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.

Page 63 of 216 · 20 per page

• 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

• From Middlesex (2002)

  said."We goteverything.All weneedis a little, youknow,know- how. 1 ' She started up thestairs andDesdemona followed. (It'salongstairway,threeflights up,andSisterWanda hasbad knees,soitwilltakesometimeforthem toreachthetop.Leave them there,climbing,whileIexplain whatmy grandmotherhadgotten herselfinto.) "Sometimeinthesummerof 1930, anamiable but faindymyste- rious peddler suddenlyappearedintheblack ghettoofDetroit."(I'm quotingfrom C. EricLincoln'sTheBlack Muslims of America.)"He was thought tobean Arab, althoughhisracialandnationalidentity remainundocumented.Hewaswelcomed intohomesofculture- hungryAfrican-Americans whowereeagertopurchasehissilksand artifacts,whichheclaimedwerethoseworn byblackpeople intheir homeland across thesea...Hiscustomersweresoanxioustolearn oftheirownpastandthecountryfrom whichthey camethatthe peddler soon beganholdingmeetingsfromhousetohousethrough- outthecommunity. "Atfirst, the 'prophet,'ashecametobeknown, confined his teachings toa recitationofhisexperiences in foreignlands,admoni- tionsagainstcertainfoods,andsuggestionsfor improving listeners' physicalhealth.He was kind,friendly,unassumingandpatient." "Havingarousedtheinterestsofhishost"(wemovenowto An OriginalMan byClaude Andrew Clegg III),"[thepeddler] would thendeliverhissalespitchonthehistoryand futureofAfrican- Americans.The tactic worked well,and eventually he honed it to the point thatmeetingsofcuriousblackswere heldinprivatehomes. Later, publichallswererentedforhisorations, andanorganizational structurefor his'NationofIslam'begantotake shape inthemidstof poverty-stricken Detroit." The peddlerhadmanynames.Sometimes he calledhimselfMr. FarradMohammad, orMr.R Mohammad Ali.Othertimeshere- ferredtohimself asFredDodd, ProfessorFord, WallaceFord, W D. Ford, WaliFarrad, WardellFard,orW.D. Fard. Hehadjustas many origins. People claimedhewas a black Jamaican whosefatherwas a Syrian Muslim. Onerumormaintained thathe wasa Palestinian Arabwho had fomentedracialunrest inIndia, South Africa,and London beforemoving to Detroit.Therewasa story thathewasthe sonofrich parentsfrom the tribeofKoreish, the Prophet Muham- 146 mad's own tribe,whileFBIrecords stated thatFardwasborninei- ther New Zealand orPortland, Oregon,toeitherHawaiianorBritish and Polynesian parents. One thingisclear:by 1932, Fard hadestablishedTempleNo.1in Detroit.It wasthebackstairsofthistemple thatDesdemonafound herselfclimbing. "Wesellthe silksrightfrom thetemple,"SisterWanda explained above."Make theclothesourself accordingtoMinisterFard's own designs. Fromclothes our forefathers woreinAfrica.Usedto bewe just orderedthe fabric andsewed up theclothes ourself.Butwiththis De-pression,fabricgettingharderandharder tocomeby.SoMinis- terFardhehad oneofhisrevelations. Cometome one morning and said, £ Wemust ownthemeans andendsofsericultureitselfThat howhe talk.Eloquent?Man couldtalkadogoffameattruck." Climbing,Desdemona was beginning tomakesenseofthings. Thefancysuitsofthemenoutside.Theredecoration within.Sister Wandareachedthelanding—"Inhereourtraining class"—andthrew openthedoor.Desdemonasteppedupandsawthem. Twenty-three teenagegirls,inbrightchadorsandheadscarves, sewing clothes.Theydidn'tsomuchaslookupfromtheirlabor as theSupreme Captainbrought in the stranger.Headsbent, mouths fanningstraight pins, hem-coveredoxfordsworkingunseentreadles, they continuedproduction."ThisbeourMuslimGirlsTrainingand GeneralCivilization Class.See howgood and propertheyare?Don't say a word unless youdo. Tslam'means submission. Youknow that? Butgetting backtowhyIrun the ad. Werunninglowonfabric. Everybody out ofbusiness seemslike." Sheled Desdemonaacrosstheroom. A woodenbox fullofdirt lay open. "Sowhat wedidwas,we orderedthese silkwormsfrom acom- pany. Youknow, mail order?We gotmoreontheway.Problemis, they don't seem to likeithere in De-troit.Don'tblame'emmyself. They keepdying onus, and whentheydo?Ooowhee, what a stink! My sweet Jes— " She caught herself. "Just anexpression.I was brought up Sanctified. Listen, whatyousay yournamewas?" "Desdemona." "Listen, Des,beforeI became SupremeCaptain, Idid hairand nails. Not nofarmer's daughter,understand? Thisthumblookgreen 147 to you? Helpmeout. What dothesesilkwormfellaslike? Howwe getthem to,youknow, silkify?" "Ithard work." "Wedon't mind." "Ittakemoney." "We gotplenty." Desdemonapicked upa shriveledworm,barelyalive. She cooed to itinGreek. "Listenupnow,littlesisters,"SisterWandasaid,and,asone,the girlsstopped sewing,crossedhandsinlaps, andlooked upatten- tively."Thisthenewladygonnateachus how tomake silk. Sheamu- latto likeMinisterFardandshegonnabringusbacktheknowledge ofthelostartofourpeople.So wecandoforourself." Twenty-three pairs ofeyesfellonDesdemona. Shegathered courage.She translatedwhatshewantedtosayintoEnglishand went overittwicebeforeshespoke. "To make goodsilk,"shethen pronounced, beginningherlessons to theMuslimGirls Trainingand General CivilizationClass,"youhavetobe pure." "Wetrying,Des. PraiseAllah. We trying." 148

• From Middlesex (2002)

  therewasa Frenchexplorer named Cadillac, andhe wastheonewho discovered Detroit. And that seal washis family seal,fromFrance." "What's France?""France isa country in Europe." "What'sEurope?" "It'sa continent,which islike a great big piece ofland, way,waybig- gerthanacountry.But Cadillacs don'tcome fromEurope anymore, kukla. Theycome fromright here inthe good oldU.S.A."The light turned greenand hedrove on.But myprototype lingered. She was thereat thenextlight andthe next. Sopleasant washercompany that my father,amanloaded withinitiative, decidedto seewhathe could doto turnhisvisioninto reality. Thus:forsome timenow,intheliving room wherethemen dis- cussedpolitics,theyhad alsobeendiscussing thevelocity ofsperm. PeterTatakis,"UnclePete," aswecalledhim, wasaleading member ofthedebatingsocietythat formedevery weekonourblack love seats. Alifelongbachelor,hehadnofamily inAmericaand sohadbe- comeattachedtoours.EverySunday hearrivedinhiswine-dark Buick, a tall,prune-faced,sad-seemingmanwith anincongruously vitalheadofwavyhair.Hewasnot interested inchildren.A propo- nentoftheGreatBooksseries— which he had readtwice—Uncle Pete was engagedwithserious thoughtandItalian opera.Hehada passion,inhistory,for EdwardGibbon,and,inliterature,forthe journalsofMadamede Stael.Helikedtoquotethatwittylady's opinion onthe Germanlanguage, whichheldthatGermanwasn't good forconversationbecauseyou hadto wait totheendofthesen- tence fortheverb, andso couldn't interrupt.UnclePetehadwanted tobecome a doctor,but the "catastrophe"hadendedthatdream.In theUnited States, he'dput himselfthrough twoyearsofchiropractic school,andnowrana smalloffice inBirminghamwithahuman skeleton hewasstill paying for in installments.Inthosedays,chiro- practors hada somewhat dubious reputation.Peopledidn't cometo Uncle Pete tofreeup their kundalini.He crackednecks, straightened spines, andmade custom arch supportsoutof foamrubber. Still,he wasthe closestthing toa doctorwe hadinthehouseon thoseSun- dayafternoons. Asa young man he'dhad halfhisstomach surgically removed, andnow after dinner always drank a Pepsi-Cola tohelpdi- gest his meal.The soft drink had beennamedfor the digestive enzyme pepsin,he sagely told us,and sowassuitedto thetask. It was thiskind of knowledge thatled myfatherto trust what Un- cle Pete said whenit cametothereproductive timetable. Hishead on a throw pillow,hisshoesoff,Madama Butterfly softly playingon my parents' stereo,UnclePeteexplained that,under the microscope, sperm carryingmalechromosomes hadbeenobserved to swim faster thanthose carryingfemale chromosomes.This assertion generated immediatemerrimentamongtherestaurant owners andfurfinishers assembledin ourlivingroom. Myfather,however, adopted the pose ofhis favoritepieceofsculpture,The Thinker,aminiature ofwhich satacrosstheroomonthetelephonetable.Though the topichad beenbrought up intheopen-forum atmosphereofthose postpran- dialSundays,itwas clear that,notwithstanding theimpersonal tone ofthediscussion,thespermtheyweretalking aboutwasmyfather's. UnclePetemadeitclear:tohaveagirl baby,acoupleshould"have sexual congresstwenty-fourhours priortoovulation."That way,the swiftmalespermwouldrushinanddieoff.Thefemale sperm,slug- gishbutmore reliable, would arrive justastheeggdropped. Myfatherhadtroublepersuadingmymothertogoalongwith the scheme.TessieZizmohad beenavirginwhenshemarriedMilton Stephanidesatthe age oftwenty-two.Theirengagement, whichcoin- cidedwith theSecondWorldWar,hadbeenachasteaffair.My motherwasproudofthewayshe'dmanaged to simultaneously kin- dleandsnuff myfather'sflame,keepinghimatalowburnforthe durationof a globalcataclysm.Thishadn'tbeenallthatdifficult, however,since shewasinDetroitandMiltonwasinAnnapolisatthe U.S.NavalAcademy.Formorethan a yearTessielitcandlesatthe Greekchurch forherfiance,whileMilton gazed ather photographs pinned overhisbunk.Heliked topose Tessieinthemannerof the movie magazines, standingsideways,one highheelraisedonastep, anexpanseof blackstockingvisible.My motherlookssurprisingly pliablein those oldsnapshots,as thoughshe likednothingbetter thantohaveher maninuniformarrange her againsttheporchesand lamppostsoftheir humbleneighborhood. She didn't surrenderuntilafter Japan had. Then,fromtheir wed- ding night onward (accordingtowhatmy brothertoldmy covered ears),my parents madeloveregularlyand enjoyably. When it cameto having children, however, my motherhadher ownideas.Itwas her belief that anembryo couldsensetheamount of lovewithwhichit

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  “Look! Forget the house! I’m not talking about a house. I’m saying if we want to break an old pattern, we need to envision a new pattern in its place. If we want to break the pattern of typical two-parent, even queer two-parent nuclear families, we have to think through the logistics of the replacement. I’m not one of those people who thinks all problems get solved by some human-centered design. We're proposing a family, not a tech start-up...but it’s also true that part of being queer can be a design problem. I mean, Jesus, just look at our sex toys.” He had lots of ideas, many abstract thoughts about parenting, and hypothetical solutions to their dilemma. For instance, he suggested that Reese put her name on the baby’s birth certificate, along with Katrina’s, so that Reese would be a legal parent, and he would be a parent by blood, each of them establishing kinship in one way or another. He had so many schemes! Enough that Reese began to suspect that his logistics had become a way for him to avoid emotional realities: an eagerness to fix problems rather than feel them. Here’s the name of a family lawyer who specializes in queer families. Here’s the hormone regimen required in order to induce lactation in trans women. Here’s the prescription necessary from Callen-Lorde: Double the estrogen and progesterone doses to mimic the levels of pregnancy. Here’s an order of domperidone from an online Canadian pharmacy to increase prolactin levels. Katrina would run Ames’s ideas by her mother, which at first alarmed Reese, then slowly she began to feel good about it. This is how families work! This is what she was always missing! A mother to oversee her mothering. Yes, of course! How lucky to have Maya. Which was why, in their initial conversation, when Maya told them to stop listening to Ames, Reese laughed and agreed. “He has too many ideas!” Maya said. “It’s all so abstract! Even this book! So abstract! When it’s three in the morning and the baby is crying or sick, and you are bone-tired, who cares what your family structure looks like? All three of you are going to be too tired to care whose name says what on what legal piece of paper.” “Tm already getting too tired to care,” interjected Katrina with her hand on her stomach. For once rather than jealousy, Reese felt compassion. She’d seen Katrina in the mornings now, fatigued by that first trimester. “You know what you two should do?” Maya advised. “Go make a baby registry. When you're in the store together, looking at cribs and clothes, you'll get a much clearer idea of each other’s mothering styles. You'll see where you’re compatible and where yow’re going to fight. Because you will certainly fight. I promise. Stop philosophizing about the meaning of family. Get a jump-start on the real work of making one.” “That’s a good idea,” Katrina said, and Reese nodded.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  I knew I ought to cry, but I’d lived with my parents for sixteen years, and a trial separation seemed overdue. “Don’t worry.” I smiled. “I’s a-gonna learn how t’talk right Southern.” Mom laughed. “Don’t do anything stupid,” my dad said. “Okay.” “No drugs. No drinking. No cigarettes.” As an alumnus of Culver Creek, he had done the things I had only heard about: the secret parties, streaking through hay fields (he always whined about how it was all boys back then), drugs, drinking, and cigarettes. It had taken him a while to kick smoking, but his badass days were now well behind him. “I love you,” they both blurted out simultaneously. It needed to be said, but the words made the whole thing horribly uncomfortable, like watching your grandparents kiss. “I love you, too. I’ll call every Sunday.” Our rooms had no phone lines, but my parents had requested I be placed in a room near one of Culver Creek’s five pay phones. They hugged me again—Mom, then Dad—and it was over. Out the back window, I watched them drive the winding road off campus. I should have felt a gooey, sentimental sadness, perhaps. But mostly I just wanted to cool off, so I grabbed one of the desk chairs and sat down outside my door in the shade of the overhanging eaves, waiting for a breeze that never arrived. The air outside sat as still and oppressive as the air inside. I stared out over my new digs: Six one-story buildings, each with sixteen dorm rooms, were arranged in a hexagram around a large circle of grass. It looked like an oversize old motel. Everywhere, boys and girls hugged and smiled and walked together. I vaguely hoped that someone would come up and talk to me. I imagined the conversation: “Hey. Is this your first year?” “Yeah. Yeah. I’m from Florida.” “That’s cool. So you’re used to the heat.” “I wouldn’t be used to this heat if I were from Hades,” I’d joke. I’d make a good first impression. Oh, he’s funny. That guy Miles is a riot. That didn’t happen, of course. Things never happened like I imagined them. Bored, I went back inside, took off my shirt, lay down on the heat-soaked vinyl of the lower bunk mattress, and closed my eyes. I’d never been born again with the baptism and weeping and all that, but it couldn’t feel much better than being born again as a guy with no known past. I thought of the people I’d read about—John F. Kennedy, James Joyce, Humphrey Bogart—who went to boarding school, and their adventures—Kennedy, for example, loved pranks. I thought of the Great Perhaps and the things that might happen and the people I might meet and who my roommate might be (I’d gotten a letter a few weeks before that gave me his name, Chip Martin, but no other information).

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Reese waited, sensing there was more. So he let her have as much of the truth as he could bear. “But the days I don’t love you...I have to work hard to make those days happen. The days I do require nothing of me. You were the most important person in my life for so long, and then...then everything went wrong and we just disappeared to each other. When I think about raising this child with you, well, it feels like a kind of redemption. Romantically, fuck, who knows if we would ever be right for each other again? It all fell apart so badly that I hesitate to even hope for that. But if we weren’t meant to be lovers, it doesn’t mean that we weren’t meant to be family. Every single time I remember the state of things between us, I want to cry. I thought it would fade, but it hasn’t; it’s just changed. If we don’t try again, it’s like our time together...Not only did it end, it was like it never was.” “You're the one who disappeared, Amy. Look at yourself.” He rushes on, over her comment, afraid to lose the moment. “But that’s why I’m trying to see this as an opportunity. Right? What if we could make those years together into something new? All of our past could be the groundwork for something lasting.” Reese puffs up her cheeks and blows out a little pfft. She shakes her head, almost in wonder, and then an abrupt grin cracks her face. “You know what, Amy? I think the best way to get back at you is to say yes to this offer, and then watch you struggle to figure it all out from a front-row seat. So fuck you, my love. Yes, I will consider it.” “Consider it.” “Yes, go ask this other woman, Katrina, to split her unborn child with a transsexual. I fully expect that she will murder you for the suggestion, for which I will take a portion of the credit without having to risk jail. If you are still alive in a week, we'll take it from there.” Ames grips his own hands tightly. “So you accept?” “T already said yes.” Her voice betrays too much sincerity, and she worries that Ames can hear the naked hope that has already entangled her. He says nothing more, so she smacks him on the thigh, laughs a short nervous laugh, and then puts her face in her palm and mumbles, mostly to herself, “Actually this might be the most trans way of getting me pregnant.” CHAPTER Two Eight years before conception

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Last week, after Katrina showed him the pregnancy test, he went home and lay in bed like a morose sea lion, moving only to scan through, yet again, Katrina’s only social media account—Instagram. After gazing at Katrina’s face for an hour, he pulled up Reese’s account, as was his habit when lonely or distressed, a habit he’d never quite been able to break. If he went far enough down in her feed, there were pictures of her from when they lived together—all the pictures with him were erased of course, but in many others, he knew that he was standing just off frame. Looking at a shot of her wearing bunny ears from an Easter morning in their apartment, he tried to predict her scoffing reply were he to tell her that he was a father. In that exercise, he was surprised to brush, for the first time in hours, against a feeling like hope. It had only ever been through her, with her, that he could imagine parenthood. Why not again? Reese—the trans woman from whom he’d learned about womanhood —would see his fatherhood and dismiss it. To her, he would always be a woman. By borrowing her vantage, he could almost see himself as a parent: Perhaps one way to tolerate being a father would be to have her constant presence assuring him that he was actually not one. This possibility dovetailed with what he wanted anyway: to be family with Reese once more, in some way. So why not in parenthood? Was it such a wild proposal to contemplate? Were Reese to help raise the child too, everyone would get what they wanted. Katrina would have a commitment to family from her lover, Reese would get a baby, and he, well, he’d get to live up to what they both hoped he could be by being what he already was: a woman but not, a father but not. “What? You want me to consider being a mother to this baby?” Reese does not have her palms facing up. “That doesn’t even make sense.” “Yes it does. Listen to me.” But Ames has not fully convinced himself that his plan makes sense either, that he isn’t speaking out of a deluded panic. That the game pieces for Katrina and Reese that he has been pushing around his mental chessboard bear only dubious relation to the movements possible by the actual Katrina and Reese.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Katrina throws her palms up, helplessly. “ve been waiting for you to give me some input. But since you can’t do that, I have to consider ending the pregnancy. It’s not like it sounds like you're going to be a father. Or whatever.” “No.” “No?” “No, don’t end the pregnancy.” He’s fumbling with his words, trying to pull up some semblance of bravery. “This is what I’m saying. You don’t have to be a single mom. I don’t know if I can be a father—but like, I can be a parent.” Katrina drops the stone she’d been fidgeting with. She gives a hard stare. “What’s the distinction?” He still can’t quite find the courage to tell her what he’d offered Reese. His own weaseling shames him, and he sits up straight, as if a physical backbone has some connection to a metaphorical one. “No, but like, I think if I’m going to do this, I need to be back in the trans community or at least have other trans people involved. I need to be with people who understand where I’ve been.” “What are you talking about?” Ames cocks his head in involuntary sheepishness. “Well, I talked to Reese.” “Who?” “Remember that girl I told you about earlier? Reese? My ex? When I used to complain about not knowing how to live she just scoffed at me and said, ‘’m going to live and do like millions of women before me: I’m going to be a mother.’ Our plan had been to become parents. To raise a child. I think if she was part of raising our child, I could do it.” “As our baby’s godmother or something? I don’t think I'd have a problem with that.” “Well, I was thinking of a role closer than that. Like another mother or something.” Katrina holds her breath, the way one does when contemplating the water below from a high dive. There’s a lot roiling just behind that stillness, but Ames can’t read it, so he just goes on, letting his words tumble out. “I believe she will love a child more fiercely than anyone else I’ve ever met. It'll be hard, because she’s trans and I’m...” He searches for the word, and abandons it, “I’m as you know I am— but she’s the type to turn hardship into hardness, like a shield for people she loves. That baby will be safer with her than at the center of a fortress. And I think we could do it with her—parent, I mean. I’ve been trying to feel what I want, and I want to be with you, Katrina. I’m afraid if you end the pregnancy, it'll end our relationship with it. So I want to be a parent with you. And with Reese, I could be a parent without being seen as a father. Maybe only with her.”