Shame

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 Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  Each time the door opened I saw another monster. And then I came at last to a poor simp who really wanted to improve himself and that broke me down. I felt truly ashamed of myself, of my country, my race, my epoch. I had a devil of a time persuading him not to buy the damned encyclopedia. He asked me innocently what then had brought me to his home—and without a minute’s hesitation I told him an astounding lie, a lie which was later to prove a great truth. I told him I was only pretending to sell the encyclopedia in order to meet people and write about them. That interested him enormously, even more than the encyclopedia. He wanted to know what I would write about him, if I could say. It’s taken me twenty years to answer that question, but here it is. If you would still like to know, John Doe of the City of Bayonne, this is it. . . . I owe you a great deal because after that lie I told you I left your house and I tore up the prospectus furnished me by the Encyclopaedia Britannica and I threw it in the gutter. I said to myself I will never again go to people under false pretenses even if it is to give them the Holy Bible. I will never again sell anything, even if I have to starve. I am going home now and I will sit down and really write about people. And if anybody knocks at my door to sell me something I will invite him in and say “why are you doing this?” And if he says it is because he has to make a living I will offer him what money I have and beg him once again to think what he is doing. I want to prevent as many men as possible from pretending that they have to do this or that because they must earn a living. It is not true . One can starve to death—it is much better. Every man who voluntarily starves to death jams another cog in the automatic process. I would rather see a man take a gun and kill his neighbor, in order to get the food he needs, than keep up the automatic process by pretending that he has to earn a living. That’s what I want to say, Mr. John Doe. I pass on. Not the stabbing horror of disaster and calamity, I say, but the automatic throwback, the stark panorama of the soul’s atavistic struggle. A bridge in North Carolina, near the Tennessee border. Coming out of lush tobacco fields, low cabins everywhere and the smell of fresh wood burning. The day passed in a thick lake of waving green. Hardly a soul in sight. Then suddenly a clearing and I’m over a big gulch spanned by a rickety wooden bridge. This is the end of the world!

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  Turning the corner wasn’t simply a selfish desire to avoid unpleasantness; Susan could imagine the pain that Leisha would feel if she was recognized, and it made her cringe. But she would have to get her off the street, buy her a meal, get in touch with her family and so on. She acknowledged and then stifled the idea that her old friend might be too disturbed to remember her, and was appalled to suddenly identify a part of herself that was satisfied, even pleased, at the thought of Leisha the bag lady. This part of her wanted to help Leisha, but only out of duty and the pleasure of condescension; their friendship had ended angrily. Susan dropped her head and covered her face with her hands, raising it to the gawking gaze of a passing teenager. She stepped into the sidewalk march again, and the bag lady was gone. No, there she was, standing against the wall. Susan walked right up to her and started to speak, then realized that the woman wasn’t Leisha. The stranger looked at her with mild, glassy eyes (hazel, not dark brown) and put out her hand. Relieved but disconcerted, Susan groped through her purse, found five dollars and pressed it into the pinched little hand. The woman put it away without looking at it and said, “Jesus loves you.” Susan walked back to her friend’s apartment via Eighth Street, becoming depressed as she was reminded of expeditions with Leisha for shoes. Leisha had been part of an amorphous body of memories provoked by this visit to Manhattan, but now she was the lens through which all the other memories were seen, Susan cursed her impressionability and tried to think of something else. Susan was thirty-five years old, and Leisha thirty-four. When they were friends, Susan was an aspiring writer and Leisha an actress. Whenever she had a positive image of Leisha—a rarity during these last six years—she saw them together in Leisha’s apartment drinking tea, drinking wine, snorting coke, something, and talking about their careers. Leisha had loved the word “career.” “I think it’s going to happen for you really first,” she’d say. “Like boom, your career’s just going to skyrocket—I mean it.”

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  She thought of her last conversation with one of these people, a film production assistant on her lunch break. “Stephanie,” she said, “you’ve simply got to cut your hair. I know it sounds superficial, but really, things like that matter. Editors are very busy people; they can only see you for twenty minutes, so they have to act on impressions, and that includes style. Long hair is college—ideals, finding yourself, and all that. Nobody here has long hair.” She dug smartly into her pile of refried beans. She thought of Jackson, an ex-lover whom she had especially wanted to impress, and was perversely glad that she never did get a professional position. She remembered what a curious relief it had been to take her first job in a whorehouse, where a real job didn’t matter, where males and females performed the ancient, primal and wonderfully elementary dance of copulation, blandly, predictably and by appointment. “Is something wrong?” asked Bernard. “I was just thinking of someone.” She hesitated. “Someone I knew in college. I had a pretty awful relationship with this person and I couldn’t have sex for over a year afterward. The first time I fucked anybody else after him was my first trick in my first house.” “You’re kidding!” She laughed. “It’s too corny, isn’t it? Girl has heart broken by callous swine and turns to prostitution.” “Your life is very dramatic,” he said pleasantly. “It’s not so dramatic. These things happen. I mean, I’m over it now.” Bernard walked her back to her building, but to her surprise he didn’t want to come up to the apartment, even though she would have liked him to. In fact, they didn’t fuck until the second time she had dinner with him. It was a calm, affectionate event (“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, referring to his problematic size as he lay on top of her, gripping her firmly about the hips). The evening was marred only when he handed her a hundred dollars on his way out the door. She stared at him, stricken. “I don’t want that,” she said. “That’s not why I’m seeing you.” He looked embarrassed. “I know it’s not why you’re seeing me. It’s not why I’m seeing you. But I think you should have it.” “I don’t want it.” He sat on the bed. “Stephanie, it’s very simple. I have a lot of money. You do not. You need money. I can give it to you. Please take it.” “You didn’t give me money when we went out to dinner.” He groped for an explanation for this and gave up. “Well, the next time we go out to dinner, I’ll give you money.” “I won’t take it.” “If you don’t, I’ll just mail it to you.”

• From Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption (2014)

  When I was a boy, my mother took me to church. When I was about ten years old, I was outside of our church with my friends, one of whom had brought a visiting relative to the service. The visiting child was a shy, skinny boy about my height who was clinging to his cousin nervously. He didn’t say anything as the group of us chatted away. I asked him where he was from, and when this child tried to speak he stumbled horribly. He had a severe speech impediment and couldn’t get his mouth to cooperate. He couldn’t even say the name of the town where he lived. I had never seen someone stutter like that; I thought he must have been joking or playing around, so I laughed. My friend looked at me worriedly, but I didn’t stop laughing. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my mother looking at me with an expression I’d never seen before. It was a mix of horror, anger, and shame, all focused on me. It stopped my laughing instantly. I’d always felt adored by my mom, so I was unnerved when she called me over. When I got to her, she was very angry with me. “What are you doing?” “What? I didn’t do…” “Don’t you ever laugh at someone because they can’t get their words out right. Don’t you ever do that!” “I’m sorry.” I was devastated to be reprimanded by my mom so harshly. “Mom, I didn’t mean to do anything wrong.” “You should know better, Bryan.” “I’m sorry. I thought…” “I don’t want to hear it, Bryan. There is no excuse, and I’m very disappointed in you. Now, I want you to go back over there and tell that little boy that you’re sorry.” “Yes, ma’am.” “Then I want you to give that little boy a hug.” “Huh?” “Then I want you to tell him that you love him.” I looked up at her and, to my horror, saw that she was dead serious. I had reacted as apologetically as I possibly could, but this was way too much. “Mom, I can’t go over and tell that boy I love him. People will—” She gave me that look again. I somberly turned around and returned to my group of friends. They had obviously seen my mother’s scolding; I could tell because they were all staring at me. I went up to the little boy who had struggled to speak. “Look, man, I’m sorry.” I was genuinely apologetic for laughing and even more deeply regretful of the situation I had put myself in. I looked over at my mother, who was still staring at me. I lunged at the boy to give him a very awkward hug. I think I startled him by grabbing him like that, but when he realized that I was trying to hug him, his body relaxed and he hugged me back. My friends looked at me oddly as I spoke.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  CHRYSOSTOM. It is to be noted, that onewhile the Lord brings the offender to him whom he has offended; as when he says, If thou remember that thy brother has might against thee, go, be reconciled to thy brother: (Mat. 5:23.) otherwhiles He bids him that has suffered the wrong to forgive his neighbour; as where he says, Forgive us our debts, as we also forgive our debtors. (Mat. 6:12.) Here He has devised yet another method, for He brings him who has been grieved to him that grieved him, and therefore says, If thy brother sin against thee; for because he that did the wrong would not readily come to make amends, because of his shame, He draws to him him that has suffered the wrong; and not only draws him there, but with the very purpose of correcting what was done amiss; whence He says, Go and tell hint his fault. RABANUS. He does not command us to forgive indiscriminately, but him only that will hearken and be obedient, and do penitence; that neither should forgiveness be unattainable, nor sufferance be too far relaxed. CHRYSOSTOM. And He says not, Accuse him, nor, Chide with him, nor, Demand redress,—but, Tell him of his fault; that is, remind him of his sin, tell him what things you have suffered from him. For he is held down by anger or by shame, stupefied as one in a deep slumber. Wherefore it behoves you who are in your right senses to go to him who is in a disease. JEROME. If then your brother have sinned against you, or hurt you in any matter, you have power, indeed must needs forgive him, for we are charged to forgive our debtors their debts. But if a man sin against God, it is no longer in our decision. But we do all tho contrary of this; where God is wronged we are merciful, where the affront is to ourselves we prosecute the quarrel. CHRYSOSTOM. We are to tell his fault to the man himself who did it, and not to another, because the party takes it with the more patience from him, and above all when they are together alone. For when he who had a right to demand reparation, shews rather a carefulness to heal the sore, this has great power to propitiate. AUGUSTINE. (Serm. 82, 7.) When any one therefore offends against us, let us be very careful, not for ourselves, for it is glorious to forget an injury; forget therefore your own wrong, but not the wound your brother has sustained; and tell him of his fault between him and you alone, seeking his amendment and sparing his shame. For it may be that out of shame he will seek to defend his fault, and thus you will only harden, while you sought to do him good. JEROME. Thy brother is to be reproved in private, lest if once he has lost a sense of shame, he should continue in sin.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  Part of the nightmare was that it all seemed so matter of fact. I couldn’t make it stop, I couldn’t escape it, and so I pretended it wasn’t happening. I looked at the sky, at how pale and placid it was. I imagined it was the ocean and the clouds were white- capped waves. Another boy was huffing and puffing on top of me. I recognized him—Jeffrey Darling, an arrogant bully. Jeffrey grabbed my hair and yanked it back so 40 Leslie Feinberg hard I gasped. He wanted me to pay attention to the rape. He fucked me harder. “You dirty Kike bitch, you fucking bulldagger.” All my crimes were listed. I was guilty as charged. Is this how men and women have sex? 1 knew this wasn’t making love; this was more like making hate. But was this mechanical motion what all the jokes and dirty magazines and whispers were about? This was it? I gigeled, not because what was happening was funny, but because all the fuss about sex suddenly seemed so ridiculous. Jeffrey pulled his cock out of me and slapped my face, back and forth. “It’s not funny,” he shouted. “It’s not funny, you crazy bitch.” I heatd the sound of a whistle. “Shit, it’s the coach,” Frank Humphrey warned the other guys. Jeffrey jumped up and pulled up his pants. All the boys scattered toward the gym. I was alone on the field. The coach stood a distance away from me, staring. I wobbled as I tried to stand. There were grass stains on my skirt and blood and slimy stuff running down my legs. “Get out of here, you little whore,’ Coach Moriarty ordered. I had to walk the long distance home since my bus pass wasn’t valid this late. I didn’t feel like this was my life I was living anymore. It felt more like a movie. A?57 Chevy full of boys slowed down. “See you tomorrow, lesbo,” I heard Bobby yell as they passed. Was I their property now? If I wasn’t strong enough to stop them once, could I ever hope to defend myself again? I ran to the bathroom as soon as I got home and threw up in the toilet. Between my legs felt like chopped meat and the shooting pains frightened me. I took a long, long bubble bath. I asked my sister to tell my parents I was sick and went to bed. When I woke up it was time to go to school. But I couldn’t, I wasn’t ready! “Now!” My mother ordered me out of bed. My whole body hurt. I tried not to think about the pain between my legs. My parents didn’t seem to notice my split lip or the way I was limping a little on my ankle. I moved slow as molasses. I couldn’t think clearly. “Hurry up,” my mother scolded. “You’re going to be late for school.”

• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  In my bitterness I often search for reasons to condemn them, the better to condemn myself. For I am like them too, in many ways. For a long while I thought I had escaped, but as time goes on I see that I am no better, that I am even a little worse, because I saw more clearly than they ever did and yet remained powerless to alter my life. As I look back on my life it seems to me that I never did anything of my own volition but always through the pressure of others. People often think of me as an adventurous fellow; nothing could be farther from the truth. My adventures were always adventitious, always thrust on me, always endured rather than undertaken. I am of the very essence of that proud, boastful Nordic people who have never had the least sense of adventure but who nevertheless have scoured the earth, turned it upside down, scattering relics and ruins everywhere. Restless spirits, but not adventurous ones. Agonizing spirits, incapable of living in the present. Disgraceful cowards, all of them, myself included. For there is only one great adventure and that is inward toward the self, and for that, time nor space nor even deeds matter. Once every few years I was on the verge of making this discovery, but in characteristic fashion I always managed to dodge the issue. If I try to think of a good excuse I can think only of the environment, of the streets I knew and the people who inhabited them. I can think of no street in America, or of people inhabiting such a street, capable of leading one on toward the discovery of the self. I have walked the streets in many countries of the world but nowhere have I felt so degraded and humiliated as in America. I think of all the streets in America combined as forming a huge cesspool, a cesspool of the spirit in which everything is sucked down and drained away to everlasting shit. Over this cesspool the spirit of work weaves a magic wand; palaces and factories spring up side by side, and munition plants and chemical works and steel mills and sanatoriums and prisons and insane asylums. The whole continent is a nightmare producing the greatest misery of the greatest number. I was one, a single entity in the midst of the greatest jamboree of wealth and happiness (statistical wealth, statistical happiness) but I never met a man who was truly wealthy or truly happy. At least I knew that I was unhappy, un-wealthy, out of whack and out of step.

• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  Assistant editor—it sounded quite good, especially to the creditors in the neighborhood. And for a while I was so happy to be eating roast beef and chicken and tenderloins of pork that I pretended I liked the job. Actually it was difficult for me to keep awake. What I had to learn I had learned in a week’s time. And after that? After that I saw myself doing penal servitude for life. In order to make the best of it I whiled away the time writing stories and essays and long letters to my friends. Perhaps they thought I was writing up new ideas for the company, because for quite a while nobody paid any attention to me. I thought it was a wonderful job. I had almost the whole day to myself, for my writing, having learned to dispose of the company’s work in about an hour’s time. I was so enthusiastic about my own private work that I gave orders to my underlings not to disturb me except at stipulated moments. I was sailing along like a breeze, the company paying me regularly and the slave drivers doing the work I had mapped out for them, when one day, just when I am in the midst of an important essay on The Anti-Christ, a man whom I had never seen before walks up to my desk, bends over my shoulder, and in a sarcastic tone of voice begins to read aloud what I had just written. I didn’t need to inquire who he was or what he was up to—the only thought in my head was, and that I repeated to myself frantically—Will I get an extra week’s pay? When it came time to bid good-by to my benefactor I felt a little ashamed of myself, particularly when he said, right off the bat like—“I tried to get you an extra week’s pay but they wouldn’t hear of it. I wish there was something I could do for you—you’re only standing in your own way, you know. To tell you the truth, I still have the greatest faith in you—but I’m afraid you’re going to have a hard time of it, for a while. You don’t fit in anywhere. Some day you’ll make a great writer, I feel sure of it. Well, excuse me,” he added, shaking hands with me warmly, “I’ve got to see the boss. Good luck to you!” I felt a bit cut up about the incident. I wished it had been possible to prove to him then and there that his faith was justified. I wished I could have justified myself before the whole world at that moment: I would have jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge if it would have convinced people that I wasn’t a heartless son of a bitch. I had a heart as big as a whale, as I was soon to prove, but nobody was examining into my heart.

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  Stephanie hung up feeling vaguely humiliated. She thought of her job at Christine’s, almost so she could feel worse, but felt strangely comforted instead. This made no sense to her, but she accepted the comfort. She wished that she could tell Sandra about her real job, but she didn’t dare. Perhaps Sandra wouldn’t be shocked, but she would think it was self-destructive and insulting to women. Well, maybe it was. She never got any writing done while she was hooking. Somehow the idea of coming home after a day at Christine’s and sitting down to write was impossible; her thoughts were clotted by the clamoring, demanding ghosts of the men she’d seen that day. She needed to make herself a nourishing meal and sit still and take care of herself, as her mother used to say. Working at Christine’s was a time for making money and resting her brain, she told herself. Writing would come later. She pictured herself in the future, so successful that she could talk about being a hooker without anyone minding. “I didn’t do much writing then,” she’d say to her circle of successful friends as they stood around smiling and holding their drinks. “I spent most of my time just trying to re-form my personality.” And they’d all laugh at this adorable admission of her female vulnerability. The only person she’d ever told was her friend from college, Babette. Babette, who was trying to be an actress, had a whole gaggle of friends from the restaurant where she worked who wore a lot of leather and went en masse to some S&M bar in the West Village on weekends. It didn’t seem as though prostitution would faze Babette, but when Stephanie told her about her first experience three years earlier, she’d said, “Oh, Stephie! How could you do that to yourself? How could you?” Stephanie explained again and again that she didn’t think it was damaging her self-respect, but Babette would not be mollified. Stephanie suspected that Babette’s consternation had little to do with self-respect and a lot to do with Babette’s discomfort at discovering that she was friends with a prostitute instead of a writer. However, Babette was a fragile person who had done too much cocaine, had a breakdown, cut her wrist—shallowly, but still—and now saw a therapist twice a week, so she thought it was best not to speak to her again about subsequent episodes. —

• From Combating Cult Mind Control: The Guide to Protection, Rescue and Recovery from Destructive Cults (1988)

  After rediscovering myself, I had a whole new string of questions in my mind. How could I have ever believed that a multimillionaire industrialist from Korea was the Messiah? How could I have turned my back on almost every moral and ethical principle I’d ever had? How could I have done so many cruel things to so many people? The fantasy I had used to inspire myself day after day and month after month was gone. What was left was a frightened, confused, indignant person. I felt as though I had awakened from a surreal dream and wasn’t sure what was reality—or as if I had stepped off a skyscraper and was headed toward the Earth, but I kept falling and never hit the ground. I was overwhelmed by many emotions. I was sad and missed my friends in the group, particularly my “spiritual children,” the people I recruited. I missed the excitement of feeling that what I was doing was cosmically important. I missed the feeling of power that single-mindedness brought. Now, all I knew was that my leg was broken. I was broken. I felt tremendous embarrassment about having fallen for a cult. My parents had told me it was a cult. So had my friends. Why hadn’t I listened to them? Why hadn’t I trusted them? It took me many weeks before I could thank my family for helping me. It was months before I could even refer to the Moonies as a cult, publicly. I read for months. For me, the burning issue was how the Moonies had ever managed to convert me and indoctrinate me so thoroughly that I could no longer think for myself. I read everything I could get my hands on about brainwashing, attitude change, persuasion, thought reform, mind control, undue influence, and cults. At first, the act of reading itself was extremely difficult. I had read only Moon literature for more than two years. I had trouble concentrating and was sometimes spaced out for long periods, not comprehending what I was reading. I was told that the mind is like a “muscle” and would regain its power through exercise. I forced myself to look up words in the dictionary. I forced myself to read line by line until I worked my way back to being able to concentrate and read pages at a time and be able to explain what I had read. Living at home was difficult. I was pretty depressed. My leg needed a second operation. Since I still had a full cast on my leg, I needed crutches to move about, to eat, even to go to the bathroom. I was unaccustomed to being so dependent. I had been running a house and controlling the lives of many members. Now I was a captain with no one to lead. I felt terrible for what I had put my family through. They were wonderful to me, but I felt a tremendous sense of guilt.

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  I’ve really wanted to see you.” “Yeah?” “Yeah. Really.” His eyes looked so intensely vague, yet so sincere and so noble, she had the sense that the brown orbs could detach from their centers and wander all over his eyeball, slowly, with a certain majesty, each movement expressing the depth of his sincerity. “You could’ve called me.” “Yeah, I could have. But I was too ashamed.” He dropped his eyes and actually did look sincere for a minute. She cupped his face with her hand and kissed his cheek. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. They squeezed each other’s hands, communicated some sexual comradery and goodwill, and then walked away. Well, she thought, it was good to see Franklin, but she certainly wasn’t going to his party. It would be too depressing. It was strange to realize that the depressing part wouldn’t be her memory of his dizzy seduction attempt—she was never romantically interested in him anyway—but the presence of her ex- friend Alice, the mere mention of whose name had plunged her into a slight rancor. She eyed with disaffection and contempt the neatly hatted and booted, dyed and moisturized strangers marching toward her. Alice and Roger had been the first New Yorkers she had met in Manhattan. They had met accidentally, when Constance had sublet their loft with two other girls. She had been very impressed by them. They were so handsome—Roger, blond and tall, his potentially annoying symmetry broken by the stubborn cowlick on the back of his head, and Alice, tiny and sleekly dark, her short hair like the shiny, pleated wings of a beetle, her clothes fully color- coordinated and accessorized—very poised, and apparently secure. Alice had asked her a lot of questions about her plans, and seemed to be scrutinizing her answers for signs of acceptability, while Roger smiled and nodded affably. At first Constance resented it, but soon, to her embarrassment, she found that she was flattered by Alice’s eventual approval. Alice had been especially kind when Constance was thrown out of her first apartment after two days of tenancy with a psychotic roommate, rushing to her assistance with advice and a huge garbage bag of Salvation Army–bound clothes. “Don’t leave New York because of this,” she said. “Everybody gets mangled a little during the first few months.” She huffed up the five flights of stairs to her apartment, dropped the keys, swore unattractively and opened the door to find that the heat was too high, the cats were running around with mysterious desperation, and Deana wasn’t home. The cats moiled loudly around her legs as she wrestled with can and opener; they squabbled for position as she put the blobs of cold meat-and-cornmeal byproducts before them. “Oh, come on,” she said. “You guys aren’t that hungry.

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  He sat there for over an hour. Virginia could hear the car’s engine start, chug awkwardly, and then shut off. This happened several times. She couldn’t tell whether Jarold was repeatedly deciding to drive somewhere and then changing his mind, or if he was just keeping warm. — Camille divorced Kevin two months later. She put her things in bags and boxes and moved into a girlfriend’s apartment. She tried to make it sound like fun. Virginia pictured her sitting on the couch with her friend, both of them bundled in blankets, drinking mugs of tea, being supportive. It was a nice picture, but it seemed adolescent. — Everybody came home for the holidays. Magdalen and Camille hugged each other constantly during the visit. On Christmas they wore their pajamas and slippers all day. They sat close together and squeezed each other’s hands. They had confidential conversations, which Virginia only half heard. When they talked to anyone else, their faces stiffened slightly. Magdalen had a hard time finishing a sentence. No one else seemed to notice. “Magdalen’s always been flighty,” said Jarold. Charles was very pale. He picked at the Christmas meal, eating very little. His dinner plate was a mass of picked-apart food. Daniel ate a lot. He ate while he talked or walked through the room. There were often light brown crumbs on his plaid shirt. Virginia took only one group picture. It came out ugly. Magdalen’s eyes were a dazed green slur. Camille’s neck was rigid and stretched, her eyes bulged. Daniel’s eyes were rolled up and his nostrils were flared. Charles hung back on the couch, his hand covering the face of a malignant elf. Jarold, half in the picture and seen from the side, was frozen in the middle of a senseless gesture. — Virginia and Jarold were in the den watching the late movie when Magdalen called. Virginia tried to ignore the phone. It rang eight times. “Are you going to get that, honey?” said Jarold. Magdalen’s voice was calm. “Mama, I’m calling from the bus station in Charleston. John and I had a fight. He broke my nose. Griffin and I are coming home.” She arrived at 4:30 in the morning. Virginia stood at the door in a flannel nightgown watching the taxi pull into the driveway. Magdalen emerged in the open-car-door light, a thin girl in a bulky army coat. The door shut and she became a slow, bundled figure kicking the driveway gravel with her shuffling steps. “Mom?” Her voice was sheepish and sweet. She carried one suitcase and a big shopping bag. Griffin had just started walking. He looked tired and wistful. His blond hair was much too long. John called the house, but they hung up on him.

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  I mean, I’m over it now.” Bernard walked her back to her building, but to her surprise he didn’t want to come up to the apartment, even though she would have liked him to. In fact, they didn’t fuck until the second time she had dinner with him. It was a calm, affectionate event (“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, referring to his problematic size as he lay on top of her, gripping her firmly about the hips). The evening was marred only when he handed her a hundred dollars on his way out the door. She stared at him, stricken. “I don’t want that,” she said. “That’s not why I’m seeing you.” He looked embarrassed. “I know it’s not why you’re seeing me. It’s not why I’m seeing you. But I think you should have it.” “I don’t want it.” He sat on the bed. “Stephanie, it’s very simple. I have a lot of money. You do not. You need money. I can give it to you. Please take it.” “You didn’t give me money when we went out to dinner.” He groped for an explanation for this and gave up. “Well, the next time we go out to dinner, I’ll give you money.” “I won’t take it.” “If you don’t, I’ll just mail it to you.” Accepting the money became less troublesome than arguing. She stared at the cash sitting on her dresser after he left and thought: So now it is my real life. Then she got up and put it in her wallet. The next few times she saw him, the cash factor didn’t seem so bad. It even felt perversely glamorous; it made her think of Babette’s friend Natalia, a dark, striking girl who was trying to be an actress. Babette was always telling Stephanie, with a certain awe, how Natalia collected men who bought her clothes and gave her money and drugs. If only Bernard would buy her a dress or something, perhaps it would seem less dubious, but she enjoyed his company, he was sexually pleasant, and she rather relished the novelty of the situation, much as he probably did. She told her friends that she was seeing a married man who “gave her money sometimes.” “Stephanie, that sounds really good for you,” said Sandra. “Sometimes it’s good to have somebody who will just come over to your house and be nice to you.” “I like that,” said Bernard as he held her in his arms. “I’m a person who comes over to your house and is nice to you.”

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  The first time I fucked anybody else after him was my first trick in my first house.” “You’re kidding!” She laughed. “It’s too corny, isn’t it? Girl has heart broken by callous swine and turns to prostitution.” “Your life is very dramatic,” he said pleasantly. “It’s not so dramatic. These things happen. I mean, I’m over it now.” Bernard walked her back to her building, but to her surprise he didn’t want to come up to the apartment, even though she would have liked him to. In fact, they didn’t fuck until the second time she had dinner with him. It was a calm, affectionate event (“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, referring to his problematic size as he lay on top of her, gripping her firmly about the hips). The evening was marred only when he handed her a hundred dollars on his way out the door. She stared at him, stricken. “I don’t want that,” she said. “That’s not why I’m seeing you.” He looked embarrassed. “I know it’s not why you’re seeing me. It’s not why I’m seeing you. But I think you should have it.” “I don’t want it.” He sat on the bed. “Stephanie, it’s very simple. I have a lot of money. You do not. You need money. I can give it to you. Please take it.” “You didn’t give me money when we went out to dinner.” He groped for an explanation for this and gave up. “Well, the next time we go out to dinner, I’ll give you money.” “I won’t take it.” “If you don’t, I’ll just mail it to you.” Accepting the money became less troublesome than arguing. She stared at the cash sitting on her dresser after he left and thought: So now it is my real life. Then she got up and put it in her wallet. The next few times she saw him, the cash factor didn’t seem so bad. It even felt perversely glamorous; it made her think of Babette’s friend Natalia, a dark, striking girl who was trying to be an actress. Babette was always telling Stephanie, with a certain awe, how Natalia collected men who bought her clothes and gave her money and drugs. If only Bernard would buy her a dress or something, perhaps it would seem less dubious, but she enjoyed his company, he was sexually pleasant, and she rather relished the novelty of the situation, much as he probably did. She told her friends that she was seeing a married man who “gave her money sometimes.” “Stephanie, that sounds really good for you,” said Sandra. “Sometimes it’s good to have somebody who will just come over to your house and be nice to you.” “I like that,” said Bernard as he held her in his arms. “I’m a person who comes over to your house and is nice to you.”

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  “Who’s the kid?” Toni demanded to know. “What’s this, your new butch?” “You invited the kid to live in the garage apartment, remember?” Betty snapped. I curled up on the couch and tried to disappear. After a while Betty came out and threw a blanket over me. “If I could just get some sleep tonight, Pll be out of here,” I told her. “Tt’s OK,” she said wearily. “Don’t worry, it’ll be alright.” I clung to that little bit of reassurance. Lying there in the dark I started realizing I was on my own: no more school, no more parents— unless they came after me. I gagged on shame as I recalled what happened to me on the football field. I was afraid I was going to throw up and I hadn’t asked where their bathroom was. I wished this was Al and Jackie’s couch. I wanted to wake up in their home. Then I could tell Jacqueline what had happened to me on the football field. Would I have told her? I realized I might not have told Jackie or Al what the boys did to me. I felt too ashamed. I made a vow to myself before I fell asleep. I promised myself I would never wear a dress again, and I’d never let anyone rape me ever again, no matter what. As it turned out, I could only keep one of those promises. Stone Butch Blues 31 “HEY KID, WHAT’S UP?” Meg called out as she wiped down the bar. Familiar faces softened as they welcomed me. I had become a regular at Abba’s. “Hey, Meg. Gimme a beer, will yar” “Sure, kid, coming right up.” I sat down next to Edwina. “Hey, Ed, can I buy you a beer?” “Yeah,” she laughed, “why would I say no?” It was a Priday night. I had money in my pocket and I was feeling fine. “Hey, what about me?” Butch Jan laughed. “And a beer for my elder, Meg,” “Hey, watch that elder shit,’ Jan said. I felt a hand on my shoulder. Judging from the length of the red-painted nails, it had to be Peaches. “Hi, honey,” she kissed me gently on the ear. I sighed with pleasure. “And a drink for Peaches,” I called out to Meg, “Child, you’re in one damn good mood tonight,” Peaches said. “You get lucky with some girl or something?” I blushed. She had hit a sore spot. “I just feel so damn good. I got a job and a motorcycle and friends. Ed whistled. “You got a bike?” “Yes,” I shouted, “yes, yes! Toni sold me her old Norton. We went out to the supermarket parking lot Sunday, and I practiced till she got mad and went home without me.” Ed smiled. “Wow. Big bike.” She slapped my open palm.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  The next evening I came to the bar late, hoping that Monique and her crowd would not be there waiting. They were. I slunk over to our table and sat down. No one knew exactly what had or had not happened the night before. But everyone knew something was very wrong. I sat drowning in my own shame, remembering out date. I was scared by the time I had gotten to Monique’s house. It occurred to me that I didn’t really know what sex was. When and how did it begin? What was I supposed to do? And Monique frightened the hell out of me. All of a sudden I’d changed my mind. I didn’t want to go through with it. I chattered nervously. Monique smirked. As I moved from couch to chair, she followed. “Whatsa matter?” she mocked Stone Butch Blues 29 me. “Don’t you like me, honey? Whatsa matter, huh?” I made small talk until Monique finally stood up in exasperation. “Get the hell out of here!” She sounded disgusted with me. I mumbled relieved excuses and ran from her house. But back at the bar, I couldn’t escape the consequences. I sat at a table across from Monique and rubbed my forehead with my hands, as though I could wipe away the memory. I wondered how long this evening could possibly last. A long time. A very long time. Monique whispered something to a butch sitting near her. The butch crossed the room and approached our table. “Hey,” she called to me. I didn’t look up. “Hey, femme, you wanna dance with a real butch?” I twisted in my seat. Al whispered something to this butch I couldn’t hear. “Oh, I’m sorry Al, I didn’t know she was your femme.” Al stood up and hit the butch before any of us knew what had happened. Then Al looked at me expectantly. “Well?” she said. She was holding up the butch who was doubled over. Al wanted me to hit the woman, to defend my honor. I couldn’t think of anyone in the room I would want to hit, except maybe myself. I had no honor to defend. 30 Leslie Feinberg The butches nearest Monique stood, ready to cross the room. Al and the other butches in our crowd lined up in front of the table to defend me. Jacqueline put her hand on my thigh to reassure me that I didn’t have to fight. She needn’t have. Mona came up behind me and put her hands on my shoulders. The femmes were closing ranks with me, too. I sat with my face in my hands, shaking my head, wanting it all to stop. But it wouldn't. Monique’s crowd finally backed down. But none of us could leave the bar until they did, otherwise we'd get jumped. It was going to be a /ong night. Al was furious with me. “You gonna let that bulldagger talk to you that way?” She thumped the table for emphasis.

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  Sexually, they seemed to be on the same level. She couldn’t tell if this was disappointing to him or not. And the money issue was beginning to disturb her again, now that she was working for the magazine. He’s not someone who comes to my house and is nice to me, she thought as she lay alone in bed. He’s someone who pays me to fuck him. She had an image of herself, sprawled half on and half off a bed at Christine’s, her upside-down head patiently looking back at her from the mirror as some galoot humped her. This vision blended discordantly with the idea of herself at her desk at the magazine and she was unable to separate them. Despite this ambiguity, she was curiously reluctant to drop the affair. He only saw her once or twice a week, he was not demanding, he liked her favorite authors and was somehow very reassuring. Reassuring of what, she didn’t know, but it was connected to her old feeling that he thought of her as a representative of the exciting avant-garde—although it also seemed that if he had any brains at all, he would’ve realized by now that she was just a bewildered human. “I think I know why you go to places like Christine’s,” she said. “I’m all ears.” “One of the times I was there, I was watching this girl called Marissa, a skinny, not very attractive girl with blank brown eyes. It was almost the end of the night and she was squatting on the floor with her skirt hiked up to her waist, counting her money with a little furry-animal look of concentration, and I thought about how she must look to someone like you, despite her nasty personality—like this cute little beast who can be swept up and fondled and experienced and then put down.” “That’s fabulous.” He looked deeply entertained. “You have such a wonderful way of expressing things.” She thought: If he says “fabulous” one more time tonight, I may punch him in the nose. It was a cool autumn evening. Clawlike leaves smelling of ashes rasped and scuttled across the pavement as they walked to her apartment. They were silent and she felt uncomfortable about it. They were returning from a dinner that should’ve been nice but wasn’t. Bernard had been distracted and (she felt) bored by her. He had flirted subtly with their waitress, which she’d observed with a detached sense of disappointment, a cold and lifeless form of jealousy. As they mounted the stairs, she felt they were heading toward a destination simply because it was more trouble than it was worth to avoid it.

• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  She lived constantly before the mirror, studying every movement, every gesture, every slightest grimace. She changed her whole manner of speech, her diction, her intonation, her accent, her phraseology. She conducted herself so skilfully that it was impossible even to broach the subject of origins. She was constantly on her guard, even in her sleep. And, like a good general, she discovered quickly enough that the best defense is attack. She never left a single position unoccupied; her outposts, her scouts, her sentinels were stationed everywhere. Her mind was a revolving searchlight which was never dimmed. Blind to her own beauty, her own charm, her own personality, to say nothing of her identity, she launched her full powers toward the fabrication of a mythical creature, a Helen, a Juno, whose charms neither man nor woman would be able to resist. Automatically, without the slightest knowledge of legend, she began to create little by little the ontological background, the mythic sequence of events preceeding the conscious birth. She had no need to remember her lies, her fictions—she had only to bear in mind her role. There was no lie too monstrous for her to utter, for in her adopted role she was absolutely faithful to herself. She did not have to invent a past: she remembered the past which belonged to her. She was never outflanked by a direct question since she never presented herself to an adversary except obliquely. She presented only the angles of the ever- turning facets, the blinding prisms of light which she kept constantly revolving. She was never a being, such as might finally be caught in repose, but the mechanism itself, relentlessly operating the myriad mirrors which would reflect the myth she had created. She had no poise whatsoever; she was eternally poised above her multiple identities in the vacuum of the self. She had not intended to make herself a legendary figure, she had merely wanted her beauty to be recognized. But in the pursuit of beauty, she soon forgot her quest entirely, became the victim of her own creation. She became so stunningly beautiful that at times she was frightening, at times positively uglier than the ugliest woman in the world. She could inspire horror and dread, especially when her charm was at its height. It was as though the will, blind and uncontrollable, shone through the creation, exposing the monster which it is. In the dark, locked away in the black hole with no world looking on, no adversary, no rivals, the blinding dynamism of the will slowed down a bit, gave her a molten copperish glow, the words coming out of her mouth like lava, her flesh clutching ravenously for a hold, a perch on something solid and substantial, something in which to reintegrate and repose for a few moments. It was like a frantic long-distance message, an S O S from a sinking ship. At first I mistook it for passion, for the ecstasy produced by flesh rubbing against flesh.

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  “I don’t care,” I said. “That lawyer was an asshole.” To everyone’s discomfort, I began to cry. I left the room, and they all watched me stomp up the stairs. The next day at dinner my father said, “Don’t get discouraged because your first job didn’t work out. There’re plenty of other places out there.” “I don’t want to think about another job right now.” There was a disgruntlement all around the table. “Come on now, Debby, you don’t want to throw away everything you worked for in that typing course,” said my father. “I don’t blame her,” said Donna. “I’m sick of working for assholes.” “Oh, shit,” said my father. “If I had quit every job I’ve had on those grounds, you would’ve all starved. Maybe that’s what I should’ve done.” “What happened, Debby?” said my mother. I said, “I don’t want to talk about it,” and I left the room again. — After that they may have sensed, with their intuition for the miserable, that something hideous had happened. Because they left the subject alone. I received my last paycheck from the lawyer in the mail. It came with a letter folded around it. It said, “I am so sorry for what happened between us. I have realized what a terrible mistake I made with you. I can only hope that you will understand, and that you will not worsen an already unfortunate situation by discussing it with others. All the best.” As a P.S. he assured me that I could count on him for excellent references. He enclosed a check for three hundred and eighty dollars, a little over two hundred dollars more than he owed me. It occurred to me to tear up the check, or mail it back to the lawyer. But I didn’t do that. Two hundred dollars was worth more then than it is now. Together with the money I had in the bank, it was enough to put a down payment on an apartment and still have some left over. I went upstairs and wrote “380” on the deposit side of my checking account. I didn’t feel like a whore or anything. I felt I was doing the right thing. I looked at the total figure of my balance with satisfaction. Then I went downstairs and asked my mother if she wanted to go get some elephant ears. For the next two weeks, I forgot about the idea of a job and moving out of my parents’ house. I slept through all the morning noise until noon. I got up and ate cold cereal and ran the dishwasher. I watched the gray march of old sitcoms on TV. I worked on crossword puzzles. I lay on my bed in a tangle of quilt and fuzzy blanket and masturbated two, three, four times in a row, always thinking about the thing.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  I could see the profile of a golden eagle on her perch. When we got closer, I realized there were two eagles—a male and female sitting next to each other. The female hopped down into the snow and unfolded her powerful wings. She leaped and twirled in the snow. I remembered the newspaper reported her egg had hatched last week, but the eaglet had died. I wondered if she danced in bitter grief. “What’s he doing?” Kim asked me. “She’s playing in the snow.” I figured it was as good an answer as any. “That’s the girl eagle.” “How do you know?” she asked. “Because the girls are bigger than the boys.” Both kids spotted the polar bears before I did and ran ahead. The mother bear was out with her cub. According to the newspaper, the cub was born three months ago and hadn’t been seen outside of the cave yet. “Aw,” the kids cooed as the cub toppled over into a snow bank. The mother bear sat back on her haunches. The little bear rooted for her breast and suckled. “I’m hungry,” Scotty announced. The concession stand was almost deserted inside: two zoo maintenance men sipped hot coffee in the corner. I ordered hot dogs and hot chocolates. “We need peanuts,” Kim reminded me, “for the animals.” “T don’t think we’re supposed to feed them,” I told her. “Then we need peanuts for us,” she said. “And three bags of peanuts,” I added to the man behind the counter. He glared at me in open disgust. Oh, please, 1 thought, not in front of the kids. | got my money teady—the faster the transaction the better. He came back with the food and drinks in a catdboard container. “That'll be $9.80, sir,’ he smirked. I threw a ten dollar bill on the counter and picked up the container. “Keep the change, ma’am,” I told him. “C’mon kids. Want to eat outside on a park bench?” It was OK with Scotty; Kim didn’t seem so sure. I brushed the snow off a bench. “Why did you call him ma’am?” Kim asked. I shrugged. “He was being mean to me.” Stone Butch Blues 49 She wouldn’t let it go. “He didn’t like your” I shook my head. “Why not? How does he know he doesn’t like your” “T don’t know,” I told her. “Don’t you ever meet bullies at school who are mean to you for no reason?” She nodded. “Why did he call you sir? Doesn’t he know you're a girl?” I sighed and put my hot dog back in the cardboard container. The last bite ’d chewed was stuck like a knot in my throat. I sipped some hot chocolate before I answered. “He knew I was a girl. He was picking on me ’cause I’m different.” I anticipated her next question. “I don’t look like your mom. I look different from a lot of other girls. Some people don’t like that, they don’t think it’s right.”