Hope

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

  187 Lessons from the Great Books Lecture 36 That is the ultimate lesson of these great books—never give up. Live your life and realize that every day, just as Thoreau told you and just as Homer tells you, every day you can begin again. A s we approach the conclusion of this course, we must ask ourselves why we should read great books. At the beginning, this course defi ned a great book as having a great theme, being written in noble language that elevates the soul, and speaking across the ages, that is, possessing universality. Any discussion of great books must involve values. People cannot learn from great books unless they are willing to enter sympathetically into the mind of the author. This course has discussed books that made history. One example, of course, is Machiavelli’s The Prince . Lord Acton argues that the modern world began with Machiavelli’s idea that the state has no sense of moral judgment and politics has no moral dimension whatsoever. Machiavelli believed that Socrates and Cicero were wrong. A state and its leaders are judged by different criteria than those used for private individuals. There is a complete separation between public and private morals. In addition to The Prince , several other works discussed in this course reveal the soul of a tyrant. Beowulf, Gilgamesh, and the Iliad all discuss ambition and the desire to leave behind a reputation that will be remembered forever. In the epic of Gilgamesh, for example, Gilgamesh recognized that he would not live forever; however, he had built the walls of Uruk, and men would talk about them forever. The Divine Comedy is a story of redemption, but it also clarifi es ideals that led people from across Europe to take up the Cross and go to the Holy Land to wage war against the in fi del. The justifi cation for the crusades can be found in the ideals of the Divine Comedy. Although it is a story of divine love, that love must be spread by the sword and by men who believe that they are undertaking the work of God. John Stuart Mill’s On Liberty looks back at the founders of the United States. Mill represents the continuation of ideas found in the Declaration of Independence. Lord Acton

• From Middlesex (2002)

  there was a French explorer named Cadillac, and he was the one who discovered Detroit. And that seal was his family seal, from France." "What's France?" "France is a country in Europe." "What's Europe?" "It's a continent, which is like a great big piece of land, way, way big- ger than a country. But Cadillacs don't come from Europe anymore, kukla. They come from right here in the good old U.S.A." The light turned green and he drove on. But my prototype lingered. She was there at the next light and the next. So pleasant was her company that my father, a man loaded with initiative, decided to see what he could do to turn his vision into reality. Thus: for some time now, in the living room where the men dis- cussed politics, they had also been discussing the velocity of sperm. Peter Tatakis, "Uncle Pete," as we called him, was a leading member of the debating society that formed every week on our black love seats. A lifelong bachelor, he had no family in America and so had be- come attached to ours. Every Sunday he arrived in his wine-dark Buick, a tall, prune-faced, sad-seeming man with an incongruously vital head of wavy hair. He was not interested in children. A propo- nent of the Great Books series— which he had read twice— Uncle Pete was engaged with serious thought and Italian opera. He had a passion, in history, for Edward Gibbon, and, in literature, for the journals of Madame de Stael. He liked to quote that witty lady's opinion on the German language, which held that German wasn't good for conversation because you had to wait to the end of the sen- tence for the verb, and so couldn't interrupt. Uncle Pete had wanted to become a doctor, but the "catastrophe" had ended that dream. In the United States, he'd put himself through two years of chiropractic school, and now ran a small office in Birmingham with a human skeleton he was still paying for in installments. In those days, chiro- practors had a somewhat dubious reputation. People didn't come to Uncle Pete to free up their kundalini. He cracked necks, straightened spines, and made custom arch supports out of foam rubber. Still, he was the closest thing to a doctor we had in the house on those Sun- day afternoons. As a young man he'd had half his stomach surgically removed, and now after dinner always drank a Pepsi-Cola to help di- gest his meal. The soft drink had been named for the digestive enzyme pepsin, he sagely told us, and so was suited to the task. It was this kind of knowledge that led my father to trust what Un-

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  He continued going to law school but swore off atheist philosophers. I swore off pot, scoured the scriptures for obscure references to the end-time, tried to like Richard Nixon (an honest man chosen to lead the country, according to Brother Terrell), and switched the radio station in my car from rock and roll to country and western. We bought and stored extra food in our pantry to prepare for the famine. I burned my jeans and wore long, hippie-looking dresses. When my mother called, I told her of my conversion experience and she gave me her phone number. We both agreed it was best that the whereabouts of her ranch remain a secret, if only to thwart the devil. I tied a blessed handkerchief around the steering column of the car and we began making the three-hundred-and-sixty-mile round-trip between Groesbeck and Bangs on most weekends.Located at the western edge of Brown County, ten miles outside the county seat of Brownwood, Bangs is situated in a sort of borderland along which the rolling gentility of the central Texas landscape gives way to the windswept desolation that eventually becomes west Texas. Until the big tent came to town in 1972, a truck stop and a convenience store were the most visible landmarks along Highway 84 West. The wind blew all winter long, and in the summer, the sun beat the land into submission. Wind, dust, and truck-stop grease. Still, one person’s hell is another’s Promised Land, or at the very least, Blessed Area.The Terrellites descended on Bangs like a biblical plague. They came in their broken-down trucks and leaky campers and station wagons that rattled when they rolled. A few drove new cars, all that remained of the middle-class life they had abandoned. The women, in their high-necked, ankle-length dresses and bird’s-nest hair, resembled refugees from the Grand Ole Opry. The men, 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.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Lefty stepped between the men, preventing a fight. After that, Zizmo kept his political opinions to himself. He sat morosely drink- ing coffee, reading an odd assortment of magazines or pamphlets speculating on space travel and ancient civilizations. He chewed his lemon peels and told Lefty to do so, too. Together, they settled into the random camaraderie of men on the outskirts of a birth. Like all expectant fathers, their tiioughts turned to money. My grandfather had never told Jimmy the reason for his dismissal from Ford, but Zizmo had a good idea why it might have happened. And so, a few weeks later, he made what restitution he could. "Just act like we're going for a drive." "Okay." "If we get stopped, don't say anything." "Okay." "This is a better job than the Rouge. Believe me. Five dollars a day is nothing. And here you can eat all the garlic you want." They are in the Packard, passing the amusement grounds of Elec- tric Park. It's foggy out, and late— just past 3 a.m. To be honest, the amusement grounds should be closed at this hour, but, for my own purposes, tonight Electric Park is open all night, and the fog sud- denly lifts, all so that my grandfather can look out the window and see a roller coaster streaking down the track. A moment of cheap 110 symbolism only, and then I have to bow to the strict rules of realism, which is to say: they can't see a thing. Spring fog foams over the ram- parts of the newly opened Belle Isle Bridge. The yellow globes of streetlamps glow, aureoled in the mist. "Lot of traffic for this late," Lefty marvels. "Yes," says Zizmo. "It's very popular at night." The bridge lifts them genriy above the river and sets them back down on the other side. Belle Isle, a paramecium-shaped island in the Detroit River, lies less than half a mile from the Canadian shore. By day, the park is full of picnickers and strollers. Fishermen line its muddy banks. Church groups hold tent meetings. Come dark, how- ever, the island takes on an offshore atmosphere of relaxed morals. Lovers park in secluded lookouts. Cars roll over the bridge on shad- owy missions. Zizmo drives through the gloom, past the octagonal gazebos and the monument of the Civil War Hero, and into the woods where the Ottawa once held their summer camp. Fog wipes the windshield. Birch trees shed parchment beneath an ink-black sky. Missing from most cars in the 1920s: rearview mirrors. "Steer," Zizmo keeps saying, and turns around to see if they're being fol- lowed. In this fashion, trading the wheel, they weave along Central Avenue and The Strand, circling the island three times, until Zizmo is satisfied. At the northeastern end, he pulls the car over, facing Canada.

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

  The fourth tenet was imminence. Jewish apocalypticists believed that they were living at the end of time; God would intervene very soon to overthrow the forces of evil. This was a message of hope for people who were suffering: Hold on just a little while longer, and God’s intervention will come. Many people today continue to hold apocalyptic views to some extent. Within Christian evangelicalism and fundamentalism, it’s widely thought that Jesus will return soon in fulfillment of prophecies. Indeed, in every generation of Christians, there have been those who maintained that the end was imminent. o Christians who have held this belief have two things in common: They have all based their views on the Bible, and they have all been completely wrong. But we can trace the expectation that we are living at the end of the world to the beginning of Christianity and the apocalyptic Jews. o The reason for this ts that the Dead Sea Scrolls were especially influential among early Christians. Even though Jesus ts never mentioned in the scrolls, the views found in the scrolls—the Jewish apocalyptic idea—in many ways influenced later Christians who arose out of Judaism. o Many authors of the New Testament subscribed to apocalyptic views, just as the authors of the Dead Sea Scrolls did, expecting that the end of the age was to come soon with the judgment of God against his enemies. 29 Scanned by CamScanner Lecture 4: Is Jesus in the Dead Sea Scrolls? Suggested Reading Fitzmyer, Responses to 101 Questions on the Dead Sea Scrolls. Flint and Vanderkam, The Meaning of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Vanderkam, The Dead Sea Scrolls Today. Vermes, ed. and trans., The Complete Dead Sea Scrolls in English. Questions to Consider 1. What strikes you as the most important features of the Dead Sea Scrolls? 2. Why might the apocalyptic views of the Dead Sea Scrolls be significant for understanding the historical Jesus? 30 Scanned by CamScanner Did Jesus Expect to See the Worid’s End? Lecture 5 in the history of Western civilization. The Christian church, which in some sense started with his life and teachings, his death and the belief in his resurrection, has been the single most important religious, cultural, social, political, and economic institution over the two millennia since his death. Without Jesus, our world would be enormously different than it is today. Nonetheless, it has proved inordinately difficult to know what Jesus himself actually did and said, including what he said about the end of time. In this lecture, we'll explore what a critical reading of the gospels tells us about Jesus's apocalyptic beliefs. Tin can be little doubt that Jesus has been the most influential person

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Luce believed that a patient of my age was capable of understanding the essentials. And so, that afternoon, he did not mince words. In his mellow, pleasing, educated voice, looking directiy into my eyes, Luce declared that I was a girl whose clitoris was merely larger than those of other girls. He drew the same charts for me as he had for my par- ents. When I pressed him on the details of my surgery, he said only this: "We're going to do an operation to finish your genitalia. They're not quite finished yet and we want to finish them." He never mentioned anything about hypospadias, and I began to hope that the word didn't apply to me. Maybe I had taken it out of context. Dr. Luce may have been referring to another patient. Web- ster's had said that hypospadias was an abnormality of the penis. But Dr. Luce was telling me that I had a clitoris. I understood that both these things grew out of the same fetal gonad, but that didn't matter. 433 If I had a clitoris— and a specialist was telling me that I did— what could I be but a girl? The adolescent ego is a hazy thing, amorphous, cloudlike. It wasn't difficult to pour my identity into different vessels. In a sense, I was able to take whatever form was demanded of me. I only wanted to know the dimensions. Luce was providing them. My parents sup- ported him. The prospect of having everything solved was wildly at- tractive to me, too, and while I lay on the chaise I didn't ask myself where my feelings for the Object fit in. I only wanted it all to be over. I wanted to go home and forget it had ever happened. So I listened to Luce quietiy and made no objections. He explained the estrogen injections would induce my breasts to grow. "You won't be Raquel Welch, but you won't be Twiggy either." My facial hair would diminish. My voice would rise from tenor to alto. But when I asked if I would finally get my period, Dr. Luce was frank. "No. You won't. Ever. You won't be able to have a baby your- self, Callie. If you want to have a family, you'll have to adopt." I received this news calmly. Having children wasn't something I thought much about at fourteen. There was a knock on the door, and the receptionist stuck her head in. "Sorry, Dr. Luce. But could I bother you a minute?" "That depends on Callie." He smiled at me. "You mind taking a little break? I'll be right back." "I don't mind." "Sit there a few minutes and see if any other questions occur to you." He left the room.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "I just got a postcard from a former patient," Luce said consol- ingly. "She had a condition similar to your daughter's. She's married now. She and her husband adopted two kids and they're as happy as can be. She plays in the Cleveland Orchestra. Bassoon." There was a silence, until Milton asked, "Is that it, Doctor? You do this one surgery and we can take her home?" "We may have to do additional surgery at a later date. But the im- mediate answer to your question is yes. After the procedure, she can go home." "How long will she be in the hospital?" "Only overnight." It was not a difficult decision, especially as Luce had framed it. A single surgery and some injections would end the nightmare and give my parents back their daughter, their Calliope, intact. The same en- ticement that had led my grandparents to do the unthinkable now of- fered itself to Milton and Tessie. No one would know. No one would ever know. While my parents were being given a crash course in gonadogenesis, I— still officially Calliope— was doing some homework myself. In the Reading Room of the New York Public Library I was looking up something in the dictionary. Dr. Luce was correct in thinking that his conversations with colleagues and medical students were over my head. I didn't know what "5-alpha-reductase" meant, or "gynecomas- tia," or "inguinal canal." But Luce had underestimated my abilities, too. He didn't take into consideration the rigorous curriculum at my prep school. He didn't allow for my excellent research and study skills. Most of all, he didn't factor in the power of my Latin teachers, Miss Barrie and Miss Silber. So now, as my Wallabees made squish- ing sounds between the reading tables, as a few men looked up from their books to see what was coming and then looked down (the world was no longer full of eyes), I heard Miss Barrie's voice in my ear. "Infants, define this word for me: hypospadias. Use your Greek or Latin roots." 429 The little schoolgirl in my head wriggled in her desk, hand raised " high. "Yes, Calliope?" Miss Barrie called on me. "Hypo. Below or beneath. Like 'hypodermic.' "Brilliant. And spadiasV* "Urn urn ..." "Can anyone come to our poor muse's aid?" But, in the classroom of my brain, no one could. So that was why I was here. Because I knew that I had something below or beneath but I didn't know what that something was. I had never seen such a big dictionary before. The Webster's at the New York Public Library stood in the same relation to other dictio- naries of my acquaintance as the Empire State Building did to other buildings. It was an ancient, medieval-looking thing, bound in brown leather that brought to mind a falconer's gaundet. The pages were gilded like the Bible's. Flipping pages through the alphabet, past cantabile to eryngo, past

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "A daughter you'll fight with." "A daughter I can talk to." "A son you will love." The spoon's arc increased. "It's ... it's . . ." "What?" "Start saving money." "Yes?" "Lock the windows." 118 "Is it? Is it really?" "Get ready to fight." "You mean it's a . "Yes. A girl. Definitely." "Oh, thank God." ." . . . . And a walk-in closet being cleaned out. And the walls being painted white to serve as a nursery. Two identical cribs arrive from Hudson's. My grandmother sets them up in the nursery, then hangs a blanket between them in case her child is a boy. Out in the hall, she stops before the vigil light to pray to the All-Holy: "Please don't let my baby be this thing a hemophiliac. Lefty and I didn't know what we were doing. Please, I swear I will never have another baby. Just this one." Thirty-three weeks. Thirty-four. In uterine swimming pools, babies perform half-gainers, flipping over headfirst. But Sourmelina and Desdemona, so synchronized in their pregnancies, diverged at the end. On December 17, while listening to a radio play, Sourmelina re- moved her earphones and announced that she was having pains. Three hours later, Dr. Philobosian delivered a girl, as Desdemona predicted. The baby weighed only four pounds three ounces and had to be kept in an incubator for a week. "See?" Lina said to Desde- mona, gazing at the baby through the glass. "Dr. Phil was wrong. Look. Her hair's black. Not red." Jimmy Zizmo approached the incubator next. He removed his hat and bent very close to squint. And did he wince? Did the baby's pale complexion confirm his doubts? Or provide answers? As to why a wife might complain of aches and pains? Or why she might be con- venientiy cured, in order to prove his paternity? (Whatever his doubts, the child was his. Sourmelina's complexion had merely stolen the show. Genetics, a crapshoot, entirely.) All I know is this: shortly after Zizmo saw his daughter, he came up with his final scheme. A week later, he told Lefty, "Get ready. We have business tonight." And now the mansions along the lake are lit with Christmas lights. The great snow-covered lawn of Rose Terrace, the Dodge mansion, boasts a forty-foot Christmas tree trucked in from the Upper Penin- 119 sula. Elves race around the pine in miniature Dodge sedans. Santa is chauffeured by a reindeer in a cap. (Rudolph hasn't been created yet, so the reindeer's nose is black.) Outside the mansion's gates, a black- and-tan Packard passes by. The driver looks straight ahead. The pas- senger gazes out at the enormous house.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Milton and Tessie nodded. "Due to her 5 -alpha- reductase deficiency, Callie's body does not produce dihydrotestosterone. What this means is that, in utero, she followed a primarily female line of development. Especially in terms of the external genitalia. That, coupled with her being brought up as a girl, resulted in her thinking, acting, and looking like a girl. The problem came when she started to go through puberty. At puberty, the other androgen— testosterone— started to exert a strong effect. 427 The simplest way to put it is like this: Callie is a girl who has a little too much male hormone. We want to correct that." Neither Milton nor Tessie said a word. They weren't following everything the doctor was saying but, as people do with doctors, they were attentive to his manner, trying to see how serious things were. Luce seemed optimistic, confident, and Tessie and Milton began to be filled with hope. "That's the biology. It's a very rare genetic condition, by the way. The only other populations where we know of this mutation express- ing itself are in the Dominican Republic, Papua New Guinea, and southeastern Turkey. Not that far from the village your parents came from. About three hundred miles, in fact." Luce removed his silver glasses. "Do you know of any family member who may have had a similar genital appearance to your daughter's?" "Not that we know of," said Milton. "When did your parents immigrate?" "Nineteen twenty-two." "Do you have any relatives still living in Turkey?" "Not anymore." Luce looked disappointed. He had one arm of his glasses in his mouth, and was chewing on it. Possibly he was imagining what it would be like to discover a whole new population of carriers of the 5 -alpha- reductase mutation. He had to content himself with discov- ering me. He put his glasses back on. "The treatment I'd recommend for your daughter is twofold. First, hormone injections. Second, cos- metic surgery. The hormone treatments will initiate breast develop- ment and enhance her female secondary sex characteristics. The surgery will make Callie look exactly like the girl she feels herself to be. In fact, she will be that girl. Her outside and inside will conform. She will look like a normal girl. Nobody will be able to tell a thing. And then Callie can go on and enjoy her life." Milton's brow was still furrowed with concentration but from his eyes there was light appearing, rays of relief. He turned toward Tessie and patted her leg. But in a timid, breaking voice Tessie asked, "Will she be able to have children?" Luce paused only a second. "I'm afraid not, Mrs. Stephanides. Callie will never menstruate." 428 "But she's been menstruating for a few months now," Tessie ob- jected. "I'm afraid that's impossible. Possibly there was some bleeding from another source." Tessie's eyes filled with tears. She looked away.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  John the Baptist crying in the wilderness. Writ large, that wilderness was America, even the globe itself, but more specifically it was the redwood bungalow Zora lived in in Noe Valley and where I was now living, too. After Bob Presto had satisfied himself on the details of my manufacture, he had called Zora and arranged for me to stay with her. Zora took in strays like me. It was part of her calling. The fog of San Francisco provided cover for hermaphrodites, too. It's no sur- prise that ISNA was founded in San Francisco and not somewhere else. Zora was part of all this at a very disorganized time. Before movements emerge there are centers of energy, and Zora was one of these. Mainly, her politics consisted of studying and writing. And, during the months I lived with her, in educating me, in bringing me out of what she saw as my great midwestern darkness. "You don't have to work for Bob if you don't want," she told me. "I'm going to quit soon anyway. This is just temporary." "I need the money. They stole all my money." "What about your parents?" "I don't want to ask them," I said. I looked down and admitted, "I can't call them." "What happened, Cal? If you don't mind me asking. What are you doing here?" "They took me to this doctor in New York. He wanted me to have an operation." "So you ran away." I nodded. "Consider yourself lucky. I didn't know until I was twenty." All this happened on my first day in Zora's house. I hadn't started working at the club yet. My bruises had to heal first. I wasn't sur- prised to be where I was. When you travel like I did, vague about destination and with an open-ended itinerary, a holy-seeming open- ness takes over your character. It's the reason the first philosophers 488 were peripatetic. Christ, too. I see myself that first day, sitting cross- legged on a batik floor pillow, drinking green tea out of a fired raku cup, and looking up at Zora with my big, hopeful, curious, attentive eyes. With my hair short, my eyes looked even bigger now, more than ever the eyes of someone in a Byzantine icon, one of those fig- ures ascending the ladder to heaven, upward-gazing, while his fel- lows fall to the fiery demons below. After all my troubles, wasn't it my right to expect some reward in the form of knowledge or revela- tion? In Zora's rice-paper house, with misty light coming in at the windows, I was like a blank canvas waiting to be filled with what she told me. "There have been hermaphrodites around forever, Cal. Forever. Plato said that the original human being was a hermaphrodite. Did you know that? The original person was two halves, one male, one female. Then these got separated. That's why everybody's always searching for their other half. Except for us. We've got both halves al- ready."

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  I wanted to call my mother and ask her what was going on, but I couldn’t. She had decided it was best if I didn’t have her new phone number or her address. That way, when the Communists or the Antichrist came looking for them, Mama said, I wouldn’t have anything to tell them. She didn’t mention the IRS. One day as I scanned the radio dial in my car, I happened upon Brother Terrell’s broadcast. He was scheduled to preach at an auditorium in San Antonio. Maybe it was a sign. My husband and I arrived early for the morning service. I leaned against the half wall outside the auditorium and watched people stroll in while my husband sat in the car and studied. A woman with a boy of about eight walked over and stood beside me. The boy picked up a stick the size of a pencil, turned his back to me, and pretended to write on the wall. I asked him what he was writing. He didn’t look up or indicate in any way that he might have heard me.“He doesn’t mean to be rude. He can’t hear.”I turned to look at the woman. She was Mexican American, in her thirties, and she wore a regular knee-length dress, not the grounddragging garb that was more and more the uniform of the women who came to hear Brother Terrell preach.I didn’t know what to say, so I told the woman I was sorry, as if I had something to do with the boy’s deafness.“He’s never been able to hear. I saw the ad in the paper for this preacher. He heals people?”I nodded. God and Brother Terrell healed people, at least sometimes. What that meant about either of them or if it meant anything at all, I didn’t know.“How does it work?”“I’m not sure . . . but it seems to work.”“No, I mean how do I get him to pray for my son?”I told her about the prayer lines and how sometimes Brother Terrell called people out of the audience to pray for them. “But he may not do either and if he doesn’t, try to grab one of his associates and tell them about your son.”My husband walked up from the parking lot. I said good-bye to the woman and turned to enter the building. She grabbed my hand. “You have seen people healed by this man?”I nodded. She looked so eager to believe. “Please pray he will heal my son.”Brother Terrell spent the service prophesying about famine and the end-time. I despaired for the woman, the boy, and for myself. After the offering, Brother Terrell began to prowl the audience. He called out an older man and a younger man and prayed that God would heal them of alcoholism and nerves. Please. Please. That little boy. Please. Brother Terrell walked back toward the platform. I prayed harder. He stopped and turned around.“There’s somebody else here.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  the womb,inthe firstfew weeksafterconception.Maleorfemale, it's allthe same.Thesetwocircles herearewhatwecalltheall- purpose gonads. Thislittle squiggle hereisaWolffianduct.Andthis othersquiggle isaMiillerian duct. Okay? Thethingto keep inmind is that everybodystartsoutlike this.We'reallbornwithpotential boy partsand girl parts.You,Mr. Stephanides,Mrs.Stephanides, me— everybody.Now"—hestarteddrawing again—"asthefetusde- velopsinthe womb,what happensisthathormones and enzymes are released—let's makethemarrows. Whatdothesehormonesand en- zymesdo? Well,theyturnthesecircles andsquigglesintoeitherboy partsor girlparts.Seethiscircle, the all-purpose gonad?Itcanbe- comeeitheranovaryor a testis.AndthissquigglyMiillerian ductcan eitherwitherup"—hescratcheditout—"orgrowinto a uterus,fal- lopiantubes,andtheinsideofthevagina.ThisWolffian duct canei- therwitheraway or grow into aseminal vesicle, epididymis,andvas deferens. Depending onthehormonaland enzymatic influences." Lucelookedup and smiled."Youdon'thaveto worry aboutthe terminology.Themainthing to rememberisthis:every baby has Miillerianstructures,which are potentialgirlparts,andWolffian structures,which are potentialboyparts.Thosearetheinternalgeni- talia.Butthesamethinggoesfortheexternal genitalia.Apenis isjust averylargeclitoris.Theygrowfromthesame root." Dr.Lucestoppedoncemore.He foldedhishands.Myparents, leaning forwardinthechairs, waited. "AsI explained,any determinationofgenderidentitymusttake intoaccount ahost offactors.Themost important,inyourdaugh- ter'scase"—there itwas again, confidendyproclaimed—"isthatshe has beenraisedforfourteenyearsasa girlandindeedthinks of her- selfas female.Her interests,gestures, psychosexualmakeup—all these arefemale. Areyou withmesofar?" Milton andTessienodded. "Due toher 5 -alpha- reductase deficiency,Callie'sbodydoesnot produce dihydrotestosterone. Whatthismeansisthat, inutero,she followed aprimarilyfemale lineof development.Especiallyinterms of the externalgenitalia.That, coupledwith herbeingbroughtupas agirl, resulted inher thinking,acting, andlooking like a girl.The problem camewhenshe startedtogo throughpuberty.Atpuberty, the other androgen— testosterone— started toexert a strongeffect. 427 The simplestway toput itislike this:Callieis a girl whohas a little toomuch male hormone.Wewanttocorrect that." NeitherMiltonnorTessiesaid aword.Theyweren't following everythingthedoctorwassaying but,aspeopledowith doctors,they wereattentiveto his manner,tryingtoseehowserious things were. Luceseemedoptimistic,confident,and TessieandMilton beganto be filledwithhope. "That'sthebiology.It's a veryrare geneticcondition, by the way. Theonlyotherpopulationswhere weknowofthismutation express- ingitselfareintheDominicanRepublic, PapuaNewGuinea, and southeasternTurkey. Notthatfarfromthevillageyour parentscame from.Aboutthreehundredmiles,infact." Luceremovedhissilver glasses. "Doyouknowofanyfamilymemberwhomay havehada similargenitalappearancetoyour daughter's?" "Notthatweknowof,"saidMilton. "Whendidyourparentsimmigrate?" "Nineteentwenty-two." "Doyouhaveanyrelatives stilllivinginTurkey?" "Notanymore." Lucelookeddisappointed.Hehadonearmofhisglassesinhis mouth,andwaschewingonit.Possibly hewas imaginingwhatit wouldbeliketodiscover a wholenewpopulationofcarriersofthe 5 -alpha-reductasemutation. Hehadtocontent himselfwithdiscov- eringme. He put hisglasses backon."The treatmentI'drecommendfor yourdaughteristwofold.First,hormoneinjections.Second,cos- meticsurgery.Thehormone treatmentswill initiatebreastdevelop- mentandenhanceherfemalesecondarysex characteristics.The surgerywillmakeCallielookexactlylikethegirlshefeels herselfto be. In fact, shewill be that girl.Heroutside andinsidewillconform. She willlooklikeanormalgirl.Nobodywillbe able to tell a thing. And then Calliecangoonandenjoyherlife." Milton's browwasstillfurrowedwithconcentrationbut fromhis eyesthere was lightappearing,rays ofrelief.He turnedtoward Tessie andpatted her leg. But in a timid,breakingvoiceTessie asked, "Willshebe ableto have children?" Luce paused only a second."I'mafraidnot,Mrs. Stephanides. Callie will never menstruate." 428 "But she'sbeenmenstruating for a fewmonthsnow,"Tessie ob- jected. "I'm afraidthat'simpossible. Possiblythere wassomebleeding fromanother source." Tessie's eyesfilledwith tears.Shelookedaway. "I justgotapostcardfrom a former patient," Lucesaidconsol- ingly."Shehada condition similar toyourdaughter's.She's married now.She andherhusband adopted twokidsandthey're as happy as canbe. SheplaysintheCleveland Orchestra.Bassoon." Therewasa silence, untilMilton asked,"Isthatit,Doctor? You dothisone surgeryand wecan take her home?" "We mayhavetodoadditional surgery ata later date.Buttheim- mediateanswertoyourquestionis yes.Aftertheprocedure, shecan gohome." "How longwillshe beinthehospital?" "Only overnight." Itwasnot a difficult decision,especiallyasLucehadframedit.A singlesurgeryandsomeinjectionswouldend the nightmare andgive myparentsbacktheirdaughter,theirCalliope,intact.Thesame en- ticement thathadledmygrandparentstodotheunthinkablenow of- fereditself toMilton andTessie. No one wouldknow.Noonewould everknow. While myparentswerebeinggivenacrashcourseingonadogenesis, I—stillofficially Calliope—was doingsomehomeworkmyself.In the ReadingRoom ofthe NewYorkPublicLibraryIwaslookingup something in the dictionary.Dr.Lucewas correct in thinking thathis conversations withcolleaguesand medicalstudentswereover my head. Ididn't knowwhat "5-alpha-reductase"meant,or"gynecomas- tia," or"inguinalcanal."ButLucehad underestimatedmyabilities, too. Hedidn't take into considerationtherigorouscurriculumatmy prep school. He didn'tallowformyexcellentresearch and study skills. Mostof all,he didn't factorinthepowerofmyLatinteachers, Miss Barrie andMiss Silber.Sonow,asmy Wallabeesmadesquish- ing sounds between thereading tables, asa fewmenlookedupfrom their books toseewhat wascomingand thenlookeddown(the world was nolonger fullof eyes), Iheard MissBarrie'svoice inmy ear. "Infants, define this wordforme: hypospadias. UseyourGreek or Latin roots." 429

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  “Well, nothing to be done about that, I guess.” He laughed. “To be honest, I just decided once and for all to use this paper topic last night. It rather goes against my nature. Anyway, pass these around.” When the pile came to me, I read the question: How will you—you personally—ever get out of this labyrinth of suffering? Now that you’ve wrestled with three major religious traditions, apply your newly enlightened mind to Alaska’s question. After the exams had been passed out, the Old Man said, “You need not specifically discuss the perspectives of different religions in your essay, so no research is necessary. Your knowledge, or lack thereof, has been established in the quizzes you’ve taken this semester. I am interested in how you are able to fit the uncontestable fact of suffering into your understanding of the world, and how you hope to navigate through life in spite of it. “Next year, assuming my lungs hold out, we’ll study Taoism, Hinduism, and Judaism together—” The Old Man coughed and then started to laugh, which caused him to cough again. “Lord, maybe I won’t last. But about the three traditions we’ve studied this year, I’d like to say one thing. Islam, Christianity, and Buddhism each have founder figures—Muhammad, Jesus, and the Buddha, respectively. And in thinking about these founder figures, I believe we must finally conclude that each brought a message of radical hope. To seventh-century Arabia, Muhammad brought the promise that anyone could find fulfillment and everlasting life through allegiance to the one true God. The Buddha held out hope that suffering could be transcended. Jesus brought the message that the last shall be first, that even the tax collectors and lepers—the outcasts—had cause for hope. And so that is the question I leave you with in this final: What is your cause for hope?” — Back at Room 43, the Colonel was smoking in the room. Even though I still had one evening left of washing dishes in the cafeteria to work off my smoking conviction, we didn’t much fear the Eagle. We had fifteen days left, and if we got caught, we’d just have to start senior year with some work hours. “So how will we ever get out of this labyrinth, Colonel?” I asked. “If only I knew,” he said. “That’s probably not gonna get you an A.” “Also it doesn’t do much to put my soul to rest.” “Or hers,” I said. “Right. I’d forgotten about her.” He shook his head. “That keeps happening.” “Well, you have to write something ,” I argued. “After all this time, it still seems to me like straight and fast is the only way out—but I choose the labyrinth. The labyrinth blows, but I choose it.” one hundred thirty-six days after TWO WEEKS LATER, I still hadn’t finished my final for the Old Man, and the semester was just twenty-four hours from ending.

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  In the name of Jesus. Y’all believe with me here tonight.”He placed his hands over the man’s eyes. “Lord, look down in your infinite mercy. Take pity on this man, blind since he was a boy. Restore his sight.”He removed his hands from the man’s eyes. “Close your eyes, sir. I feel led to do one more thing.” Brother Terrell bent over and scooped dirt, then he spit into the palm of his hand and swirled the dust and spit into a paste. He dabbed the paste onto the man’s eyes, just as Jesus had done in scripture.He took his handkerchief and wiped the mud off the man. “Open your eyes now.” The man blinked several times. “Sir, can you tell us what you see?”“I see long, big things . . . with spots on top.” He tottered over to one of the center poles, keeping his hands in front. He placed his hands on the pole and moved them up and down.“This here, it’s a pole, ain’t it?” He looked at Brother Terrell and beamed. The congregation erupted in applause and thank you Jesus glory be to his name praise God hallelujah.Brother Terrell took the man’s arm and raised it in the air. “You’re healed, brother. Now give God the glory.” The man raised both hands and the crowd turned up the volume. When the noise died back a bit, Brother Terrell took the man’s cane from Brother Cotton and broke it over his knee.“You won’t need that anymore.”The man nodded and stumbled back into the crowd as the music and shouting started up again. Brother Terrell handed the microphone to Brother Cotton and walked up the ramp to the platform. He looked strong as he headed toward the half wall that ran along the back of the platform and pushed through the gate. Laverne shepherded Gary and me to the area behind the platform. She didn’t say anything, but I thought I knew what she was thinking, what we were all thinking: that maybe this was the turning point. That maybe now, after casting out a demon and healing a blind man, Brother Terrell would be able to eat. She pulled back the canvas curtain that separated the backstage area from the view of the audience on one side just as Pam pulled back the curtain on the other side to let her mother and the baby pass through. Brother Terrell climbed down the four or five steps that led to the platform. His face was white and strained and he was shaking.The backstage area was reserved for the very sick and those who knew someone who could get them a one-on-one audience with Brother Terrell. Ten or fifteen people waited there for him, waited to tell him their troubles and hear him say, “I believe it’ll be all right.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  I know now that she forgives me for being dumb and scared and doing the dumb and scared thing. I know she forgives me, just as her mother forgives her. And here’s how I know: I thought at first that she was just dead. Just darkness. Just a body being eaten by bugs. I thought about her a lot like that, as something’s meal. What was her—green eyes, half a smirk, the soft curves of her legs—would soon be nothing, just the bones I never saw. I thought about the slow process of becoming bone and then fossil and then coal that will, in millions of years, be mined by humans of the future, and how they would heat their homes with her, and then she would be smoke billowing out of a smokestack, coating the atmosphere. I still think that, sometimes, think that maybe “the afterlife” is just something we made up to ease the pain of loss, to make our time in the labyrinth bearable. Maybe she was just matter, and matter gets recycled. But ultimately I do not believe that she was only matter. The rest of her must be recycled, too. I believe now that we are greater than the sum of our parts. If you take Alaska’s genetic code and you add her life experiences and the relationships she had with people, and then you take the size and shape of her body, you do not get her. There is something else entirely. There is a part of her greater than the sum of her knowable parts. And that part has to go somewhere, because it cannot be destroyed. Although no one will ever accuse me of being much of a science student, one thing I learned from science classes is that energy is never created and never destroyed. And if Alaska took her own life, that is the hope I wish I could have given her. Forgetting her mother, failing her mother and her friends and herself—those are awful things, but she did not need to fold into herself and self-destruct. Those awful things are survivable, because we are as indestructible as we believe ourselves to be. When adults say, “Teenagers think they are invincible” with that sly, stupid smile on their faces, they don’t know how right they are. We need never be hopeless, because we can never be irreparably broken. We think that we are invincible because we are . We cannot be born, and we cannot die. Like all energy, we can only change shapes and sizes and manifestations. They forget that when they get old. They get scared of losing and failing. But that part of us greater than the sum of our parts cannot begin and cannot end, and so it cannot fail. So I know she forgives me, just as I forgive her.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  The refugee hesitated only a moment. "Thank you, Doctor. I'll re- pay you as soon as I get to the United States. Please give me your ad- dress." "Be careful what you drink," Dr. Philobosian ignored the request. "Boil water, if you can. God willing, some ships may come soon." The refugee nodded. "You're Armenian, Doctor?" "Yes." "And you're not leaving?" "Smyrna is my home." "Good luck, then. And God bless you." "You too." And with that Dr. Philobosian led him out. He watched the refugee walk off. It's hopeless, he thought. He'll be dead in a week. If not typhus, something else. But it wasn't his concern. Reaching inside a typewriter, he extracted a thick wad of money from beneath the ribbon. He rummaged through drawers until he found, inside his medical diploma, a faded typewritten letter: "This letter is to certify that Nishan Philobosian, M.D., did, on April 3, 1919, treat Mustafa Kemal Pasha for diverticulitis. Dr. Philobosian is respectfully recommended by Kemal Pasha to the esteem, confidence, and protec- tion of all persons to whom he may present this letter." The bearer of this letter now folded it and tucked it into his pocket. By then the refugee was buying bread at a bakery on the quay. Where now, as he turns away, hiding the warm loaf under his grimy suit, the sunlight off the water brightens his face and his identity fills itself in: the aquiline nose, the hawk-like expression, the softness ap- pearing in the brown eyes. For the first time since reaching Smyrna, Lefty Stephanides was 47 smiling. On his previous forays he'd brought back only a single rot- ten peach and six olives, which he'd encouraged Desdemona to swal- low, pits and all, to fill herself up. Now, carrying the sesame-seeded chureki, he squeezed back into the crowd. He skirted the edges of open-air living rooms (where families sat listening to silent radios) and stepped over bodies he hoped were sleeping. He was feeling en- couraged by another development, too. Just that morning word had spread that Greece was sending a fleet of ships to evacuate refugees. Lefty looked out at the Aegean. Having lived on a mountain for twenty years, he'd never seen the sea before. Somewhere over the wa- ter was America and their cousin Sourmelina. He smelled the sea air, the warm bread, the antiseptic from his bandaged thumb, and then he saw her— Desdemona, sitting on the suitcase where he'd left her— and felt even happier. Lefty couldn't pinpoint the moment he'd begun to have thoughts about his sister. At first he'd just been curious to see what a real woman's breasts looked like. It didn't matter that they were his sis- ter's. He tried to forget that they were his sister's. Behind the hanging kelimi that separated their beds, he saw Desdemona's silhouette as she

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  Look, and I could see her sitting drunk on the phone with Jake talking about nothing and What are you doing? and she says, Nothing, just doodling, just doodling. And then, Oh God. “Miles?” “Yeah, sorry, Mom. Sorry. Chip’s here. We gotta go study. I gotta go.” “Will you call us later, then? I’m sure Dad wants to talk to you.” “Yeah, Mom; yeah, of course. I love you, okay? Okay, I gotta go.” — “I think I found something!” I shouted at the Colonel, invisible beneath his blanket, but the urgency in my voice and the promise of something, anything, found, woke the Colonel up instantly, and he jumped from his bunk to the linoleum. Before I could say anything, he grabbed yesterday’s jeans and sweatshirt from the floor, pulled them on, and followed me outside. “Look.” I pointed, and he squatted down beside the phone and said, “Yeah. She drew that. She was always doodling those flowers.” “And ‘just doodling,’ remember? Jake asked her what she was doing and she said ‘just doodling,’ and then she said ‘Oh God’ and freaked out. She looked at the doodle and remembered something.” “Good memory, Pudge,” he acknowledged, and I wondered why the Colonel wouldn’t just get excited about it. “And then she freaked out,” I repeated, “and went and got the tulips while we were getting the fireworks. She saw the doodle, remembered whatever she’d forgotten, and then freaked out.” “Maybe,” he said, still staring at the flower, trying perhaps to see it as she had. He stood up finally and said, “It’s a solid theory, Pudge,” and reached up and patted my shoulder, like a coach complimenting a player. “But we still don’t know what she forgot.” sixty-nine days after A WEEK AFTER THE DISCOVERY of the doodled flower, I’d resigned myself to its insignificance—I wasn’t Banzan in the meat market after all—and as the maples around campus began to hint of resurrection and the maintenance crew began mowing the grass in the dorm circle again, it seemed to me we had finally lost her. The Colonel and I walked into the woods down by the lake that afternoon and smoked a cigarette in the precise spot where the Eagle had caught us so many months before. We’d just come from a town meeting, where the Eagle announced the school was going to build a playground by the lake in memory of Alaska. She did like swings, I guess, but a playground? Lara stood up at the meeting—surely a first for her—and said they should do something funnier, something Alaska herself would have done. Now, by the lake, sitting on a mossy, half-rotten log, the Colonel said to me, “Lara was right. We should do something for her. A prank. Something she would have loved.” “Like, a memorial prank?” “Exactly. The Alaska Young Memorial Prank. We can make it an annual event. Anyway, she came up with this idea last year.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  hadbeencreated.For this reason, my father's suggestion didn'tsit well with her. "Whatdoyou think this is, Milt, the Olympics?" "Wewerejust speaking theoretically," said myfather. "What doesUncle Pete know about having babies?" "Hereadthis particular article in Scientific American" Milton said. Andtobolsterhis case: "He's a subscriber." "Listen,ifmy back went out,I'd go toUncle Pete.IfI hadflat feetlike youdo,I'd go.But that'sit." "This hasallbeen verified. Under the microscope. The male spermsarefaster." "Ibetthey're stupider, too." "Goon.Malign themale sperms all youwant. Feelfree. Wedon't wantamalesperm. What wewantis agood old,slow, reliable female sperm." "Even ifit'strue, it'sstill ridiculous. Ican't justdoit likeclock- work,Milt." "It'll beharderonmethan you." "Idon't wanttohearit." "Ithought youwanted adaughter." "Ido." "Well," saidmyfather,"thisishow wecangetone." Tessie laughedthe suggestionoff.Butbehind hersarcasm wasa serious moralreservation.Totamper withsomething asmysterious and miraculous as thebirthof a child wasanactofhubris.In thefirst place, Tessiedidn'tbelieveyoucoulddoit.Evenif youcould,she didn't believe youshould try. Ofcourse, anarratorinmy position(prefetal atthetime)can'tbeen- tirely sureaboutanyof this.Icanonlyexplainthescientificmania that overtook my father duringthatspring of '59 asasymptomof the belief in progress that was infecting everyonebackthen.Remem- ber, Sputnik hadbeen launchedonlytwo years earlier.Polio,which had kept myparents quarantined indoorsduringthesummersof their childhood, had been conqueredbytheSalk vaccine.Peoplehad no idea that viruses were clevererthanhuman beings,andthought they'd soon bea thing of thepast.Inthatoptimistic, postwarAmer- ica, which Icaught the tailendof, everybody wasthe masterofhis own destiny,so itonly followedthatmyfather would tryto bethe master ofhis. A fewdaysafterhehadbroached hisplan to Tessie, Milton came home oneeveningwith apresent.Itwasajewelry box tiedwith a ribbon. "What'sthisfor?"Tessieaskedsuspiciously. "Whatdoyou mean, whatisitfor?" "It'snotmybirthday.It'snotouranniversary. Sowhy areyougiv- ingme a present?" "DoIhavetohave a reason to give youapresent?Go on.Open it." Tessiecrumpleduponecornerofhermouth, unconvinced. Butit was difficult toholdajewelryboxinyourhandwithout openingit. Sofinallysheslippedofftheribbonandsnapped theboxopen. Inside,onblackvelvet, wasathermometer. "Athermometer,"saidmymother. "That'snotjustanythermometer,"saidMilton."Ihad togoto threedifferentpharmacies to findoneofthese." "Aluxurymodel,huh?" "That'sright,"saidMilton."That'swhatyoucallabasalther- mometer.Itreadsthetemperaturedowntoatenth of adegree."He raisedhis eyebrows."Normalthermometersonlyreadeverytwo tenths.Thisonedoesiteverytenth.Tryitout.Putitinyourmouth." "Idon'thave afever,"said Tessie. "Thisisn'tabout a fever.You use ittofindoutwhatyourbase temperatureis.It's more accurateandprecisethan a regularfever- type thermometer." "Nexttimebring meanecklace." ButMilton persisted:"Yourbody temperature'schangingallthe time,Tess.Youmaynotnotice, but itis.You're inconstantflux, temperature-wise. Say,for instance"—alittlecough—"you happento be ovulating.Then your temperature goesup. Six tenthsof a degree, in mostcase scenarios. Now,"myfather wenton, gaining steam, not noticingthathis wife wasfrowning,"ifwe weretoimplement the systemwetalked about theotherday—just for instance,say—what you'd do is, firsts establish yourbase temperature.Itmightnot be ninety-eight pointsix.Everybody's alittle different.That'sanother thing Ilearned from Uncle Pete.Anyway,once youestablishedyour base temperature, then you'd lookforthatsix- tenths-degreerise. And 10

• From Middlesex (2002)

  to identify herselfasa hermaphrodite. Shewas thefirst oneImet. The first personlikeme.Evenbackin1974 shewasusing theterm "intersexual," which was rarethen. Stonewallwasonly fiveyearsin thepast. TheGay RightsMovement wasunderway. Itwaspaving a pathfor alltheidentity struggles thatfollowed,including ours. The IntersexSociety ofNorthAmericawouldn't befoundeduntil 1993, however.SoIthinkof Zora Khyberasanearlypioneer, asortof John the Baptistcryinginthewilderness. Writ large, thatwilderness was America,eventhe globeitself, butmorespecificallyitwas the redwood bungalowZoralivedininNoe Valley andwhere Iwasnow living,too.AfterBob Prestohadsatisfied himselfonthedetailsof my manufacture,hehadcalled Zora andarrangedformeto staywith her.Zoratookin strayslikeme.It was part ofhercalling.Thefogof SanFrancisco providedcoverforhermaphrodites, too.It'snosur- prisethatISNAwas foundedinSanFranciscoand notsomewhere else.Zorawaspartofallthisataverydisorganizedtime.Before movementsemerge therearecenters ofenergy,andZorawasoneof these.Mainly,herpoliticsconsistedofstudyingandwriting.And, duringthemonthsIlivedwith her, ineducatingme,inbringingme outofwhatshesawas mygreatmidwesterndarkness. "Youdon'thavetowork for Bob if youdon'twant,"shetoldme. "I'm going to quitsoonanyway.Thisis just temporary." "Ineedthemoney. Theystoleallmy money." "What about yourparents?" "Idon'twanttoaskthem,"Isaid.Ilooked downandadmitted,"I can'tcallthem." "Whathappened,Cal? If you don'tmindmeasking.What are youdoinghere?" "TheytookmetothisdoctorinNew York.Hewantedmeto have an operation." "Soyouranaway." I nodded. "Consider yourselflucky. Ididn'tknow untilIwastwenty." All thishappenedonmyfirstdayinZora's house.Ihadn't started working attheclubyet.Mybruiseshadto healfirst.I wasn'tsur- prised to be whereI was. Whenyoutravellike Idid,vague about destination andwith anopen-endeditinerary, a holy-seeming open- ness takes overyour character.It'sthereasonthefirst philosophers 488 were peripatetic. Christ,too.I see myselfthatfirstday, sitting cross- legged ona batikfloor pillow, drinkinggreenteaout of a fired raku cup, and lookingup atZorawithmy big, hopeful,curious,attentive eyes. Withmyhair short, myeyeslookedevenbiggernow,more than evertheeyes ofsomeonein aByzantineicon,oneofthosefig- ures ascendingthe ladder toheaven,upward-gazing,whilehis fel- lowsfallto the fierydemons below.Afterallmytroubles,wasn'tit my rightto expectsomereward intheformofknowledgeorrevela- tion? In Zora'srice-paperhouse,withmistylight cominginatthe windows, I was likeablankcanvaswaitingto be filledwith whatshe toldme. "Therehave beenhermaphrodites aroundforever,Cal.Forever. Platosaidthatthe original humanbeingwasahermaphrodite.Did youknowthat? Theoriginal personwastwohalves,onemale,one female. Thenthesegotseparated.That'swhyeverybody's always searchingfortheirotherhalf.Exceptfor us. We've got bothhalvesal- ready." Ididn'tsayanythingabouttheObject. "Okay,insomecultureswe'reconsideredfreaks,"shewenton. Butin others it'sjust theopposite.The Navajohaveacategoryof persontheycall a berdache.Whataberdacheis,basically,issomeone whoadopts a genderotherthantheirbiologicalone.Remember, Cal.Sexisbiological.Genderiscultural.TheNavajounderstand this. Ifapersonwantstoswitchhergender,theylether.Andthey don'tdenigrate thatperson—they honorher.Theberdaches arethe shamansof thetribe. They'rethehealers,thegreatweavers, the artists." Iwasn't theonlyone!ListeningtoZora,thatwasmainlywhathit home with me.Iknew rightthenthatIhadto stayinSan Francisco for a while. FateorluckhadbroughtmehereandIhadtotakefrom itwhat I needed.Itdidn'tmatterwhatImightbecompelledtodoto makemoney. I justwantedtostay withZora, to learnfrom her,and to beless aloneintheworld.Iwasalreadysteppingthroughthe charmed door ofthosedruggy,celebratory,youthfuldays.Bythat first afternoon thesorenessinmyribs was alreadylessening. Eventhe air seemed onfire, subdy aflamewith energyasitdoeswhen you are young, when thesynapsesarefiringwildlyanddeathisfar away. Zora was writing a book. Sheclaimeditwasgoingto bepub- 489 lishedbya smallpressin Berkeley. Sheshowed methe publisher's catalogue. Theselectionswereeclectic, booksonBuddhism, onthe mystery cult ofMithras, evena strange book(ahybriditself) mixing genetics,cellular biology,andHindu mysticism.What Zora was workingonwouldcertainlyhavefitthislist.ButI wasnever clear how actualherpublishingplanswere.In theyearssince,I'velooked out forZora'sbook, which was calledThe SacredHermaphrodite. I've never foundit.Ifsheneverfinishedit,it wasn'taquestionofability. Ireadmostofthe bookmyself.Atmy agethen,Iwasn'tmuch ofa judge ofliteraryoracademicquality,butZora'slearning wasreal.She hadgoneintohersubjectand hadmuch ofit by heart.Her book- shelveswerefullofanthropologytextsandworks by French struc- turalistsand deconstructionists.She wrotenearlyevery day. She spread herpapersandbooksoutonher desk andtook notesand typed. "I'vegotonequestion,"IaskedZoraone day. "Why didyou ever tellanybody?" "Whatdoyoumean?" "Lookatyou.Noonewouldeverknow." "I wantpeopleto know, Cal." "Howcome?" Zorafoldedherlonglegsunderherself.Withherfairy'seyes, paisley-shaped,blueandglaciallookinginto mine,shesaid,"Because we're what'snext." "Onceupon a timeinancientGreece,therewasanenchanted pool. This poolwassacredtoSalmacis,the waternymph.Andoneday Hermaphroditus, a beautiful boy, went swimmingthere." Here Ilowered myfeetinto thepool.Ilolled thembackandforth asthenarration continued."Salmacislooked uponthehandsome boy andherlust waskindled.Sheswamnearertogeta closerlook."Now Ibegan tolowermyown body intothe waterinch by inch: shin, knees,thighs. IfI paced itthe way Prestohad instructedme, the peepholes slidshut atthispoint. Somecustomers left, but many droppedmoretokensinto theslots.The screenslifted fromthe port- holes. "Thewaternymphtried to controlherself.Butthe boy'sbeauty wastoomuchforher.Lookingwasnot enough.Salmacis swam 490

• From Thinking, Fast and Slow (2011)

  was tripped up by cognitive biases. I hope you had such an experience as you read the question about Steve the librarian, which was intended to help you appreciate the power of resemblance as a cue to probability and to see how easy it is to ignore relevant statistical facts. The use of demonstrations provided scholars from diverse disciplines— notably philosophers and economists—an unusual opportunity to observe possible flaws in their own thinking. Having seen themselves fail, they became more likely to question the dogmatic assumption, prevalent at the time, that the human mind is rational and logical. The choice of method was crucial: if we had reported results of only conventional experiments, the article would have been less noteworthy and less memorable. Furthermore, skeptical readers would have distanced themselves from the results by attributing judgment errors to the familiar fecklessness of undergraduates, the typical participants in psychological studies. Of course, we did not choose demonstrations over standard experiments because we wanted to influence philosophers and economists. We preferred demonstrations because they were more fun, and we were lucky in our choice of method as well as in many other ways. A recurrent theme of this book is that luck plays a large role in every story of success; it is almost always easy to identify a small change in the story that would have turned a remarkable achievement into a mediocre outcome. Our story was no exception. The reaction to our work was not uniformly positive. In particular, our focus on biases was criticized as suggesting an unfairly negative view of the mind. As expected in normal science, some investigators refined our ideas and others offered plausible alternatives. By and large, though, the idea that our minds are susceptible to systematic errors is now generally accepted. Our research on judgment had far more effect on social science than we thought possible when we were working on it. Immediately after completing our review of judgment, we switched our attention to decision making under uncertainty. Our goal was to develop a psychological theory of how people make decisions about simple gambles. For example: Would you accept a bet on the toss of a coin where you win $130 if the coin shows heads and lose $100 if it shows tails? These elementary choices had long been used to examine broad questions about decision making, such as the relative weight that people assign to sure things and to uncertain outcomes. Our method did not change: we spent many days making up choice problems and examining whether our intuitive preferences conformed to the logic of choice. Here again, as in judgment, we observed systematic biases in our own decisions, intuitive preferences that consistently violated the rules of rational choice. Five years after the Science article, we published “Prospect Theory: An Analysis of