, I was largely oblivious to the clumsy figure I cut. My stork movements, my flapping arms, my long legs kicking out my undersized feet in their fawn-colored Wallabees— all that ma- chinery clanked beneath the observation tower of my head, and I was too close to see it. My parents did. It pained them to watch me ad- vance across the sidewalk toward the hospital entrance. It was terrify- ing to see your child in the grip of unknown forces. For a year now they had been denying how I was changing, putting it down to the awkward age. "She'll grow out of it," Milton was always telling my mother. But now they were seized with a fear that I was growing out of control.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  I would like to particularly thank the indomitable Todd Cartee and also Olga Charny, Sean Titone, Emmett Cloud, Daniel Alarcon, Jennifer Jenkins, Chip Dunkin, and MLS. TURN THE PAGE FOR A READERS GUIDE TO [image "looking for alaska" file=Image00006.jpg] JOHN GREEN [image file=Image00007.jpg] Readers Guide © 2019 by John Green Dear Reader, Looking for Alaska began for me in September of 2001. I’d just turned 24, and I was working at Booklist magazine as an editorial assistant and occasional book reviewer. One of my editors, the children’s book author Ilene Cooper, often encouraged me to actually write the boarding school story I was always pitching to her. She even gave me a deadline: March 1, 2002. Then on September 11, the World Trade Center was attacked. A few days later, my girlfriend and I broke up. I used to think that our breakup caused my nearly catastrophic period of depression that fall, but now I understand that my depression at least in part caused the breakup. At any rate, I was forced to take a leave of absence from my job at Booklist to focus on getting my brain straightened out. Before I left, Booklist ’s publisher, Bill Ott, wrote me a note that concluded, “Now, more than ever, watch Harvey .” He’d been bothering me for years to watch this old black-and-white movie called Harvey . My dad drove me home to Orlando, where I hadn’t really lived since leaving for boarding school when I was fifteen. I spent a couple weeks in daily therapy sessions, figuring out a medication regimen that worked, and watching a lot of TV, where the news people kept talking about 9/11, the day that changed history. Soon, they were talking about the pre-9/11 world and the post-9/11 world. One night watching cable news, I heard a psychologist say that Americans would organize their memories around that terrible day: before and after. It occurred to me that we almost always measure time in relation to what matters most to us: In the Christian calendar, we measure distance from the birth of Jesus. In the Islamic calendar, time is measured from the hijrah, the Muslim community’s journey from Mecca to Medina. The story I wanted to tell was about young people whose lives are so transformed by an experience that they can only respond by reimagining time itself. I’d stumbled onto a structure that could work for the book, but I had no energy to actually write it. And then I watched Harvey , a movie about a man named Elwood P. Dowd, whose best friend is a six-foot-tall invisible white rabbit named Harvey. Elwood is mentally ill, and it’d be easy to characterize him as worthless, or hopeless, or useless—all the things I felt were true of myself. But Harvey doesn’t see Elwood that way at all—the movie portrays him as kind and loving and even heroic.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  The cedar swamp lay on one side of the house. On the other was a dirt and gravel road that led through an open field, treeless, with high yellow grass. The absence of trees was noticeable, and poking around out there I came upon a historical marker, nearly overgrown. It marked the site of a fort or a massacre, I don't remember which. Moss encroached upon the raised letters and I didn't read the whole plaque. I stood there for a while thinking about the first settlers and how they had killed one another over beaver and fox pelts. I put my 380 foot on the plaque, kicking off the moss with my sneaker, until I got tired of that. It was almost noon by now. The bay was bright blue. Over the rise I could sense the city of Petoskey, the smoke of stoves and chimneys down there. The grass got marshy near the water. I climbed up on the breakwall and walked back and forth, keeping my balance. I held my arms out and pranced, Olga Korbut style. But my heart wasn't in it. And I was way too tall to be Olga Korbut. Some- time later the whir of an outboard engine reached me. I shaded my eyes with my hand to look out over the shimmering water. A speed- boat was shooting past. At the wheel was Rex Reese. Bare-chested, drinking a beer and wearing sunglasses, he gunned the throttle, tow- ing a water-skier. It was the Object, of course, in her shamrock bikini. She looked almost naked against the expanse of water, only those two little strips, one above, one below, separating her from Eden. Her red hair flapped like a gale warning. She wasn't a beautiful skier. She leaned too far forward, bowlegged on the pontoons. But she didn't fall. Rex kept turning around to check on her while he sipped his beer. Finally the boat made a sharp turn and the Object crossed her wake, whipping along past the shore. A terrible thing happens when you water-ski. After you release the rope, you keep skimming over the water for a while, free. But there comes an inevitable moment when your speed fails to sustain your forward progress. The surface of the water breaks like glass. The depths open up to claim you. That was how I felt on land, watching the Object ski past. That same plunging, hopeless feeling, that emo- tional physics.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  tearing at the masses of hair that tumbled down. Her hair was com- pletely gray but still very fine and, in the light coming from the television, it appeared to be almost blond. The hair fell over her shoulders and spread out over her body like the hair of Botticelli's Venus. The face framed by this astonishing cascade, however, was not that of a beautiful young woman but that of an old widow with a square head and dried-out mouth. In the unmoving air of the room and the smell of medicine and skin salves I could feel the weight of the time she had spent in this bed waiting and hoping to die. I'm not sure, with a grandmother like mine, if you can ever become a true American in the sense of believing that life is about the pursuit of happiness. The lesson of Desdemona's suffering and rejection of life insisted that old age would not continue the manifold pleasures of youth but would instead be a long trial that slowly robbed life of even its smallest, simplest joys. Everyone struggles against despair, but it always wins in the end. It has to. It's the thing that lets us say goodbye. As I was standing there taking my grandmother in, Desdemona suddenly turned her head and noticed me. Her hand went up to her breast. With a frightened expression she reared back into her pillows and shouted, "Lefty!" Now I was the one who was shocked. "No, yiayia. It's not papou. It's me. Cal." "Who?" "Cal." I paused. "Your grandson." This wasn't fair, of course. Desdemona's memory was no longer sharp. But I wasn't helping her out any. "Cal?" "They called me Calliope when I was little." "You look like my Lefty," she said. "I do?" "I thought you were my husband coming to take me to heaven." She laughed for the first time. "I'm Milt and Tessie's kid." As quickly as it had come, the humor left Desdemona's face and she looked sad and apologetic. "I'm sorry. I don't remember you, honey." "I brought you these." I held out the Epsom salts and baklava. "Why Tessie isn't coming?" 524 "She has to get dressed." "Dressed for why?" "For the funeral." Desdemona gave a cry and clutched her breast again. "Who died?" I didn't answer. Instead I turned down the volume on the televi- sion. Then, pointing at the birdcage, I said, "I remember when you used to have about twenty birds." She looked over at the cage but said nothing. "You used to live in the attic. On Seminole. Remember? That's when you got all the birds. You said they reminded you of Bursa." At the sound of the name, Desdemona smiled again. "In Bursa we have all kind of birds. Green, yellow, red. All kind. Little birds but very beautiful. Like made from glass." "I want to go there. Remember that church there? I want to go and fix it up someday."

• From Middlesex (2002)

  We weren't the only ones living in the park. Occupying some dunes on the other side of the field were homeless guys, with long beards, their faces brown from sun and dirt. They were known to ransack other people's camps, so we never left ours unattended. That was pretty much the only rule we had. Someone always had to stand guard. I hung around the Deadheads because I was scared alone. My time on the road made me see the benefits of being in a pack. We had left home for different reasons. They weren't kids I would ever have been friends with in normal circumstances, but for that brief time I made do, because I had nowhere else to go. I was never at ease around them. But they weren't especially cruel. Fights broke out when kids had been drinking, but the ethos was nonviolent. Every- one was reading Siddhartha. An old paperback got passed around the camp. I read it, too. It's one of the things I remember most about that time: Cal, sitting on a rock, reading Hermann Hesse and learn- ing about the Buddha. "I heard the Buddha dropped acid," said one Head. "That's what his enlightenment was." "They didn't have acid back then, man." "No, it was like, you know, a 'shroom." "I think Jerry's the Buddha, man." "Yeah!" "Like when I fucking saw Jerry play that forty-five-minute space jam on 'Truckin' in Santa Fe,' I knew he was the Buddha." In all these conversations I took no part. See Cal in the far under- hang of the bushes, as all the Deadheads drift off to sleep. I had run away without thinking what my life would be like. I had 472 1 fled without having anywhere to run to. Now I was dirty, I was run- ning out of money. Sooner or later I would have to call my parents. But for the first time in my life, I knew that there was nothing they could do to help me. Nothing anyone could do. Every day I took the band to Ali Baba's and bought them veggie burgers for seventy-five cents each. I opted out on the begging and the dope dealing. Mostiy I hung around the mimosa grove, in grow- ing despair. A few times I walked out to the beach to sit by the sea, but after a while I stopped doing that, too. Nature brought no relief. Outside had ended. There was nowhere to go that wouldn't be me.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  I closed thebathroomdoor,locked it,andbentcloseto themir- rorto examinemy face.Two darkhairs, stillshort, werevisibleabove my upper lip. I got tweezers outofmycase and pluckedthem.This mademy eyes water.Myclothes felttight.Thesleevesofmysweater were too short.Icombedmyhair and,optimistically,desperately, smiledat myself. Iknew thatmy situation, whateverit was,wasacrisisofsome kind. Icouldtell thatfrom myparents'false,cheery behaviorand fromourspeedy exitfromhome. Still,noonehadsaid a word tome yet. Miltonand Tessiewere treatingmeexactlyastheyalwayshad— as theirdaughter, inotiier words.Theyactedasthoughmyproblem was medicalandthereforefixable. SoIbegantohopeso,too.Likea personwitha terminalillness, Iwaseagertoignoretheimmediate symptoms, hopingfor a last-minute cure.I veered backandforth be- tweenhope anditsopposite, a growingcertaintythat somethingter- riblewas wrongwithme.Butnothing mademe moredesperate than looking in the mirror. I opened thedoorand stepped backintotheroom."Ihate this hotel,"I said. "It's gross." "It's nottoonice," Tessieagreed. "Itusedto be nicer,"saidMilton."Idon'tunderstandwhathap- pened." "Thecarpetsmells." "Let's open a window." "Maybewewon'thavetobehere thatlong,"Tessiesaid,hope- fully, wearily. Intheevening we venturedoutside,lookingforsomethingtoeat, and thenreturned tothe roomtowatchTV Later,after we switched offthelights, I asked frommycot, "What are wedoingtomorrow?" "Wehave togothedoctor's inthemorning," said Tessie. "Afterthat wehavetosee aboutsome Broadwaytickets,"saidMil- ton."What doyou wanttosee,Cal?" "Idon't care," I saidgloomily. "I thinkwe shouldsee amusical,"said Tessie. "I saw EthelMerman inHello,Dolly!" Miltonrecalled."She came down thisbig, long staircase,singing. Whenshefinished,theplace went wild. Shestopped theshow. So shejust wentrightback upthe staircase andsang the songoveragain." "Would youliketo seeamusical, Callie>" 405 "Whatever." "Damnedest thingI eversaw,"saidMilton."ThatEthel Merman can really beltitout." Noonespoke afterthat. We layin thedark,in our strange beds, untilwe fellasleep. Thenext morningafterbreakfast wesetofftoseethespecialist. My parents triedtoseemexcited as weleftthehotel,pointing outsights fromthetaxiwindow.Milton exuded theboisterousnesshereserved forall difficultsituations."Thisissomeplace," hesaidaswedrove up toNew YorkHospital."Riverview!Imight justcheck myself in." Likeanyteenager,Iwas largely oblivioustotheclumsyfigureI cut.My storkmovements, my flappingarms, mylonglegskicking outmy undersizedfeetintheirfawn-coloredWallabees—allthat ma- chineryclankedbeneaththeobservationtowerofmyhead,andIwas tooclosetoseeit. My parents did.Itpainedthem to watch mead- vanceacrossthe sidewalk toward thehospitalentrance.Itwasterrify- ing to seeyourchildinthegripofunknownforces. For ayearnow theyhadbeendenyinghowIwaschanging, puttingitdown to the awkwardage."She'll grow out ofit,"Miltonwasalwaystellingmy mother.ButnowtheywereseizedwithafearthatIwas growing out ofcontrol. We found the elevatorandrodeuptothe fourthfloor, then fol- lowedthearrowstosomethingcalledthe PsychohormonalUnit. Milton hadtheoffice numberwrittenoutonacard.Finallywe found therightroom.Thegraydoorwas unmarkedexceptforanex- tremelysmall, unobtrusivesign halfwaydownthatread: SexualDisordersand GenderIdentity Clinic Ifmyparents saw thesign, they pretendednot to.Milton loweredhis head, bull-like, andpushedthe dooropen. The receptionist welcomedusand toldus tohave a seat. The waitingroomwasunexceptional.Chairs lined thewalls,divided evenlyby magazine tables,andtherewas the usualrubbertree expir- inginthecorner.Thecarpetingwas institutional,witha hectic, stain- camouflagingpattern.Therewasevena reassuringly medicinal smell in the air.Aftermymother filled outthe insuranceforms,we were 406 shown intothe doctor's office. This, too,inspired confidence.An Eames chairstood behind the desk.By the window wasa LeCor- busier chaise,madeofchrome andcowhide.Thebookshelveswere filledwith medicalbooks andjournals andthewallstastefullyhung withart. Big-citysophistication attuned toaEuropean sensibility. The surroundofatriumphant psychoanalyticworld-view.Not to mentiontheEastRiverview outthewindows. We were a longway from Dr.Phil'sofficewithitsamateur oilsandMedicaidcases. Itwastwoor three minutesbefore wenoticedanythingoutofthe ordinary.Atfirstthecurios andetchingshadblendedinwiththe scholarlyclutteroftheoffice. Butaswesat waiting forthedoctor,we became aware ofa silent commotionallaround us. Itwaslike staring at thegroundand realizing, suddenly,that it isswarmingwithants. Therestfuldoctor'sofficewaschurningwithactivity.The paper- weightonhisdesk,forinstance, was not a simple,inertrock buta tinypriapuscarvedfromstone.Theminiaturesonthewallsrevealed theirsubjectmatterundercloserobservation.Beneathyellowsilk tents,onpaisleypillows,Mughalprincesacrobaticallycopulated withmultiplepartners,keepingtheirturbansinplace.Tessieblushed, looking;whileMiltonsquinted;andIhid inside myhairasusual. Wetriedtolooksomeplaceelseandsolookedatthe bookshelves. But hereitwasn'tsafeeither.Amida dullingsurroundofissuesof JAMA andTheNewEngland Journal of Medicineweresome eye- popping titles. One, with entwiningsnakesonthespine,wascalled Erotosexual PairBonding.There was a purple,pamphletythingenti- dedRitualizedHomosexuality:ThreeFieldStudies.Onthedesk itself, with abookmark init,wasa manual calledHap-Penis:SurgicalTech- niques inFemale-to-Male Sex Reassignment.Ifthesignonthefront door hadn'talready,Luce'soffice madeitclearjustwhatkind of spe- cialist myparentshadbrought metosee.(And,worse, to see me.) There weresculptures,too. Reproductions fromthetempleatKu- jaraho occupied corners ofthe roomalongwithhugejade plants. Against thewaxygreenfoliage, melon-breasted Hinduwomenbent over double, offeringup orificeslike prayerstothe well-endowed men who answeredthem.An overloaded switchboard,adirtygame of Twister everywhereyou turned. "Will you lookat thisplace?" Tessie whispered. "Sort of unusual decor,"said Milton. 407

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "How many?"saidChapterEleven. "Sixty-six.Got eightinFlorida." Thatwasas farasthehardsell went. Milton atehisHerculeshot dogs in silence.He knew perfectiywellwhy Gus wasactingsoover- friendly.Itwas becausehewas thinkingwhateveryonethinkswhen a girldisappears. Hewasthinking the worst. Thereweremoments when Miltondid,too. He didn'tadmit ittoanyone.Hedidn'tadmit it to himself.But whenever Tessie spoke about the umbilicalcord, whensheclaimed thatshe couldstillfeelmeouttheresomewhere, Miltonfound himselfwanting tobelieveher. OneSunday asTessieleftfor church,Miltonhandedheralarge bill."Lighta candleforGallic Getabunch." Heshrugged."Couldn't hurt." But after she wasgoneheshookhis head. "What'sthematterwith me? Lightingcandles!Christ!"Hewasfurious at himselfforgiving in tosuchsuperstition.Hevowedagainthathewouldfindme;he wouldgetmeback.Somehoworother.Achancewouldcomehis way,andwhenitdid,MiltonStephanides wouldn'tmissit. TheDeadcametoBerkeley.Mattandthe otherkidstroopedoffto theconcert.I wasgiventhe job to lookafterthecamp. Itis midnightinthe mimosagrove.Iawaken,hearingnoises. Lightsaremovingthroughthebushes.Voicesaremurmuring. The leavesover myhead turnwhiteandIcanseethe scaffoldingof branches.Lightspecklestheground,mybody,my face.In the next second aflashlightcomes blazingthroughtheopeninginmylair. Themen areonmeatonce. Oneshineshisflashlightinmyfaceas theother jumpsontomychest, pinningmyarms. "Riseand shine,"says theonewithdie flashlight. Itis twohomelessguysfromthe dunes opposite. Whiletheone sits ontop ofme,theotherbegins searchingthecamp. "What kind ofgoodies youlittlefuckersgotinhere?" "Look athim," says theother."Littlefucker's gonnashithispants." I squeeze mylegs together,thegirlishfearsstilloperatinginme. They arelookingfordrugsmainly.Theonewiththe flashlight shakes out the sleepingbagsandsearchesmy suitcase.After a while he comes backandgetsdownononeknee. "Where areallyourfriends, man?Theygo offandleave youall alone?" 475 Hehasbegun togothroughmy pockets.Soonhe findsmywallet and emptiesit.As he does,myschoolIDfallsout. Heshines the flashlighton it. "What'sthis? Yourgirlfriend?" He staresatthephoto,grinning."Yourgirlfriend like tosuck cock?Ibet shedoes."Hepicks up theID andholdsitoverthe front of hispants,thrustinghiships."Ohyeah,she does!" "Letmesee that," says the oneontopofme. TheguywiththeflashlighttossestheIDontomychest. Theguy pinning me lowershisfaceclose to mineand saysinadeepvoice,"Don't you move,motherfucker."Heletsgoofmyarms and picks uptheID. Icanseehisfacenow. Grizzled beard,badteeth,noseaskew, showingseptum.Hecontemplatesthesnapshot."Skinny bitch."He looksfrommetotheIDandhisexpressionchanges. "It's a chick!" "Quickontheuptake,man.Ialwayssaythataboutyou." "No,ImeanhimVHeispointingdownatme."It'sher!He's a she."Heholds up theIDfortheotherone to see.Theflashlightis againtrainedonCalliopeinher blazer andblouse. Atlengththekneelingmangrins."Youholding outonus? Huh? Yougotthegoodsstashedawayunderthosepants?Holdher,"heor- ders. Themanastridemepinsmyarmsagain whilethe other oneun- doesmybelt. I triedtofightthemoff.Isquirmedand kicked.But they were too strong.They gotmy pantsdowntomyknees.Theoneaimed the flashlight and thensprangaway. "Jesus Christ!" "What?" "Fuck!" "What?" "It's a fuckingfreak." "What?" "I'mgonna puke,man.Look!" Nosoonerhadtheother one donesothan heletgoofmeas thoughIwerecontaminated.He stoodup, enraged. Bysilent agree- ment,theythenbegantokickme.As they did, theyuttered curses. The onewhohadpinnedmedrovehistoeinto myside.I grabbed his legandhungon. 476 "Let go ofme,you fucking freak!" The otheronewaskicking me in thehead.Hediditthreeorfour times beforeIblackedout. WhenI came to, everything wasquiet.Ihad the impression they hadgone. Thensomebody chuckled."Crossswords," a voice said. The twinyellow streams, scintillant,intersected, soakingme. "Crawlback intothe holeyoucame outof,freak." Theyleftme there. Itwas still darkout whenIfound thepublicfountain by the aquar- iumand bathedinit.Ididn't seemtobebleedinganywhere.My right eye wasswollenshut.Myside hurt ifItook adeepbreath.Ihad mydad's Samsonitewithme. I hadseventy-five centstomyname.I wishedmorethananything that Icouldcallhome.Instead, Icalled BobPresto.Hesaidhewouldberightovertopickme up. 477 HERITlflPHRODITUS fs nosurprisethatLuce'stheory of gender identitywaspopularin theearlyseventies.Backthen,asmyfirstbarber put it,everybody wanted togo unisex.Theconsensus wasthatpersonalitywaspri- marilydeterminedbyenvironment,eachchild a blankslatetobe writtenon.Myownmedicalstorywasonlyareflectionofwhatwas happeningpsychologicallytoeveryoneinthoseyears.Womenwere becomingmorelikemenandmenwerebecomingmorelike women. For a little while during the seventies it seemedthatsexualdifference might passaway.Butthenanotherthinghappened. It wascalledevolutionarybiology. Under itssway,thesexes were separated again,menintohuntersand womenintogatherers. Nur- turenolonger formed us; naturedid.Impulsesof hominidsdating from 20,000 B.C. werestillcontrollingus. Andsotodayon televi- sion and inmagazines you get thecurrent simplifications. Why can'tmencommunicate? (Becausetheyhadtobe quietonthehunt.) Whydowomen communicate so well?(Becausetheyhad to call out toone another wherethefruitsand berrieswere.)Why can men never find thingsaroundthehouse?(Because they havea narrowfield ofvision,usefulintrackingprey.)Why can women findthingssoeasily? (Becauseinprotectingthenest theywere used toscanningawidefield.) Whycan'twomen parallel-park? (Because lowtestosteroneinhibits spatialability.)Why won'tmenask for directions?(Because askingfordirectionsisa signof weakness, andhuntersnever show weakness.)Thisis where we aretoday. Men 478

• From Middlesex (2002)

  the past few weeks:"Up anchors.Reverseengines. Full steam ahead." On shore, Leftyand Desdemonawatched theGreekfleetleaving. The crowd surged towardthewater,raised itsfourhundredthou- sand hands, andshouted. Andthenitfell silent.Notonemouthut- tered a sound as the realizationcame homethattheirowncountry had deserted them,thatSmyrnanowhadnogovernment,thatthere was nothing betweenthemandtheadvancingTurks. (Anddid Imentionhowinsummerthestreets ofSmyrna were linedwithbasketsofrose petals?And howeveryoneinthecitycould speak French,Italian,Greek,Turkish,English,andDutch?AnddidI tellyouabout thefamousfigs,broughtin by camelcaravanand dumpedontothe ground,hugepilesofpulpy fruitlying in thedirt, withdirtywomensteepingtheminsaltwaterandchildrensquatting to defecatebehindtheclusters?DidImentionhowthereekofthefig womenmixed withpleasantersmells of almondtrees, mimosa, lau- rel,andpeach,andhoweverybodyworemasksonMardiGrasand hadelaboratedinnersonthedecksoffrigates?Iwanttomention thesethings becausetheyallhappenedinthatcitythatwasnoplace exacriy,thatwaspartofnocountrybecauseitwasallcountries,and becausenowif yougo thereyou'll see modernhigh-rises,amnesiac boulevards, teemingsweatshops,aNATO headquarters, anda sign thatsaysIzmir . . .) Fivecars, bedecked witholivebranches,burstthe city gates. Cavalry gallopfender tofender.Thecarsroarpastthe coveredbazaar, through cheering throngs inthe TurkishQuarterwhere every street- lamp, door, andwindow streamsredcloth.By Ottomanlaw,Turks mustoccupy acity's highestground,sothe convoyishighabovethe citynow, heading down.Soonthefivecarspass throughthedeserted sections where houses have beenabandoned or wherefamilieshide. Anita Philobosian peeks outtoseethe beautiful, leaf-coveredvehicles approaching, the sight soarrestingshestarts to unfastentheshutters beforehermother pulls heraway .. .and there areotherfaces pressed to slats, Armenian, Bulgarian,and Greek eyespeekingoutof hideawaysandattics to get alookatthe conquerorand divine his in- tentions;but the cars move toofast,and the sunon thecavalry's raised sabers blinds the eyes, and thenthe cars are gone,reachingthe 54 quay, wherehorses chargeintothe crowdandrefugees screamand scatter. Inthe backseat ofthe lastcarsitsMustafa Kemal.Heisleanfrom battle. His blueeyes flash.He hasn'thad a drinkinovertwoweeks. (The "diverticulitis" Dr. Philobosianhadtreatedthepasha for was justa cover-up. Kemal, championof Westernization and thesecular Turkish state, would remaintruetothose principles tothe end,dying at fifty-seven of cirrhosisoftheliver.) Andas hepasses heturnsand looksintothecrowd, asa young womanstandsup fromasuitcase. Blueeyespiercebrown.Two sec- onds. Noteven two.Then Kemallooksaway;theconvoyisgone. And nowitisall a matter ofwind.1a.m.,Wednesday, Septem- ber 13, 1922.LeftyandDesdemona havebeeninthecityseven nightsnow.Thesmellof jasminehasturnedtokerosene.Aroundthe ArmenianQuarter barricadeshavebeenerected.Turkishtroopsblock theexitsfromthequay.But thewindremainsblowinginthewrong direction.Around midnight,however,itshifts.Itbeginsblowing southwesterly,thatis,away fromtheTurkishheightsandtowardthe harbor. Intheblackness,torchesgather.ThreeTurkishsoldiersstandina tailorshop.Theirtorchesilluminateboltsofclothandsuitsonhang- ers. Then,asthelightgrows,the tailor himselfbecomesvisible.Heis sitting at his sewingmachine,rightshoestillonthefoottreadle. The lightgrowsbrighter stilltorevealhis face, thegapingeyesockets,the beardtornoutinbloody patches. All overtheArmenianQuarterfiresbloom.Like a millionfire- flies, sparksflyacrossthedarkcity,inseminatingeveryplacetheyland with agermof fire.AthishouseonSuyaneStreet,Dr. Philobosian hangs awetcarpetover the balcony,thenhurries back insidethedark house and closestheshutters.Buttheblazepenetratestheroom, lighting itupin stripes: Toukhie'spanicked eyes; Anita'sforehead, wrapped with asilverribbonlikeClaraBow'sin Photoplay; Rose's bareneck; Stepan'sand Karekin's dark,downcastheads. By firelight Dr.Philobosianreadsforthefifth timethatnight " '. ..is respectfullyrecommended ... totheesteem,confidence,and protection .. .' Youhear that?^Protection .. .'" Across the streetMrs. Bidzikian singsthe climactic threenotesof 55 the "Queen ofthe Night"aria fromThe Magic Flute. Themusic soundsso strange amidtheother noises— ofdoorscrashingin,peo- ple screaming, girls cryingout— that theyalllook up. Mrs.Bidzikian repeats theBflat,D, andFtwomoretimes, as thoughpracticingthe aria, and thenhervoice hits a notenoneof themhasever heard be- fore, and they realizethatMrs.Bidzikian hasn'tbeensinginganaria at all. "Rose,getmybag." "Nishan,no,"his wifeobjects."Ifthey seeyoucomeout,they'll know we'rehiding." "Noone will see." The flamesfirstregisteredtoDesdemonaaslights on theships'hulls. Orange brushstrokesflickered abovethewaterlineofthe U.S.S. Litchfield andtheFrenchsteamerPierreLoti.Thenthewaterbright- ened,asthougha schoolofphosphorescent fishhadenteredthehar- bor. Lefty'sheadrestedonhershoulder. She checked toseeifhe was asleep."Lefty.Lefty?"Whenhedidn'trespond,shekissedthetopof his head. Thenthesirens went off. Sheseesnotonefirebutmany.Therearetwentyorangedotson thehillabove.Andtheyhaveanunnaturalpersistence,thesefires.As soonasthefire departmentputsout oneblaze,anothererupts some- whereelse. Theystartinhaycartsandtrashbins;theyfollowkero- senetrails downthecenterof streets;theyturncorners;theyenter bashed-in doorways. Onefire penetratesBerberian'sbakery,making quick workof thebreadracksandpastrycarts. It burnsthroughto theliving quarters andclimbsthe frontstaircasewhere,halfway up, it meets Charles Berberian himself, whotriestosmotheritwith a blan- ket. But the fire dodgeshimandracesup intothehouse.Fromthere itsweepsacross anOrientalrug,marchesoutto thebackporch, leaps nimblyup onto alaundry line,and tightrope-walksacross to the house behind. It climbs in thewindowand pauses,as if shockedby itsgood fortune: because everythingin thishouse is justmadeto burn, too—the damask sofa withitslong fringe, themahoganyend tables and chintz lampshades. Theheat pulls downwallpaperin sheets;and thisis happening not onlyin this apartmentbutintenor fifteenothers, then twenty or twenty-five, each house settingfire to 56

• From Middlesex (2002)

  tions. Therewasa strangesadness inhis eyes,aweakness, which Mil- ton couldnot interpret. .. .And now Ihaveto enter Father Mike'shead, I'm afraid. Ifeel myself being suckedin andIcan't resist.Thefront partofhismind is a whirlof fear,greed, and desperatethoughtsof escape.Allto beex- pected. But goingdeeperin, I discoverthings abouthimInever knew. There's no serenity,forinstance, none atall,no closenessto God. The gentleness FatherMikehad, his smilingsilence at family meals,the wayhe wouldbenddowntobeface-to-facewithchildren (not farforhim,but still)—allthese attributes existedapartfrom any communication with a transcendent realm.Theywere just a passive- aggressive methodof survival, the resultofhaving a wife withavoice asloudas AuntZo's.Yes,echoinginsideFather Mike'sheadisall the shouting AuntZohasdoneovertheyears,eversinceshewaspreg- nantnonstopinGreecewithoutawasherordryer.Ican hear: "Do youcallthisalife?"And:"Ifyou'vegottheearofGod,tellHimto sendmeacheckforthedrapes."And:"MaybetheCatholicshavethe rightidea. Priests shouldn'thavefamilies."AtchurchMichaelAnto- niou iscalledFather.Heisdeferredto,cateredto.Atchurchhehas the powertoforgivesinsandconsecratethehost. Butas soon as he stepsthrough the front dooroftheirduplexinHarperWoods,Fa- therMikesuffers an immediate dropin status. Athome he isnobody. Athome he is bossedaround, complained about, ignored.Andsoit wasnot sodifficulttoseewhy FatherMikedecided toflee hismar- riage,andwhy heneededmoney ... ... noneof which,however,could Miltonreadin his brother-in- law's eyes.Andin the next moment those eyes changedagain.Father Mikehad shiftedhisgaze backto theroad,wherethey met aterrify- ingsight. The redbrakelights ofthe carinfrontofhimwere flash- ing. Father Mike wasgoing much toofasttostopin time.He stomped on hisbrakes, butit wastoolate: theGrecian greenGrem- lin slammed into thecar ahead.The Eldoradocamenext. Milton braced himself forthe impact. Butit wasthenan amazingthinghap- pened. He heard metal crunching andglassshattering,but this was coming from thecars ahead.As fortheCadillac itself,itnever stopped moving forward. It climbedright up FatherMike's car. The weird, slanted backendof the Gremlin acted asakindoframp,and in the next second Milton realized hewasairborne. Themidnight 509 blue Eldorado rose above theaccidentonthebridge.Itsailed up over the guardrails, through thecables,plunging offthe middle span ofthe Ambassador Bridge. The Eldorado fell hoodfirst,gathering speed. Through thetinted windshield Miltoncouldsee the DetroitRiverbelow;butonly briefly. In thoselast seconds,aslifeprepared to leavehis body,it withdrew itslaws, too.Instead offalling intotheriver,theCadillac swooped upwardand leveleditself.Milton was surprised butvery pleased. Hedidn't remember thesalesman's havingmentionedany- thingabouta flightfeature. Even better,Miltonhadn't paid extrafor it.Asthe carfloatedaway fromthebridge hewas smiling."Now,this iswhatIcallan Air-Ride,"he said tohimself.TheEldoradowasfly- inghigh abovetheriver, wastingwhoknew howmuchgas.Thesky outsidewaspink whilethelightsonthedashboardweregreen.There wereallsortsofswitchesandgauges. Milton hadnever noticed most ofthembefore.It lookedmorelikeanairplanecockpitthan acar, andMilton wasat thecontrols,MiltonwasflyinghislastCadillac overtheDetroitRiver.Itdidn't matterwhateyewitnesses saw, or thatthenewspapersreported the next day thattheCadillacwaspart oftheten-carpileuponthebridge.Sittingbackinthe comfortable leatherbucket seat, MiltonStephanidescouldseethedowntownsky- lineapproaching. Music was playingontheradio,an old ArtieShaw tune, whynot, andMiltonwatchedthered lightonthePenobscot Building blinking onandoff.After a certainamountoftrialander- ror, helearned how tosteertheflying car.Itwasn'tamatterofturn- ingthe wheel but ofwillingit,asin a lucid dream.Miltonbrought the carinover land. He passedaboveCobo Hall.He circled theTop ofthePontch, where hehadoncetakenme tolunch.For some rea- sonMilton wasno longer afraidofheights.He guessed thatthiswas becausehis death was imminent; therewas nothing leftto fear.With- outvertigo or perspiration, hegazeddownat GrandCircusParkun- til he spottedwhat was left ofthewheels ofDetroit;andafterthathe headedfor the West Side tolookfortheold ZebraRoom. Back on thebridge, myfather's head hadbeencrushed against the steering wheel. The detective who later informedmy motheroftheaccident, when asked aboutthe condition ofMilton'sbody, saidonly,"Itwas consistent withacrash of avehicle goingat seventy-plusmilesan hour." Milton nolonger had anybrain waves,so itwasunderstand- able why, hoveringin the Cadillac, hemighthaveforgottenthat the 510

• From Middlesex (2002)

  sion. Ihad beguntobelievethat the MediterraneanDietthatkept my grandmother alive againstherwill was alsosinisterlyretarding my maturity.It onlyserved toreasonthattheoliveoilTessiedrizzled over everythinghadsomemysterious powertostopthebody'sclock, whilethe mind,impervioustocooking oils,keptgoing.Thatwas why Desdemonahadthedespairandfatigue ofa person ofninety along withthearteriesofafifty-year-old. Mightitbe,Iwondered, thatthe omega- 3 fattyacidsandthethree-vegetables-per-meal Icon- sumed were responsible forretarding my sexual maturity?Wasyo- gurt forbreakfast stalling mybreastdevelopment? Itwaspossible. "What'sthematter,Cal?" asked Milton,eating whilereadingthe eveningnewspaper."Don'tyouwant to live tobea hundred?" "Not ifIhavetoeatthisstuffthewhole time." Butnow Tessiewasthe one tearing up.Tessiewhoforalmosttwo yearsnowhadtakencareofanoldlady whowouldn'tgetoutofbed. Tessiewhohad a husbandmoreinlovewith hotdogsthanher.Tessie who secretlymonitoredherchildren's bowelmovementsandsoof courseknewexactiy how greasyAmericanfoods could disrupt their digestion."Youdon'tdotheshopping,"she said, tearfully."Youdon't seewhatIsee.When'sthelasttimeyou've been tothedrugstore,Lit- tie Miss NormalFood?Youknow whattheshelvesarefull of? Laxa- tives! EverytimeIgotothe drugstorethepersoninfront ofme is buyingEx-Lax. Andnotjustone box.They buy itbythebushel." "That's justoldpeople." "It's not just oldpeople.I seeyoungmothersbuyingit.Isee teenagers buyingit.Youwant toknowthetruth?Thisentirecountry can't donumbertwo!" "Oh,now Ireallywantto eat." "Isthis aboutthe bra,Callie? Becauseifitis,Itoldyou—" "Mo-om!" Butitwas too late."What bra?"ChapterElevenasked.Andnow, smiling: "DoestheGreat SaltLake thinksheneeds a bra?" "Shut up." "Here. My glasses mustbe dirty.Letme cleanthem.Ah,that's better. Now let'shavea look—" "Shut up\» "No, Iwouldn'tsaythe GreatSaltLakehas undergone anykind of geological— " "Well, your face has, zithead!" 289 "Stillasflatas ever. Perfectfortimetrials." ButthenMiltonshouted,"Goddamnit!"—drowning usboth out. We thoughthe was tired ofour bickering. "Thatgoddamnjudge!" Hewasn'tlookingatus.Hewasstaring at thefront pageofThe DetroitNews. He was turningredand then—thathighbloodpressure wehadn'tmentioned—almostpurple. Thatmorning,atU.S. DistrictCourt, Judge Rothhad devised a cleverwaytodesegregatetheschools.Ifthereweren'tenoughwhite studentsleftinDetroit to go around,he wouldget themfromsome- whereelse. Judge Rothhadclaimedjurisdictionovertheentire "metropolitanarea."Jurisdiction overthecityofDetroitandthesur- roundingfifty-threesuburbs.IncludingGrossePointe. "Just whenwegetyou kidsoutofthathellhole,"Miltonwas shouting,"thatgoddamnRothwantstosendyouback!" 290 THE UJOLVERETTE fyou've just tunedin, wehaveonehumdingerof a field hockey gameonourhands!Finalseconds ofthelastgameofthe season li betweenthosetwoarchrivais,the BCDSHornetsandtheB&I Wolverettes. Scoretied4 to 4.Faceoff at midfield and...theHor- nets haveit!Chamberlainstick-handling, passestoO'Rourkeonthe wing.O'Rourke fakingleft,goingright...she's by one Wolverette, byanother ...andnowshepasses crossfield toAmigliato!Here comesBecky Amigliatodown thesideline!Ten secondsleft,ninesec- onds!In goalfortheWolverettesit'sStephanidesand— ohmy, my, shedoesn't seeAmigliatocoming!Whatinthedevil? ... She's look- ing ataleaf, folks!Callie Stephanidesisadmiring agorgeous,fire-red autumn leaf, butwhatatime todoit! Here comesAmigliato. Five seconds! Fourseconds!Thisis it,folks,the championshipofthe Middle School Junior Varsity seasonisontheline— but holdon ... Stephanides hears footsteps. Now shelooks up .. .andAmigliato takes aslap shot!Ooowhee,it's abullet!Youcanfeelthatone allthe way uphere inthe booth.The ball'sheadingstraight forStephanides' head! She*dropstheleaf!She's watchingit . ..watchingit ...gosh, youhate toseethis, folks.. ." Is ittrue thatright before death (by fieldhockey ballorother- wise) yourlifeflashes beforeyoureyes?Maybenotyourwholelife, butparts of it.As Becky Amigliato'sslapshotmadeformy facethat fall day, the events ofthelast half year flickeredinmy possibly-soon- to-be-extinguishedconsciousness. 291 First ofall, our Cadillac— by thenthegolden Fleetwood— wend- ingitsway theprevious summerupthelongdriveway ofthe Baker & Inglis School forGirls.Inthebackseat, oneveryunhappy twelve- year-old,me,arrivingunderduressfor aninterview."I don'twantto goto a girls'school,"I'mcomplaining. "I'drather bebused." Andnextanothercar pickingmeup,thefollowing September, for myfirstdayofseventhgrade.Previously,I'd alwayswalked to TrombleyElementary; but prepschool hasbroughtwithit ahostof changes: my newschooluniform, forinstance,crested andtartaned. Also:thiscarpoolitself, a lightgreen stationwagondrivenby a lady namedMrs.Drexel.Her hairisgreasy,thinning.Aboveher upper lip,inanexampleoftheforeshadowingIwilllearn toidentifyinthe comingyear'sEnglishclass,is a mustache. Andnowthestationwagonisdrivingalong a few weekslater.I'm lookingoutthewindowwhileMrs.Drexel'scigarette uncoilsarope ofsmoke.WeheadintotheheartofGrossePointe. We passlong, gated driveways, the kindthatalwaysfill myfamilywithwonderand awe.ButnowMrs.Drexelisturningupthesedrives.(Itismynew classmateswho liveattheendofthem.)We rumble past privet hedgesandundertopiaryarchestoarriveatsecludedlakefront homeswheregirlswaitwithsatchels,standingverystraight.They wearthesameuniformIdo,butsomehowitlooksdifferenton them,neater, more stylish.Occasionallythereisalsoawell-coifed mother inthepicture,clippingarosefromthe garden. Andnextitis two monthslater,neartheendofthefallterm,and thestationwagonisclimbingthehill tomy no-longer-brand-new school.Thecar isfullofgirls.Mrs.Drexelis lightinganotherciga- rette.She'spulling uptothe curbandgettingreadytolayacurse on us.Shakingherhead attheview—of thehilly,greencampus,thelake in the distance— shesays,"Yousegirlsbetter enjoyitnow.Besttime oflifeis when you'reyoung."(Attwelve,Ihated herforsayingthat. Icouldn't imagine aworsethingtotellakid.Butmaybe also,dueto certainotherchangesthat began thatyear,Isuspectedthat thehappy period ofmychildhoodwas comingto anend.) What elsecamebackto me,asthe hockeyball zeroedin? Just abouteverythingafieldhockeyballcould symbolize.Fieldhockey, that New Englandgame,handeddownfrom oldEngland,justlike everythingelseinourschool.Thebuilding withitslong echoing 292

• From Middlesex (2002)

  nearerand nearer.Andthen,overpoweredbydesire, she caughtthe boy frombehind, wrappingher arms around him." Ibegan tokick mylegs, churningupwatersothatitwashardforthecustomers to see. "Hermaphroditus struggled tofreehimselffromthe tenacious grip ofthe waternymph,ladiesandgentlemen. ButSalmaciswastoo strong. So unbridledwas herlustthatthetwobecame one. Their bodies fused, maleintofemale, femaleintomale.Beholdthegod Hermaphroditus!" Atwhichpoint Iplungedintothepoolentire,all ofme exposed. And the peepholesslid shut. Nooneeverleftaboothatthispoint.Everyoneextendedhisor her membershiptotheGarden. UnderwaterIcouldhearthetokens clinkinginto thechangeboxes. Itremindedmeofbeingathome, submergingmyheadunderbathwater andhearingthe pinging inthe pipes.Itriedtothinkofthingslikethat.Itmadeeverythingseemfar away.IpretendedIwasinthebathtubonMiddlesex.Meanwhile facesfilledtheportholes, gazing withamazement,curiosity,disgust, desire. Wewere always stonedforwork.Thatwasa prerequisite. Aswe got intoour costumes Zora andIwould fire upa joint to start the night.Zorabrought a thermosofAvernaandice,whichIdranklike Kool-Aid.What you aimedfor wasa stateofhalfoblivion,aprivate partymood.Thismadethemenlessreal,lessnoticeable.Ifithadn't beenforZora Idon'tknowwhatIwould have done. Ourlittle bun- galowinthe mistandtrees,neatly surrounded by low-lyingCalifor- niaground cover, the tinykoipondfullofpet-storegoldfish,the outdoor Buddhistshrinemadeofblue granite— itwasarefugefor me,ahalfway housewhereIstayed, gettingready togobackintothe world. Mylife during thosemonthswasasdivided asmybody. Nightswe spent at Sixty-Niners,waitingaroundthetank,bored, high,giggling, unhappy.Butyougotusedtothat.Youlearnedto medicate yourselfagainstitand put itoutofyourmind. Inthe daytime ZoraandIwerealwaysstraight.Shehadonehun- dred and eighteen pagesofherbookwritten.Thesewere typed on the thinnest onionskin paperIhadeverseen.Themanuscript was therefore perishable. Youhad tobe careful inhandlingit.Zoramade mesit at thekitchentablewhile shebroughtitoutlike alibrarian with a Shakespeare folio.Otherwise,Zoradidn't treatmelike akid. 491 She letmekeep myownhours.She askedmetohelpwith therent. Wespent mostdays paddingaround thehouseinourkimonos. Z. had a stern expressionwhenshewasworking.I satoutonthe deck andread booksfromhershelves,KateChopin, Jane Bowles,and the poetry ofGarySnyder.Thoughwelooked nothingalike,Zora was alwaysemphaticabout oursolidarity. Wewereupagainst thesame prejudicesandmisunderstandings.Iwasgladdened bythis,butI neverfeltsisterlyaround Zora.Not completely.Iwasalwaysaware of herfigureundertherobe.Iwentaroundavertingmy eyes and trying nottostare.Onthe streetpeopletook meforaboy.Zoraturned heads.Menwhistied at her.Shedidn'tlike men, however.Only les- bians. She had a darkside.Shedranktoextremesandsometimes acted ugly.She ragedagainstfootball,male bonding, babies, breeders, politicians,andmeningeneral.TherewasaviolenceinZora at such times thatset meon edge.Shehad beenthe high school beauty.She hadsubmittedtocaressesthathaddonenothingforherandto ses- sionsofpainfullovemaking.Likemanybeauties,Zorahadattracted theworstguys.Thevarsitystooges.Theherpeticsectionleaders.It wasnosurprisethatsheheldalowopinionof men. Mesheex- empted.ShethoughtIwasokay.Notarealmanatall.WhichIfelt wasprettymuch right. Hermaphroditus'sparentswereHermesandAphrodite.Ovid doesn'ttellushowtheyfeltaftertheirchild wentmissing.Asformy ownparents,theystill kept thetelephonenearbyatalltimes, refusing toleave thehousetogether.But nowtheywerescaredto answer thephone, fearing bad news.Ignorance seemedpreferabletogrief Whenever thephonerang,theypaused beforeansweringit.They waited untilthethird orfourthpeal. Their agony washarmonious.Duringthe monthsIwas missing, Milton andTessie experiencedthesame spikesofpanic,the same madhopes, the samesleeplessness.Ithadbeen yearssincetheir emo- tional lifehadbeen soinsyncandthishadthe resultofbringing back thetimes whenthey firstfellinlove. They begantomakelove withafrequency theyhadn't knownfor years. IfChapterEleven wasout,theydidn't waittogo upstairsbut usedwhateverroom theyhappened tobe in.They triedthered 492 leather couchinthe den;theyspreadout onthebluebirdsandred berriesof the livingroom sofa;and a fewtimestheyeven lay down on the heavy-duty kitchencarpeting,whichhadapattern of bricks. The onlyplace theydidn'tusewasthebasementbecause therewas no telephone there. Theirlovemakingwasnotpassionate but slowand elegiac, carried outtothemagisterialrhythmsofsuffering.They were not young anymore; theirbodieswerenolongerbeautiful. Tessie sometimesweptafterward.Miltonkepthiseyessqueezed shut. Their exertionsresultedinnofloweringofsensation, nore- lease, oronly seldom. Thenoneday, threemonthsafterI was gone,thesignalscoming overmy mother'sspiritualumbilicalcordstopped.Tessiewaslyingin bedwhen thefaint purring ortinglinginhernavelceased.Shesat up.Sheput herhandto herbelly. "Ican'tfeelher anymore!"Tessiecried. "What?" "Thecord'scut! Somebodycutthecord!" Miltontried to reasonwithTessie, but it was no use. Fromthat moment,mymotherbecameconvincedthatsomethingterrible had happened to me. Andso:intotheharmonyoftheirsufferingentereddiscord. While Miltonfoughttokeepupapositiveattitude,Tessieincreas- inglygavein todespair.Theybeganto quarrel.Every nowandthen Milton's optimismwould swaymy motherand shewouldbecome cheerful for adayortwo.She wouldtellherselfthat, afterall,they didn'tknow anythingdefinite.Butsuchmoodswere temporary. When shewas aloneTessietriedto feel somethingcomingin overthe umbilical cord, buttherewas nothing, notevenasignofdistress. Ihad beenmissingfourmonthsbythistime.It wasnow January 1975.My fifteenthbirthdayhadpassedwithoutmy beingfound. On aSunday morningwhileTessie wasatchurch,praying formyreturn, the phonerang. Miltonanswered. "Hello?" At first there wasno response. Miltoncould hearmusic inthe background, aradioplayinginanotherroom maybe.Then amuffled voice spoke. "I bet youmissyour daughter,Milton." "Whois this?" 493

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  “The day after my mom took me to the zoo where she liked the monkeys and I liked the bears, it was a Friday. I came home from school. She gave me a hug and told me to go do my homework in my room so I could watch TV later. I went into my room, and she sat down at the kitchen table, I guess, and then she screamed, and I ran out, and she had fallen over. She was lying on the floor, holding her head and jerking. And I freaked out. I should have called 911, but I just started screaming and crying until finally she stopped jerking, and I thought she had fallen asleep and that whatever had hurt didn’t hurt anymore. So I just sat there on the floor with her until my dad got home an hour later, and he’s screaming, ‘Why didn’t you call 911?’ and trying to give her CPR, but by then she was plenty dead. Aneurysm. Worst day. I win. You drink.” And so we did. No one talked for a minute, and then Takumi asked, “Your dad blamed you?” “Well, not after that first moment. But yeah. How could he not?” “Well, you were a little kid,” Takumi argued. I was too surprised and uncomfortable to talk, trying to fit this into what I knew about Alaska’s family. Her mom told her the knock-knock joke—when Alaska was six. Her mom used to smoke—but didn’t anymore, obviously. “Yeah. I was a little kid. Little kids can dial 911. They do it all the time. Give me the wine,” she said, deadpan and emotionless. She drank without lifting her head from the hay. “I’m sorry,” Takumi said. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” the Colonel asked, his voice soft. “It never came up.” And then we stopped asking questions. What the hell do you say? In the long quiet that followed, as we passed around the wine and slowly became drunker, I found myself thinking about President William McKinley, the third American president to be assassinated. He lived for several days after he was shot, and toward the end, his wife started crying and screaming, “I want to go, too! I want to go, too!” And with his last measure of strength, McKinley turned to her and spoke his last words: “We are all going.” — It was the central moment of Alaska’s life. When she cried and told me that she fucked everything up, I knew what she meant now. And when she said she failed everyone, I knew whom she meant. It was the everything and the everyone of her life, and so I could not help but imagine it: I imagined a scrawny eight-year-old with dirty fingers, looking down at her mother convulsing. So she sat down with her dead-or-maybe-not mother, who I imagine was not breathing by then but wasn’t yet cold either.

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  The voice of God always came to him first as an impression, something he felt rather than heard. If you let those doctors operate on Randall, he will surely die.Lord, he’s dying now.I’m telling you those men don’t know what’s wrong with Randall. They want to use him as an experiment.What am I supposed to do?Trust me.My son is bleeding to death.Trust me.He’s my son. My only son.Trust me.What do you want me to do?Prove me.What do you mean?There’s a tent revival in Atlanta. You know the preacher. I want you to give him a hundred dollars.That man’s a flat-out crook.You’re not giving to him, you’re giving to me.But I don’t have an extra hundred dollars.Trust me.Brother Terrell rolled down the window and let the cool, damp fall air hit him in the face. Beside him, Betty Ann sat stiff and silent, a wall of grief. It was always Brother Terrell’s stories, Brother Terrell’s struggles, Brother Terrell’s pain that mattered. His suffering dwarfed her own and that of everyone around him. We were there to bear witness and offer support. The closer you were to him, the more this was true. When his voice fell silent Betty Ann would have prayed that most common of prayers: Oh, God. Not my son. Please. Not my son. Her petition would have beat against the wall of her mind like a trapped fly. She would not have dared remind God of all she had sacrificed: a steady paycheck, a home, security for her children, the occasional new dress, the casual comforts. In a world of mythic struggles and divine visitations, Betty Ann was the most ordinary of women. Sure, she grumbled from time to time. Lamented all she and her children had done without.I’ll stop complaining. Please. Not my son.She might have wondered why, after all Brother Terrell’s fasting and praying, after all the miracles and the sacrifice, Randall lay dying.Please, forgive me. Forgive my lack of dedication. Please. Don’t take my son.The car slowed, surged forward, slowed, and surged again, rocking back and forth down the highway. Brother Terrell always drove with one foot on the accelerator and one on the brake. In the distance, tiny points of light pierced the darkness. They were almost in Atlanta.They parked the car and entered the colorless glare that was Grady Hospital. Each step down the narrow corridor diminished Brother Terrell. Away from his milieu, he lost his status as celebrity preacher and became again the son of sharecroppers, a cripple boy whose family depended on charity to get by, an uneducated man to whom the workings of the greater world remained a mystery. By the time a nurse approached and asked what it was he needed, his gaze was fixed on the toes of his spit-shined wingtips.“Yes, well, ah, we come here to, to see Randall. Randall Terrell.”The woman looked down from beneath her big white hat. “It’s five thirty. In the morning, sir.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Four men make the rescue attempt. Three turn back before the sandbar. In the water, in the cold, their bodies won’t respond. Up and down their legs, nerves go incommunicado and muscles turn to lead. The sandy bottom can be seen, but cannot be felt. Only Fredrick, a rent-boy muscle queen in a neon-blue speedo who has been drinking Nutcrackers the color of antifreeze for the past hour, presses on. Between his mass and a blood alcohol level that would keep plumbing running in the dead of winter, he splashes forth to Reese. At the sandbar, his broad back rises from the water and he scans for the woman. She is floating on her back, hair fanned out, lips blue, inhaling and exhaling hard. He dives, comes up, plants his feet, grips her arm, and hefts her, fireman-style, to his shoulders. She opens her eyes, startled. “Hey!” She pushes against him. “T have you!” he bellows. “No, no,” she wheezes out. She is so cold, it is hard to get her lungs to push out enough air to speak. “Wim Hof method.” “Huh?” he shouts, churning with her toward land. On the beach, people cheer. What a rescue. “Wim Hof method! I’m fine. Wim Hof method.” They rise at the sandbar, and he sets her on her feet. The heat of the sun is only a distant memory. The air too has turned arctic. “Can you walk?” he asks dubiously. “Yes, yes,” she says. Her ears ache from the cold, a terrible pain like from eating ice cream too fast, but encircling her whole skull. She hears people shouting, and suddenly is aware of how many people are watching. She can’t believe it. She was only in the water, like, what, five minutes? But she can’t focus on that now. Instinct has reasserted itself and she needs to get warm. Nothing else matters. Wim Hof was right. He discovered, in our backyard ponds and on banal coasts, the lair of a terrible god, a place beyond self-pity, beyond grief. Reese is on the shore, wrapped in a towel, fending off Thalia’s worry, which has turned to rage. Reese’s skin is blue and her teeth clack. She has only a few moments to try to explain herself, uselessly, in between Thalia’s imprecations, before the paramedics arrive. The lifeguards haven’t yet come out for the season, but someone who witnessed Reese’s submersion has called an ambulance and reported an incident of self-harm. What is happening? the newly arrived beachgoers ask each other, as the ambulance lights flash at the end of the boardwalk. The rumor goes around: Another trans woman has tried to commit suicide. They nod sadly, knowingly: Isn’t this kind of performance just what trans women do? Throw themselves in front of trains from crowded platforms? Film themselves downing fistfuls of pills on Facebook Live? Broadcast and perform their pain no matter whom it triggers? Don’t even trans women expect this from each other?

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  We’ll say our prayers and think of you all of the time—okay, most of the time. Please. Let the TV stay.For once my prayer was answered. Mama came out and told me to cut through the hedge to Nila’s house and ask her husband to help us get the TV up the steps and into the house.I took off running.The adults moved the TV inside, Nila’s husband on one end, Mama and Rita on the other, and situated it catty-cornered to the picture window. Mama asked everyone to stay for dinner, but Nila had already cooked and Queenie and Rita said they needed to go. They had so much to do before they came back for good. My head snapped in their direction.“What do you mean, for good?”“Your mama will tell you, honey. Bye, you all.”The door closed and my mouth opened in a long, dry wail.“Why are they coming back? Are you leaving?”“Kids, I have something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Come sit on the couch with me.”Gary crawled on the couch. I kept my distance.“I know this is hard. It’s hard for me, too, but there are people who have never heard of Jesus. I’m going to travel with Brother Terrell and help him tell the world about Christ.”I put my hands over my ears. “I don’t want to help anyone. I don’t want to hear anything you say.” I ran into my room and crawled under my bed.Mama followed me and sat on the bed. Her voice rose and fell and rose and fell, saying all the things I already knew about Jesus and God and sacrifice. I couldn’t bear to hear her talk. I wanted her to go, just go. My brother bawled like a baby calf in the living room. I would have felt better if I could have cried, but I couldn’t squeeze out a single tear. The bed creaked and I watched the back of her heels shuffle away. I slid out from under the bed and headed for the front door. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my brother and mother sitting on the couch. She held him in her lap and rocked him like a baby.“Donna? Donna?”The crack in her voice made me want to turn around, but I slammed through the door and headed to the brown, crunchy field across the street. Just a few weeks earlier, the tall green thicket of leafy weeds provided a jungle in which we played for hours. Now it was a bunch of tall sticks with a few gray leaves twirling in the hot wind. I picked up a long stick and began to walk and slash the dried stalks around me. With every step I repeated the same phrase: “I will never forget this.”Gary cried every night after our mother left and refused to eat much for weeks. He looked like a baby bird: big head, big eyes, bony little body.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Amy put her hand on Reese’s shoulder, but it felt lifeless, carved of wood. “Okay, I have doubts,” Amy admitted. Reese stared straight ahead. Amy had the futile sense of trying to console a statue. Amy took back her hand. “You want to be a mother, Reese. Do you not want to be a mother with me?” She could only see Reese’s face in profile. Distantly, a man’s whistling echoed down the tiled church corridor. “T’ve been fucking Stanley this past week,” Reese said. Amy’s thoughts wiped to blank. The total wash of denial. “I’m SOrry?” “All week,” Reese repeated. “I’ve been fucking him.” Amy nodded. Then she stood up, slung her purse over her shoulder, and walked the length of the corridor, turned a corner, then encountered a pair of heavy, ornate doors on the right side of the hall. She pushed through them into the cool of a hushed and darkened sanctuary. There, she found a pew and sat quietly, her mind unquiet, her body in the kind of physical pain that only heartbreak can cause—pain that, like an acid trip, can only be truly apprehended while in the midst of experiencing it—as she waited for Reese to stop looking for her and leave. CHAPTER SEVEN Eight weeks after conception I F YOU ARE a trans girl who knows many other trans girls, you go to church a lot, because church is where they hold the funerals. What no one wants to admit about funerals, because you’re supposed to be crushed by the melancholy of being a trans girl among the prematurely dead trans girls, is that funerals for dead trans girls number among the notable social events of a season. Who knows what people will say at a trans funeral? Will some queer make a political speech instead of a eulogy, so that for weeks afterward other queers will post outraged screeds about it on social media? How many times will a family member deadname or misgender the deceased from the pulpit, unabashed about it in his grief, peering out at this sea of weirdos who showed up unexpectedly to what he considered a family event? Did their son—er, daughter— really have all these friends? Which nice white cis person will remind the assembled mourners—a high percentage of whom are trans women themselves—that everyone must do more to save trans women of color, who are being murdered (murdered!), although this particular highly attended funeral is, of course, a suicide, because that’s how the white girls die prematurely.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  And in the time between dying and death, a little Alaska sat with her mother in silence. And then through the silence and my drunkenness, I caught a glimpse of her as she might have been. She must have come to feel so powerless, I thought, that the one thing she might have done—pick up the phone and call an ambulance—never even occurred to her. There comes a time when we realize that our parents cannot save themselves or save us, that everyone who wades through time eventually gets dragged out to sea by the undertow—that, in short, we are all going. So she became impulsive, scared by her inaction into perpetual action. When the Eagle confronted her with expulsion, maybe she blurted out Marya’s name because it was the first that came to mind, because in that moment she didn’t want to get expelled and couldn’t think past that moment. She was scared, sure. But more importantly, maybe she’d been scared of being paralyzed by fear again. “We are all going,” McKinley said to his wife, and we sure are. There’s your labyrinth of suffering. We are all going. Find your way out of that maze. None of which I said out loud to her. Not then and not ever. We never said another word about it. Instead, it became just another worst day, albeit the worst of the bunch, and as night fell fast, we continued on, drinking and joking. — Later that night, after Alaska stuck her finger down her throat and made herself puke in front of all of us because she was too drunk to walk into the woods, I lay down in my sleeping bag. Lara was lying beside me, in her bag, which was almost touching mine. I moved my arm to the edge of my bag and pushed it so it slightly overlapped with hers. I pressed my hand against hers. I could feel it, although there were two sleeping bags between us. My plan, which struck me as very slick, was to pull my arm out of my sleeping bag and put it into hers, and then hold her hand. It was a good plan, but when I tried to actually get my arm out of the mummy bag, I flailed around like a fish out of water, and nearly dislocated my shoulder. She was laughing—and not with me, at me—but we still didn’t speak. Having passed the point of no return, I slid my hand into her sleeping bag anyway, and she stifled a giggle as my fingers traced a line from her elbow to her wrist. “That teekles,” she whispered. So much for me being sexy. “Sorry,” I whispered. “No, it’s a nice teekle,” she said, and held my hand. She laced her fingers in mine and squeezed. And then she rolled over and keessed me.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  I tapped the Colonel on the shoulder and said, “Hyde’s here,” and the Colonel said, “Oh shit,” and I said, “What?” and he said, “Where’s Alaska?” and I said, “No,” and he said, “Pudge, is she here or not?” and then we both stood up and scanned the faces in the gym. The Eagle walked up to the podium and said, “Is everyone here?” “No,” I said to him. “Alaska isn’t here.” The Eagle looked down. “Is everyone else here?” “Alaska isn’t here!” “Okay, Miles. Thank you.” “We can’t start without Alaska.” The Eagle looked at me. He was crying, noiselessly. Tears just rolled from his eyes to his chin and then fell onto his corduroy pants. He stared at me, but it was not the Look of Doom. His eyes blinking the tears down his face, the Eagle looked, for all the world, sorry. “Please, sir,” I said. “Can we please wait for Alaska?” I felt all of them staring at us, trying to understand what I now knew, but didn’t quite believe. The Eagle looked down and bit his lower lip. “Last night, Alaska Young was in a terrible accident.” His tears came faster, then. “And she was killed. Alaska has passed away.” For a moment, everyone in the gym was silent, and the place had never been so quiet, not even in the moments before the Colonel ridiculed opponents at the free-throw stripe. I stared down at the back of the Colonel’s head. I just stared, looking at his thick and bushy hair. For a moment, it was so quiet that you could hear the sound of not-breathing, the vacuum created by 190 students shocked out of air. I thought: It’s all my fault. I thought: I don’t feel very good. I thought: I’m going to throw up. — I stood up and ran outside. I made it to a trash can outside the gym, five feet from the double doors, and heaved toward Gatorade bottles and half-eaten McDonald’s. But nothing much came out. I just heaved, my stomach muscles tightening and my throat opening and a gasping, guttural blech, going through the motions of vomiting over and over again. In between gags and coughs, I sucked air in hard. Her mouth. Her dead, cold mouth. To not be continued. I knew she was drunk. Upset. Obviously you don’t let someone drive drunk and pissed off. Obviously . And Christ, Miles, what the hell is wrong with you? And then comes the puke, finally, splashing onto the trash. And here is whatever of her I had left in my mouth, here in this trash can. And then it comes again, more—and then okay, calm down, okay, seriously, she’s not dead. She’s not dead. She’s alive. She’s alive somewhere. She’s in the woods. Alaska is hiding in the woods and she’s not dead, she’s just hiding. She’s just playing a trick on us. This is just an Alaska Young Prank Extraordinaire.

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  I made my way to Bangs to see him preach for what my mother said might be the last time, though I could not imagine the world without the force that was David Terrell.His shaved head gleamed under the lights; his all-black attire hung off his ruined body. He paced around in that aimless way I remembered from earlier fasts. “Y’all know I been prophesying the destruction of America for years; well, God told me the time has come. I asked the Lord the other night if there was anything I could do to hold off what’s coming.”He pulled his shirttail from his pants and began to unbutton it. “God told me there was only one way.”The people around me began to rock and moan. I don’t know if they knew what was coming next. I didn’t. Brother Terrell slipped out of his shirt, revealing a short-sleeved white T-shirt underneath. He unbuckled his belt, pulled it through his pants, doubled it, and held it at both ends. Clutching the waistband of his trousers with one hand and the belt with the other, he walked over and stood in front of one of the young men seated on the platform. He looked down at the man and extended the belt to him.“Brother Walker, God told me he needed someone to stand in the gap. I need you to stand up and take the belt.” The man did as he was told.“The prophet always has to bear the signs in his own body.” Brother Terrell walked over to an empty folding chair and Brother Walker followed, the belt dangling from his right hand. Brother Terrell knelt in front of the chair and took off his shirt.“God told me someone has to take the whipping for America.”Brother Walker dropped the belt and backed away, shaking his head. Brother Terrell looked over his shoulder. “Pick it up, Brother Walker. I know you don’t want to do this, but you have to. I have to.”The younger man picked up the belt and beat the prophet. When Brother Walker collapsed in tears, Brother Terrell called one of the other ministers to take his place. After the second whipping, the welts began to bleed. Everyone in the tent wailed and cried, and I was right there with them. Oh God. Oh God. Oh Lord. He called preacher after preacher. If they did not hit him hard enough, he looked up and told them that if they didn’t want to see children running through the streets of America with their skin melting from their bones, they better hit him harder. We screamed and moaned with every lash. The blood ran down his back. After about an hour, he pulled his T-shirt over his head and a couple of men ran to help him up. Blood seeped through the cotton of his shirt as he stumbled offstage between the men.