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.

Page 58 of 267 · 20 per page

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "How do you like New York?" asked Dr. Craig. "I've hardly seen it." The doctors gave me sightseeing suggestions. The atmosphere was light, friendly. Luce put his hand on the small of my back. Men have an annoying way of doing that. They touch your back as though there's a handle there, and direct you where they want you to go. Or diey place their hand on top of your head, paternally. Men and their hands. You've got to watch them every minute. Luce's hand was now pro- claiming: Here she is. My star attraction. The terrible thing was that I responded to it; I liked the feel of Luce's hand on my back. I liked the attention. Here were all these people who wanted to meet me. Pretty soon Luce's hand was escorting me down the hall into the examination room. I knew the drill. Behind the screen I undressed while the doctors waited. The green paper gown was folded on the chair. "The family comes from where, Peter?" "Turkey. Originally." "I'm only acquainted with the Papua New Guinea study," said Craig. "Among the Sambia, right?" asked Winters. "Yes, that's right," Luce answered. "There's a high incidence of the mutation there as well. The Sambia are interesting from a sexological point of view, too. They practice ritualized homosexuality. Sambia males consider contact with females highly polluting. So they've or- ganized social structures to limit exposure as much as possible. The men and boys sleep on one side of the village, the women and girls on the other side. The men go into the women's longhouse only to procreate. In and out. In fact, the Sambia word for Vagina' translates literally as 'that thing which is truly no good.' " Soft chuckling came from the otiier side of the screen. I came out, feeling awkward. I was taller than everyone else in the room, though I weighed much less. The floor felt cold against my bare feet as I crossed to the exam table and jumped up. 420 I lay back. Without having to be told, I lifted my legs and fit my heels in the gynecological stirrups. The room had gone ominously silent. The three doctors came forward, staring down. Their heads formed a trinity above me. Luce pulled the curtain across the table. They bent over me, studying my parts, while Luce led a guided tour. I didn't know what most of the words meant but after the third or fourth time I could recite the list by heart. "Muscular habitus . no gynecomastia . . blind vagi- ." These were my claim to fame. I didn't feel famous, nal pouch . however. In fact, behind the curtain, I no longer felt as if I were in . urogenital sinus . . hypospadias . . . . . . . the room. "How old is she?" Dr. Winters asked. "Fourteen," Luce answered. "She'll be fifteen in January." "So your position is that chromosomal status has been completely

• From Middlesex (2002)

  And then: pain. Pain like a knife, pain like fire. It ripped into me. It spread up my belly all the way to my nipples. I gasped; I opened my eyes; I looked up and saw Jerome looking down at me. We gaped at each other and I knew he knew. Jerome knew what I was, as sud- denly I did, too, for the first time clearly understood that I wasn't a girl but something in between. I knew this from how natural it had felt to enter Rex Reese's body, how right itfelt^ and I knew this from the shocked expression on Jerome's face. All this was conveyed in an instant. Then I pushed Jerome away. He pulled back, pulled out, and slid off the bed onto the floor. Silence. Only the two of us, catching our breath. I lay on my back on the camp bed. Beneath the newspaper clippings. With only a mounted pike as witness. I pulled up my overalls and felt very sober indeed. It was all over now. There was nothing I could do. Jerome would 375 tell Rex. Rex would tell the Object. She would stop being my friend. By die time school started, everyone at Baker & Inglis would know that Calliope Stephanides was a freak. I was waiting for Jerome to jump up and run. I felt panicked and, at the same time, strangely calm. I was putting things together in my head. Clementine Stark and kissing lessons; and spinning together in a hot tub; an amphib- ian heart and a crocus blooming; blood and breasts that didn't come; and a crush on the Object that did, that had, that looked as if it was here to stay. A few moments of clarity and then panic again whined in my ears. I wanted to run myself. Before Jerome had a chance to say anything. Before anyone found out. I could leave tonight. I could find my way back through the cedar swamp to the house. I could steal the Object's parents' car. I could drive north, through the Upper Peninsula to Canada, where Chapter Eleven had once thought of going to escape the draft. As I contemplated my life on the run I peeked over the edge of the cot to see what Jerome was doing. He was flat on his back, eyes closed. And he was smiling to him- self. Smiling? Smiling how? In ridicule? No. In shock? Wrong again. How then? In contentment. Jerome had the smile of a boy who, on a summer night, had gone all the way. He had the smile of a guy who couldn't wait to tell his friends. Reader, believe this if you can: he hadn't noticed a thing. 376 THE OUR 00 THE WALL

• From Middlesex (2002)

  woke up back at the house. I had a vague memory of how I got there, of trudging back through the bog. My overalls were still on. My crotch felt hot and spongy. The Object was already out of bed or had slept somewhere else. I reached down and unstuck my underpants from my skin. Something about this act, the little puff of air, the rising aroma, reiterated the brand-new fact about myself. But it wasn't a fact exacriy. It was nothing as solid as a fact right then. It was just an intuition Fd had about myself, to which the coming of morning brought no clarity. It was just an idea that was already be- ginning to fade, to become part of the drunkenness in the woods of the night before. When the Oracle awoke after one of her wild, prophesying nights, she probably had no memory of the things she'd said. Whatever truths she'd hit on were secondary to the immediate sensations: the headache, the singed throat. It was the same for Calliope. I had a sense of having been dirtied and initiated. I felt all grown up. But mostiy I felt sick and didn't want to think about what had happened at all. In the shower I tried to rinse the experience away, scrubbing me- thodically, lifting my face to the slanting water. Steam filled the air. The mirrors and the windows dripped. The towels grew damp. I used every kind of soap within reach, Lifebuoy, Ivory, plus a local, rustic brand that felt like sandpaper. I got dressed and came down the 377 stairs quietly. As I crossed the living room I noticed an old hunting rifle over the mantel. Another gun on the wall. I tiptoed by it. In the kitchen, the Object was eating cereal and reading a magazine. She didn't look up when I entered. I got a bowl myself and sat down across from her. Maybe I grimaced in doing so. "What's the matter?" sneered the Object. "Sore?" Her sarcastic face rested on one palm. She didn't look so hot herself. She was puffy under the eyes. There were times when her freckles were not sunny but like corrosion or rust. "You're the one that should be sore," I replied. "I'm not sore at all," said the Object, "if you want to know." "I forgot," I said; "you're used to it." Suddenly her face was full of anger, shaking. Cords stretched and pulled beneath her skin, making lines. "You were a total slut last night," she charged. "Me? What about you? You were throwing yourself at Rex the whole time." "I was not. We didn't even do that much." "You could have fooled me."

• From Middlesex (2002)

  midriff-revealing, Ellie-May blouse, gets out of her car before an oceanside house. She rings the bell. No one is at home. Not wanting the pizza to go to waste, she sits down next to the pool and begins to eat. The production values were low. The pool boy, when he arrived, was badly lit. It was hard to hear what he was saying. But soon enough he was no longer saying anything. Annie had begun to re- move her clothes. She was down on her knees. The pool boy was naked, too, and then they were on the steps, in the pool, on the div- ing board, pumping, writhing. I closed my eyes. I didn't like the raw meat colors of the film. It wasn't at all beautiful like the tiny paintings in Luce's office. In a straightforward voice Luce asked from the darkness, "Which one turns you on?" "Excuse me?" "Which one turns you on? The woman or the man?" The true answer was neither. But truth would not do. Sticking to my cover story, I managed to get out, very quietiy, "The boy." "The pool boy? That's good. I dig the pizza girl myself. She's got a great bod." A sheltered child once, from a reserved Presbyterian home, Luce was now liberated, free of antisexualism. "She's got in- credible tits," he said. "You like her tits? Do they turn you on?" "No." "The guy's cock turns you on?" I nodded, barely, wishing it would be over. But it was not over for a while yet. Annie had other pizzas to deliver. Luce wanted to watch each one. Sometimes he brought other doctors to see me. A typical unveiling went as follows. I was summoned from my writing studio in the back of the Clinic. In Luce's office two men in business suits were waiting. They stood when I came in. Luce made introductions. "Callie, I want to you meet Dr. Craig and Dr. Winters." The doctors shook my hand. It was their first bit of data: my 419 handshake. Dr. Craig squeezed hard, Winters less so. They were care- ful about not seeming too eager. Like men meeting a fashion model, they trained their eyes away from my body and pretended to be in- terested in me as a person. Luce said, "Callie's been here at the Clinic for just about a week now."

• From Middlesex (2002)

  San Francisco's Sixty-Niners, Bob Presto's club: it stood in North Beach, within view of the skyscrapers downtown. It was a neighbor- hood of Italian cafes, pizza restaurants, and topless bars. In North Beach you had the glitzy strip palaces like Carol Doda's with her fa- mous bust outlined on the marquee. Barkers on the sidewalks col- lared passersby: "Gendemen! Come in and see the show! Just have a look. Doesn't cost anything to have a look." While the guy outside the next club was shouting, "Our girls are the best, right this way through the curtain!" And the next, "Live erotic show, gendemen! Plus in our establishment you can watch the football game!" The 482 barkers were all interesting guys, poets manques, most of them, and spent their time off in City Lights Bookstore, leafing through New Directions paperbacks. They wore striped pants, loud ties, sideburns, goatees. They tended to resemble Tom Waits, or maybe it was the other way around. Like Mamet characters, they populated an Amer- ica that had never existed, a kid's idea of sharpies and hucksters and underworld life. It is said: San Francisco is where young people go to retire. And though it would certainly add color to my story to present a descent into a seamy underworld, I can't fail to mention that die North Beach Strip is only a few blocks long. The geography of San Fran- cisco is too beautiful to allow seaminess to get much of a foothold, and so along with these barkers there were many tourists afoot, tourists carrying loaves of sourdough bread and Ghirardelli choco- lates. In the daytime there were roller-skaters and hackey sack players in the parks. But at night things got a little seamy at last, and from 9 p.m. to three in the morning the men streamed into Sixty-Niners. Which was where, obviously enough, I was now working. Five nights a week, six hours a day, for the next four months— and, fortu- nately, never again— I made my living by exhibiting the peculiar way I am formed. The Clinic had prepared me for it, benumbing my sense of shame, and besides, I was desperate for money. Sixty-Niners also had a perfect venue for me. I worked with two other girls, so called: Carmen and Zora. Presto was an exploiter, a porn dog, a sex pig, but I could have done worse. Without him I might never have found myself. After he had picked me up in the park, bruised and battered, Presto took me back to his apartment. His Namibian girlfriend, Wilhelmina, dressed my wounds. At some point I passed out again and they undressed me to put me in bed. It was then that Presto realized the extent of his windfall. I drifted in and out of consciousness, catching bits of what they said to each other.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  the collected knowledge of the past while giving evidence of present social conditions. The chain suggested that some library visitors might take it upon themselves to see that the dictionary circulated. The dictionary contained every word in the English language but the chain knew only a few. It knew thief and steal and, maybe, purloined. The chain spoke of poverty and mistrust and inequality and decadence. Callie herself was holding on to this chain now. She was tugging on it, winding it around her hand so that her fingers went white, as she stared down at that word. Monster. Still there. It had not moved. And she wasn't reading this word on the wall of her old bathroom stall. There was graffiti in Webster's but the synonym wasn't part of it. The synonym was official, authoritative; it was the verdict that the culture gave on a person like her. Monster. That was what she was. That was what Dr. Luce and his colleagues had been saying. It explained so much, really. It explained her mother crying in the next room. It ex- plained the false cheer in Milton's voice. It explained why her parents had brought her to New York, so that the doctors could work in se- cret. It explained the photographs, too. What did people do when they came upon Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster? They tried to get a picture. For a second Callie saw herself that way. As a lumbering, shaggy creature pausing at the edge of woods. As a humped con- 431 volvulus rearing its dragon's head from an icy lake. Her eyes were fill- ing now, making the print swim, and she turned away and hurried out of the library. But the synonym pursued her. All the way out the door and down the steps between the stone lions, Webster's Dictionary kept calling after her, Monster, Monster! The bright banners hanging from the tympanum proclaimed the word. The definition inserted itself into billboards and the ads on passing buses. On Fifth Avenue a cab was pulling up. Her father jumped out, smiling and waving. When Callie saw him, her heart lifted. The voice of Webster's stopped speaking in her head. Her father wouldn't be smiling like that unless the news from the doctor had been good. Callie laughed and sprinted down the library steps, almost tripping. Her emotions soared for the time it took to reach the street, maybe five or eight seconds. But coming closer to Milton, she learned something about medical reports. The more people smile, the worse the news. Milton grinned at her, per- spiring in pinstripes, and once again the tragedy cuff link glinted in the sun.

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  I busied myself practicing my letters and learning to read short, simple words. I wanted to be ready when I started first grade that fall. I took all my shots without crying. Then at the last minute, Queenie and Rita found out that because my birthday fell too late in the month of September, I would have to wait until the next year to start school.I busied myself again, this time stealing candy from the store and change from Nila’s counter. When Queenie and Rita asked me about the money, I told them I had found it in the yard. They believed me the first time, but the second time, they marched me through the hedge and made me give the money back. Nila said we were still friends, but I stopped going to her house to play.With the other kids in school, Gary and I spent most of our days indoors watching Queenie and Rita’s television. We stared at soap operas all day and Ed Sullivan and Bonanza on Sundays, just as Brother Terrell had predicted. We fell asleep in the living room almost every night watching newsreels and old movies and anything else that moved across the screen. Cigarette butts piled up in bowls. Lipsticks, bottles of nail polish, and plates of old food covered the end tables and the TV trays. I often woke early, poured myself a bowl of cereal, and turned the channel knob until I found a cartoon. On mornings when there was no milk, I took bills from Queenie’s wallet and went to the nearby store. One morning as I handed a carton of milk and a fistful of money to my favorite cashier, a man I had nicknamed Mr. Whipple, he said something that shocked me.“Honey, you need to go home and tell someone to put some clothes on you.”His voice was stern, but his eyes were traced with something that looked like sadness, only different. In that moment, I saw myself as he saw me: a skinny, dirty kid in baggy white cotton panties and nothing else. He said something else to me, but his words sounded thick and muffled. I stood there caught, not knowing what to do or say. Finally, a hand reached across the counter with my change. I took it and ran from the store. On my way home I played step-on-a-crack, breakyour-mother’s-back, and stepped on every crack I could. Life flickered between triumph and tragedy that fall. News reports showed thousands of people, black and white, marching to Washington, DC, to hear about Doctor King’s dream. When he spoke, the crowd went quiet and Queenie and Rita wept. Everyone locked arms and sang together and I was reminded of the revivals. I told Queenie and Rita about how blacks and whites sat together under the tent and how the Klan had beaten Brother Terrell.

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  All of this had seemed possible, but it wasn’t and probably never had been. My choices were to marry or to move to the middle of nowhere and wait for the end of the world.I married a month before I turned sixteen. Mama sold the house, and my family hightailed it out of town. I quit school. It’s one thing to leave home and another to have home leave you. I missed my family. Everything that had been familiar began to look and feel like a foreign object, including me. I stopped eating and was hospitalized for pneumonia. I began to talk to God. Please help me. I am so lost.One day a friend from the nearby town of Mexia (a Spanish word mangled as “Ma-hair” by local farmer-rancher types) dropped by, and for lack of anything better to do we took a stroll around the courthouse. I pointed to the statue of the World War II soldier and told him about the time a visiting movie star, a hometown boy made good, got drunk and hung a dead skunk from the bayonet of the statue’s rifle, just in time for the homecoming parade. My friend said something about being surprised he hadn’t read that on the front page, and pulled a folded copy of the Mexia News from his jacket. There on the front page was an AP wire story on evangelist David Terrell, along with a photograph. I stammered through an explanation of why we kept my stepdad’s profession a secret, and heard my mother’s voice.“It’s so he can get some rest. People would bother him day and night if they knew where he lived.”My friend shrugged. “I kinda knew. Rumors have been going around for years.”I scanned the story. Brother Terrell’s followers, dubbed Terrellites by the press, were descending en masse on backwaters in Texas, Georgia, Alabama, Tennessee, Arkansas, Oklahoma, and South Carolina. People were selling everything they owned and moving to makeshift camps in these “Blessed Areas” to survive the coming apocalypse prophesied by Brother Terrell. A six-year-old girl had died in the camp in Bangs, Texas, from a minor kidney ailment that could have been treated had her parents taken her to a doctor. They had opted for prayer instead. With winter approaching, the local authorities worried about more deaths. The reporter wrote that some of the Terrellites lived in tar-paper shacks and gave everything they had to the prophet, who traveled between revivals in a Mercedes-Benz. That, at least, sounded familiar. The prophet owned property all over the United States and was under investigation by the IRS. The IRS? No wonder my mother had been in such a hurry to get out of town. I pulled my sunglasses out of my purse and put them on.My friend laughed. “Pretty weird, huh?”Since Groesbeck and Mexia were only a few miles apart, everyone in town knew about the newspaper story, but no one asked about it.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  yours," Luce began again. He said the Object's name. "Do you feel sexually attracted to her? Or have you had sexual relations with her?" "We're just friends," I insisted, a little too loudly. I tried again in a quieter voice. "She's my best friend." In response Luce's right eye- brow rose from behind his glasses. It came out of hiding as though it, too, wanted to get a good look at me. And then I found a way out: "I had sex with her brother," I confessed. "He's a junior." Again Luce showed neither surprise, disapproval, or interest. He made a note on his pad, nodding once. "And did you enjoy it?" Here I could tell the truth. "It hurt," I said. "Plus I was scared about getting pregnant." Luce smiled to himself, jotting in his notebook. "Not to worry," he said. That was how it went. Every day for an hour I sat in Luce's office and talked about my life, my feelings, my likes and dislikes. Luce asked all kinds of questions. The answers I gave were sometimes not as important as the way I answered them. He watched my facial ex- pressions; he noted my style of argument. Females tend to smile at their interlocutors more than males do. Females pause and look for signs of agreement before continuing. Males just look into the mid- dle distance and hold forth. Women prefer the anecdotal, men the deductive. It was impossible to be in Luce's line of work without falling back on such stereotypes. He knew their limitations. But they were clinically useful. When I wasn't being questioned about my life and feelings, I was writing about them. Most days I sat typing up what Luce called my "Psychological Narrative." That early autobiography didn't begin: "I was born twice." Flashy, rhetorical openings were something I had to get the hang of. It started simply, with the words "My name is Cal- liope Stephanides. I am fourteen years old. Going on fifteen." I began with the facts and followed them as long as I could. Sing, Muse, how cunning Calliope wrote on that battered Smith Corona! Sing how the typewriter hummed and trembled at her psy- chiatric revelations! Sing of its two cartridges, one for typing and one for correcting, that so eloquendy represented her predicament, poised between the print of genetics and the Wite-Out of surgery. Sing of the weird smell the typewriter gave off, like WD -40 and salami, and of the Day-Glo flower decal the last person who'd used it 417

• From Middlesex (2002)

  My family suffered. My hair turned up in every corner, every drawer, every meal. Even in the rice puddings Tessie made, covering each little bowl with wax paper before putting it away in the fridge— even into these prophylactically secure desserts my hair found its way! Jet black hairs wound themselves around bars of soap. They lay pressed like flower stems between the pages of books. They turned up in eyeglass cases, birthday cards, once— I swear— inside an egg Tessie had just cracked. The next-door neighbor's cat coughed up a hairball one day and the hair was not the cat's . "That's so gross!" Becky Turnbull shouted. "I'm calling the SPCA!" In vain Milton tried to get me to wear one of the paper hats his employees had to wear by law. Tessie, as though I were still six, took a hairbrush to me. "I — don't— see — why — you — won't— let— Sophie — do — some- thing—with—your —hair." "Because I see what she does to her hair." "Sophie has a perfectiy nice hairstyle." "Ow!" "Well, what do you expect? It's a rat's nest." "Just leave it." "Be still." More brushing, tugging. My head jerking with every stroke. "Short hair's the style now anyway, Callie." "Are you finished?" A few final, frustrated strokes. Then, plaintively: "At least tie it back. Keep it out of your face." What could I tell her? That that was the whole point of having long hair? To keep it in my face? Maybe I didn't look like Dorothy Hamill. Maybe I was even starting to bear a strong resemblance to our weeping willow trees. But there were virtues to my hair. It cov- ered tinsel teeth. It covered satyrical nose. It hid blemishes and, best of all, it hid me. Cut my hair? Never! I was still growing it out. My dream was to someday live inside it. Imagine me then at unlucky thirteen as I entered the eighth grade. Five feet ten inches tall, weighing one hundred and thirty-one pounds. Black hair hanging like drapes on either side of my nose. People knocking on the air in front of my face and calling out, "Any- body in there?" I was in there all right. Where else could I go? 306 UIAHIHG LVRICAL

• From Middlesex (2002)

  My mother, listening to this debate, couldn't fail to notice the stark contrasts between her two suitors. On one side, faith; on the other, skepticism. On one side, kindness; on the other, hostility. An admittedly short though pleasant-looking young man against a scrawny, pimply, 4-F boy with circles under his eyes like a hungry wolf. Michael Antoniou hadn't so much as tried to kiss Tessie, whereas Milton had led her astray with a woodwind. D flats and A sharps licking at her like so many tongues of flame, here behind the 179 knee, up here on the neck, right below the navel . . the inventory . filled her with shame. Later that afternoon, Milton cornered her. "I got a new song for you, Tess. Just learned it today." But Tessie told him, "Get away." "Why? What's the matter?" "It's ... it's . . ."-she tried to think of the most damning pronouncement—"It's not nice!" "That's not what you said last week." Milton waved the clarinet, ad- justing the reed with a wink, until Tessie, finally: "I don't want to do diat anymore! Do you understand? Leave me alone!" Every Saturday for the remainder of the summer, Michael Anto- niou came by O'Toole's to pick Tessie up. Taking her purse as they walked along, he swung it by its strap, pretending it was a censer. "You have to do it just right," he told her. "If you don't swing it hard enough, the chain buckles and the embers fall out." On their way down the street, my mother tried to ignore her embarrassment at be- ing seen in public with a man swinging a purse. At the drugstore soda fountain, she watched him tuck a napkin into his shirt collar be- fore eating his sundae. Instead of popping the cherry into his mouth as Milton would have done, Michael Antoniou always offered it to her. Later, seeing her home, he squeezed her hand and looked sin- cerely into her eyes. "Thank you for another enjoyable afternoon. See you in church tomorrow." Then he walked away, folding his hands behind his back. Practicing how to walk like a priest, too. After he was gone, Tessie went inside and climbed the stairs to her room. She lay down on her daybed to read. One afternoon, unable to concentrate, she stopped reading and put the book over her face. Just then, outside, a clarinet began to play. Tessie listened for a while, without moving. Finally, her hand rose to take the book off her face. It never got there, however. The hand waved in the air, as if conduct- ing the music, and then, sensibly, resignedly, desperately, it slammed the window shut. "Bravo!" Desdemona shouted into the phone a few days later. Then, holding the mouthpiece to her chest: "Mikey Antoniou just proposed to Tessie! They're engaged! They are going to get married as soon as Mikey he finishes the seminary."

• From Middlesex (2002)

  An owl hooted in a tree somewhere. Bugs assailed the windows, attracted by the light. In my Delphic state I was simultaneously aware of both make-out sessions. By way of Rex's body I was hug- . while at the same time ging the Obscure Object, nuzzling her ear . I was also aware of Jerome's hands ranging over my body, the one I'd left on the other cot. He was on top of me, crushing one of my legs, so I moved it, spread my legs apart, and he fell between them. He made little sounds. I put my arms around him, appalled and moved by his thinness. He was even skinnier than I was. Now Jerome was kissing my neck. Now, advised by some magazine column, he was paying attention to my earlobe. His hands moved up. They were heading for my chest. "Don't," I said, scared he'd find my tissues. And Jerome obeyed . . . . . . while on the other cot Rex was meeting with no such resis- tance. With consummate skill he had undone the Object's brassiere with one hand. Because he was more experienced than me I let him 374 deal with the shirt buttons, but it was my hands that took hold of her bra and, as if snapping up a windowshade, let into the room the pale light of the Object's breasts. I saw them; I touched them; and since it wasn't me who did this but Rex Reese I didn't have to feel guilty, didn't have to ask myself if I was having unnatural desires. How could I be when I was on the other cot fooling around with Jerome? . and so, just to be safe, I returned my attention to him. He was now in some kind of agony. He was rubbing against me and then he stopped and reached down to adjust himself. There was the sound of a zipper. I peeked at him through the corner of my eyes. I saw him thinking, concentrating on the puzzle of the overalls. . . He didn't seem to be getting anywhere, so once again I floated back across the room and entered the body of Rex Reese. For a minute I could feel the Object responding to my touch, the startled, eager wakefulness in her skin and muscles. And now I felt something else, Rex, or me, lengthening, expanding. I felt that for only a second and then something was pulling me back . . . Jerome had his hand on my bare stomach. While I'd been off in- habiting Rex's body Jerome had taken the opportunity to undo my shoulder straps. He had flicked open the silver buttons at my waist. Now he was pulling down my overalls and I was trying to wake up. Now he was tugging on my underpants and I was realizing how drunk I was. Now he was inside my underpants and now he was . inside me\ . .

• From Middlesex (2002)

  the old superstitions survived. People still believed in the evil eye. Nobody pitied him for being a priest, whereas later on in America his parishioners always treated him with a slight but unmistakable con- descension, like a crazy person whose delusions had to be humored. The humiliation of being a priest in a market economy didn't plague Father Mike while he was in Greece. In Greece he could forget about my mother, who had jilted him, and he could escape comparison with my father, who made so much more money. His wife's nagging complaints hadn't begun to make Father Mike think about leaving the priesthood yet, and hadn't led him to his desperate act . . . In 1956 Father Mike was reappointed stateside to a church in Cleveland. In 1958 he became a priest at Assumption. Zoe was happy to be back home, but she never got used to her position as presvytem. She didn't like being a role model. She found it difficult to keep her children looking neat and well dressed. "On what money?" she shouted at her husband. "Maybe if they paid you halfway decent the kids would look better." My cousins— Aristotie, Socrates, Cleopa- tra, and Plato— had the thwarted, overbrushed look of ministers' children. The boys wore cheap, garishly colored double-breasted suits. They had Afros. Cleo, who was as beautiful and almond-eyed as her namesake, made do with dresses from Montgomery Ward. She rarely spoke, and played cat's cradle with Plato during the service. 352 I always liked Aunt Zo. I liked her big, grandstanding voice. I liked her sense of humor. She was louder than most men; she could make my mother laugh like nobody else. That Sunday, for instance, during one of the many lulls, Aunt Zo turned around and dared to joke. "I have to be here, Tessie. What's your excuse?" "Callie and I just felt like coming to church," my mother an- swered. Plato, who was small like his father, sang out with mock censure, "Shame on you, Callie. What did you do?" He rubbed his right index finger repeatedly over his left. "Nothing," I said. "Hey, Soc," Plato whispered to his brother. "Is cousin Callie blushing?" "She must have done something she doesn't want to tell us." "Shush up now, you," said Aunt Zo. For Father Mike was ap- proaching with the censer. My cousins turned around. My mother bowed her head to pray. I did, too. Tessie prayed for Chapter Eleven to come to his senses. And me? That's easy. I prayed for my period to come. I prayed to receive the womanly stigmata. Summer sped on. Milton brought our suitcases up from the base- ment and told my mother and me to start packing. I tanned with the Object at the Little Club. Dr. Bauer haunted my mind, judging the proportions of my legs. The appointment was a week away, then half a week, then two days . . .

• From Middlesex (2002)

  I climbed into the chair, glad to stop moving. Ed the barber tied a paper bib around my neck. Next he draped an apron over me. All the while he was taking my measure and shaking his head. "I never un- derstood what it was with you young people and the long hair. Nearly ruined my business. I get mostiy retired fellas in here. Guys who come in my shop for a haircut, they don't have any hair." He chuckled, but only briefly. "Okay, so nowadays the hairstyles are a lit- tle bit shorter. I think, good, maybe I can make a living. But no. Now everyone wants to go unisex. They want to be shampooed? He leaned toward me, suspicious. "You don't want a shampoo, do you?" "Just a haircut." He nodded, satisfied. "How do you want it?" "Short," I ventured. 441 "Short short?" he asked. "Short," I said, "but not too short." "Okay. Short but not too short. Good idea. See how the other half lives." I froze, thinking he meant something by this. But he was only joking. As for himself, Ed kept a neat head. What hair he had was slicked back. He had a brutal, pugnacious face. His nostrils were dark and fiery as he labored around me, pumping up the chair and stropping his razor. "Your father let you keep your hair like this?" "Up until now." "So the old man is finally straightening you out. Listen, you won't regret it. Women don't want a guy looks like a girl. Don't be- lieve what they tell you, they want a sensitive male. Bullshit!" The swearing, the straight razors, the shaving brushes, all these were my welcome to the masculine world. The barber had the foot- ball game on the TV The calendar showed a vodka bottle and a pretty girl in a white fur bikini. I planted my feet on the waffle iron of the footrest while he swiveled me back and forth before the flashing mir- rors. "Holy mackerel, when's the last time you had a haircut anyway?" "Remember the moon landing?" "Yeah. That's about right." He turned me to face the mirror. And there she was, for the last time, in the silvered glass: Calliope. She still wasn't gone yet. She was like a captive spirit, peeking out. Ed the barber put a comb in my long hair. He lifted it experimen- tally, making snipping sounds with his scissors. The blades weren't touching my hair. The snipping was only a kind of mental barbering, a limbering up. This gave me time for second thoughts. What was I doing? What if Dr. Luce was right? What if that girl in the mirror re- ally was me? How did I think I could defect to the other side so eas- ily? What did I know about boys, about men? I didn't even like them that much. "This is like taking down a tree," opined Ed. "First you gotta go in

• From Middlesex (2002)

  yours," Luce beganagain.HesaidtheObject'sname."Doyou feel sexually attracted toher?Orhave youhad sexualrelationswithher?" "We'rejust friends,"I insisted, alittletooloudly.Itriedagain in a quieter voice. "She'smybestfriend." InresponseLuce's right eye- brow rosefrom behindhisglasses.It cameoutofhidingas thoughit, too, wanted togetagoodlookatme.Andthen I found a wayout: "Ihad sexwith herbrother,"I confessed."He's a junior." AgainLuce showedneithersurprise, disapproval,orinterest.He madeanote onhispad,noddingonce."Anddid you enjoy it?" HereIcould tell thetruth."Ithurt,"Isaid."PlusIwasscared about getting pregnant." Luce smiledtohimself,jottingin his notebook. "Nottoworry," hesaid. Thatwashowitwent.EverydayforanhourI sat inLuce'soffice andtalkedaboutmy life, my feelings, my likes anddislikes.Luce asked allkindsofquestions.TheanswersI gave weresometimes not as importantasthe way Iansweredthem.Hewatchedmyfacial ex- pressions;henotedmystyleofargument.Femalestendtosmileat theirinterlocutorsmorethanmalesdo. Females pauseandlookfor signsof agreement beforecontinuing. Males justlook into themid- dledistanceandholdforth.Womenprefertheanecdotal,menthe deductive.It was impossibletobeinLuce'slineofworkwithout falling backonsuchstereotypes. He knew theirlimitations.Butthey wereclinically useful. WhenIwasn'tbeingquestionedaboutmylifeandfeelings,Iwas writing about them. MostdaysIsattypingupwhat Lucecalledmy "Psychological Narrative."That earlyautobiographydidn'tbegin:"I was borntwice." Flashy, rhetoricalopeningsweresomethingIhadto get the hangof. It startedsimply, with the words "My nameisCal- liope Stephanides. Iam fourteenyearsold.Goingonfifteen."Ibegan with thefacts and followedthemaslongasIcould. Sing, Muse,howcunning CalliopewroteonthatbatteredSmith Corona! Sing howthe typewriterhummedand trembled atherpsy- chiatric revelations!Singofits twocartridges,onefortypingandone for correcting, that soeloquendy representedherpredicament, poised between the printofgeneticsandtheWite-Outofsurgery. Sing ofthe weirdsmell thetypewritergaveoff,likeWD-40and salami, and oftheDay-Glo flowerdecalthelastpersonwho'd usedit 417 had applied,andof thebrokenF key, which stuck.Onthat newfan- gledbutsoon-to-beobsolete machine Iwrotenotsomuch likeakid fromtheMidwestasaminister'sdaughterfromShropshire. Istill have a copyofmypsychologicalnarrativesomewhere. Luce pub- lished itinhiscollectedworks,omittingmyname. "Iwouldlike to tellof mylife,"itruns at onepoint,"and oftheexperiencesthatmake myriadmyjoysand sorrows uponthisplanetwecallEarth." Inde- scribing mymother,I say, "Herbeautyisthekindwhich seemsto be throwninto relief by grief?'Afew pagesontherecomesthesubhead- ing"CalumniesCausticandCattybyCallie."HalfthetimeI wrote likebadGeorgeEliot, theotherhalflike badSalinger."Ifthere'sone thingIhateit'stelevision."Nottrue:Ilovedtelevision!Butonthat SmithCoronaI quicklydiscoveredthattellingthetruthwasn't nearly as muchfun as makingthingsup.IalsoknewthatIwaswritingfor anaudience— Dr. Luce—andthatifIseemednormalenough, he mightsendmebackhome.Thisexplainsthepassagesaboutmylove ofcats("feline affection"), thepie recipes, andmydeep feelings for nature. Luceateitallup.It'strue;Ihavetogive creditwherecredit's due. Luce was thefirstperson to encouragemywriting. Every nighthe readthroughwhatIhadtypedup during theday. Hedidn'tknow,of course,thatI was making up mostofwhatIwrote, pretending tobe theail-Americandaughter my parentswantedme to be.Ifictional- ized early"sexplay"andlatercrushesonboys;I transferredmyfeel- ingforthe Objectonto Jerome andit was amazinghowitworked: thetiniest bitoftruthmadecrediblethegreatest lies. Lucewasinterestedinthegendergiveaways of my prose,of course.He measuredmyjouissanceagainst mylinearity.Hepickedup onmyVictorian flourishes,myantique diction,mygirls'schoolpro- priety. These allweighedheavilyinhisfinal assessment. Therewas alsothediagnostictool ofpornography. Oneafter- noonwhenIarrivedfor my sessionwithDr.Luce, there wasa movie projectorinhis office.Ascreenhadbeensetup before thebookcase, andtheblindsdrawn.InsyrupylightLucewas feedingthe celluloid throughthe sprocket wheel. "Areyou going toshowmemydad's movieagain? FromwhenI waslittle?" "TodayI'vegot something a littledifferent," saidLuce. Itookupmy customaryposition on the chaise,myarms folded 418 behindme onthe cowhide. Dr.Luceswitchedoffthelightsandsoon the movie began. Itwasabouta pizza delivery girl.Thetide was, infact,AnnieDe- liversto Tour Door.Inthefirst scene,Annie,wearing cutoffsanda midriff-revealing, Ellie-Mayblouse, getsoutofhercarbeforean oceanside house. Sherings thebell. No one isathome.Notwanting the pizzatogotowaste,shesitsdownnext tothe pool andbeginsto eat. The productionvalueswerelow. Thepoolboy,whenhearrived, was badlylit. Itwashard to hear whathewassaying.Butsoon enoughhewas nolongersayinganything.Annie hadbeguntore- moveherclothes.Shewasdownonherknees.Thepool boywas naked, too,and thenthey wereonthesteps,inthepool,onthediv- ingboard, pumping,writhing.I closedmyeyes.Ididn'tliketheraw meatcolorsof thefilm.Itwasn't at allbeautiful like the tiny paintings in Luce'soffice. In a straightforwardvoiceLuce asked fromthedarkness,"Which oneturnsyouon?" "Excuseme?" "Whichoneturnsyouon? Thewomanor theman?" The trueanswerwas neither. But truthwouldnotdo. Sticking tomycover story,Imanagedtogetout,veryquietiy, "Theboy." "Thepool boy? That'sgood. I dig thepizzagirlmyself.She's got a great bod."Asheltered childonce,from a reservedPresbyterian home,Luce wasnow liberated,freeofantisexualism."She'sgotin- credibletits," hesaid. "Youlikehertits? Dotheyturn youon?" "No." "The guy'scockturns youon?" I nodded, barely, wishingitwouldbe over. But it was notoverfor awhile yet.Anniehad otherpizzas to deliver.Lucewantedtowatch each one. Sometimes hebrought otherdoctorstoseeme. Atypicalunveiling went as follows.Iwas summonedfrommywriting studioin theback ofthe Clinic. InLuce's officetwo meninbusinesssuitswerewaiting. They stood whenI camein.Lucemade introductions."Callie,I want to youmeet Dr.Craig andDr.Winters." The doctorsshookmy hand.Itwas theirfirstbit of data:my 419

• From Middlesex (2002)

  The littleschoolgirlinmyhead wriggledinher desk,handraised high."Yes,Calliope?"MissBarriecalledonme. "Hypo.Beloworbeneath.Like'hypodermic.' " "Brilliant.AndspadiasV* "Urnurn ..." "Cananyonecometoourpoormuse'said?" But,intheclassroomofmybrain,noone could.Sothatwas why Iwashere.Because I knewthatIhadsomething below or beneath butIdidn'tknowwhatthatsomethingwas. Ihadnever seen suchabig dictionary before.TheWebster's at the New YorkPublicLibrarystoodinthesamerelation to otherdictio- nariesofmyacquaintance as theEmpire State Building didtoother buildings.Itwasanancient,medieval-lookingthing,boundin brownleatherthat brought to mind a falconer'sgaundet.The pages weregildedliketheBible's. Flipping pages throughthealphabet, past cantabiletoeryngo, past fandango to formicate (that'swithanm),pasthypertoniatohyposensi- tivity,andthereit was: hypospadias New Latin,fromGreek,manwithhypospadias fr.hypo-+probfromspadon,eunuch,fr.span,totear,pluck, pull,draw.—Anabnormalityofthepenisinwhichtheurethra opensonitsundersurface.See synonyms at eunuch. Idid as instructedand got eunuch —1. Acastratedman; especially,oneofthosewho wereemployed as haremattendantsorfunctionaries incertain Orientalcourts. 2.Amanwhosetestes havenotdeveloped.See synonymsathermaphrodite. Followingwherethetrailled,Ifinally reached hermaphrodite —1. One havingthesexorgans andmanyof thesecondarysexcharacteristics ofbothmale andfemale. 2.Anythingcomprisedofa combinationof diverseorcontra- dictoryelements.Seesynonymsat monster. AndthatiswhereIstopped.Andlooked up,tosee ifanyone was watching.ThevastReading Roomthrummed withsilent energy: 430 people thinking, writing.The paintedceilingbelliedoverheadlikea sail,and downbelowthegreen desklampsglowed,illuminating faces bentover books.I wasstoopingover mine,myhairfallingonto the pages, coveringupthedefinition ofmyself.Mylimegreencoat was hanging open.Ihad anappointmentwith Lucelaterintheday andmy hairwaswashed,myunderpants fresh.Mybladder wasfull andI crossedmy legs, puttingoff atriptothebathroom.Fear was stabbingme.I longedto be held, caressed,and thatwasimpossible.I laidmy handonthedictionaryandlooked atit.Slender,leaf-shaped, ithada braided ropering ononefinger, a giftfrom theObject.The ropewasgetting dirty. Ilookedatmyprettyhand andthenpulledit awayand facedtheword again. Thereitwas,monster^inblackand white,inabattereddictionary ina greatcitylibrary.Avenerable,old book,theshapeandsizeof a headstone,with yellowing pagesthatboremarksofthemultitudes whohad consultedthembefore me.Therewerepencilscrawlsand inkstains,driedblood,snackcrumbs; andtheleatherbindingitself wassecuredtothelectern bya chain.Herewas a bookthat contained thecollectedknowledgeofthepastwhilegivingevidenceofpresent socialconditions.Thechainsuggestedthatsomelibraryvisitors might take it uponthemselvestosee thatthedictionarycirculated. Thedictionary contained everywordintheEnglishlanguage but the chain knewonly a few.Itknew thief and steal and,maybe,purloined. Thechain spokeofpovertyand mistrust and inequalityanddecadence. Callieherself washoldingonto thischainnow.Shewastuggingon it,windingitaroundherhandsothatherfingerswentwhite,asshe stared down at thatword. Monster. Stillthere. Ithad not moved.And shewasn't readingthiswordon thewallofheroldbathroomstall. There wasgraffiti in Webster'sbutthe synonym wasn't partofit.The synonym wasofficial,authoritative;it wastheverdictthattheculture gave on apersonlikeher. Monster.Thatwaswhatshewas.Thatwas what Dr.Luce and hiscolleagues hadbeensaying.Itexplainedso much, really. Itexplained hermothercryinginthenext room. Itex- plained thefalse cheerin Milton's voice.Itexplainedwhyherparents had brought hertoNew York,sothatthe doctorscouldwork inse- cret. It explained the photographs,too. Whatdidpeopledowhen they came uponBigfootor theLochNess Monster?Theytriedto get a picture. For a second Calliesawherself thatway.As a lumbering, shaggy creaturepausingattheedge of woods. Asahumpedcon- 431 volvulus rearingitsdragon'sheadfromanicylake. Hereyeswere fill- ing now, makingtheprintswim,andshe turnedaway andhurried out ofthelibrary. But thesynonympursuedher.Alltheway outthedoorand down thesteps betweenthestonelions, Webster'sDictionary keptcalling afterher,Monster,Monster!Thebrightbannershanging fromthe tympanum proclaimedtheword.The definitioninserteditself into billboardsandtheadsonpassingbuses. On FifthAvenue acabwas pullingup.Her fatherjumped out, smiling and waving. WhenCallie saw him,herheartlifted.ThevoiceofWebster's stoppedspeakingin herhead.Herfatherwouldn'tbe smiling likethatunlessthenews fromthe doctorhadbeengood.Callielaughedandsprinteddown thelibrary steps, almosttripping.Heremotionssoaredforthetimeit tooktoreachthe street, maybe fiveoreight seconds.Butcoming closertoMilton,shelearnedsomethingaboutmedicalreports.The morepeoplesmile,theworsethenews.Miltongrinnedather,per- spiringinpinstripes, and onceagainthetragedycufflinkglintedin thesun. Theyknew.Herparentsknewshewasa monster.And yet here wasMilton, openingthecardoorforher;herewasTessie,inside, smilingasCallieclimbedin.Thecabtook themto a restaurantand soonthethree ofthemwerelookingovermenusandorderingfood. Miltonwaiteduntilthedrinkswere served.Then,somewhatfor- mally, hebegan. "YourmotherandIhad a littlechatwiththe doctor thismorning, as youareaware.Thegoodnews isthatyou'llbeback athomethisweek.You won'tmissmuchschool.Now forthebad news.Areyoureadyforthebadnews,Cal?" Milton'seyeswere sayingthatthebadnewswas notallthatbad. "Thebadnewsisyouhavetohavea little operation. Very minor. 'Operation'isn'treallytherightword.I thinkthedoctorcalled it a 'procedure.'They have toknock you outand youhavetostay overnight inthe hospital.That's it. There'llbe somepainbuttheycan giveyou painkillersforit." With that,Miltonrested.Tessiereached out and patted Callie's hand."It'll beokay,honey,"shesaidina thickened voice.Hereyes were watery, red. "Whatkind ofoperation?"Callieasked her father. "Just a little cosmeticprocedure.Like gettinga mole removed." 432

• From Middlesex (2002)

  THEOUR 00 THEWALL wokeup backat thehouse.IhadavaguememoryofhowI got there,of trudgingbackthroughthebog.Myoverallswerestill on.My crotchfelthotandspongy. The Objectwasalreadyoutof bedorhad sleptsomewhereelse.I reached downandunstuckmy underpantsfrommyskin.Somethingabout this act,thelittlepuffof air,therisingaroma,reiteratedthe brand-newfactabout myself.But itwasn'tafactexacriy.Itwas nothing as solid asa fact rightthen.It wasjustanintuitionFdhadabout myself,towhich thecomingof morningbrought no clarity. Itwas justanideathatwasalready be- ginningtofade, tobecome partofthedrunkennessinthewoods of thenightbefore. When theOracleawokeafter oneofherwild,prophesying nights, sheprobably hadno memoryofthethingsshe'dsaid. Whatever truths she'dhitonweresecondarytotheimmediatesensations: the headache, thesingedthroat. It was thesame forCalliope.Ihad a senseofhaving been dirtiedandinitiated.Ifelt allgrownup.But mostiyIfelt sickanddidn'twanttothinkaboutwhathadhappened atall. Inthe showerItriedtorinsetheexperience away, scrubbing me- thodically, liftingmyfacetotheslantingwater. Steamfilledthe air. The mirrors andthewindowsdripped.Thetowelsgrew damp. I usedevery kindofsoapwithinreach,Lifebuoy, Ivory,plus alocal, rustic brand thatfeltlikesandpaper.Igotdressed andcame down the 377 stairs quietly.AsIcrossedtheliving roomI noticed anold hunting rifle over themantel.Anothergun onthewall. I tiptoedbyit. Inthe kitchen,theObjectwaseatingcereal andreading amagazine. She didn't lookupwhenIentered.I got abowlmyself andsat down across fromher.MaybeIgrimaced indoing so. "What'sthematter?"sneeredthe Object."Sore?" Her sarcastic facerested ononepalm.Shedidn't look so hot herself.She was puffy undertheeyes.Thereweretimeswhen herfreckles werenot sunny but likecorrosionorrust. "You'retheonethatshouldbesore," Ireplied. "I'mnotsoreatall,"said the Object,"if youwanttoknow." "Iforgot,"Isaid;"you'reusedtoit." Suddenlyherfacewas full ofanger,shaking. Cordsstretched and pulled beneathherskin,makinglines. "Youwere atotalslutlast night,"shecharged. "Me? What aboutyou? Youwere throwingyourself atRexthe wholetime." "Iwasnot.We didn'teven dothatmuch." "You couldhavefooledme." "Atleasthe'snotyourbrother?Shegot to herfeet, glaring.She lookedlike shemightcry.Shehadn'twipedhermouth. Therewas jamonit,crumbs.Iwasstruckdumbbythesightofthisbelovedface working itself up intowhatlookedlikehatred.Myown facemust havebeenreacting,too.Icouldfeelmyeyesgoingwideandscared. TheObjectwas waitingfor metosay somethingbutnothing came tomind.Sofinallysheshoved her chairawayand said, "Jerome's up- stairs.Whydon'tyougoclimbin bed withhim."Andshestormed off. Alowmomentfollowed.Regret,already soggingme down, burst itsdam. It seeped intomylegs,itpooledinmyheart.Ontopof panicthatI'dlostmyfriend, I was suddenlybesetbyworriesabout my reputation.WasIreallyaslut? Ihadn'tevenlikedit.ButIhad doneit,hadn'tI?Ihadlethimdoit.Fear ofretributioncamenext. Whatif I got pregnant?Whatthen?Myfaceat thebreakfasttable wastheface ofallmathematicalgirls,countingdays, measuringliq- uids.Itwasat least a minutebeforeI rememberedthatIcouldn'tbe pregnant. Thatwasonegoodthingabout beingalatebloomer. Still, I wasupset. IwascertainthattheObject wouldnevertalkto me again. 378 I climbedthe stairsandgotback intobed,pullinga pillowover my faceto blockout thesummerlight.Buttherewasno hidingfrom realitythat morning.Nomorethanfiveminutes laterthebedsprings sagged under new weight.Peeking out, I saw that Jerome hadcome to visit. Hewas lying onhisback,lookingcozy,alreadyinstalled.Instead of a robe hehad onaduckhuntingcoat.Theendsofhisfrayedboxer shorts were visiblebelow.HehadamugofcoffeeinonehandandI noticedthat his fingernails werepaintedblack.Themorninglight coming fromtheside window showedstubbleonhischinandabove hisupper lip.Against theflat, wasted,dyedhairtheseorangeshoots were likelife returning toa scorchedlandscape. "Goodmorning, dahling," hesaid. "Hi." "Feelinga littleundertheweather,are we?" "Yeah,"Isaid. "I was prettydrunklastnight." "Youdidn'tseem thatdrunk to me,dahling." "Well,I was." Jerome now droppedthebit.Hefloppedbackintothepillows and sippedhiscoffeeandsighed.Withonefingerhetappedhisfore- headfor a while.Thenhespoke. "Just incaseyouwerehavinganyof thehackneyedworries,youshouldknowthat Istill respectyouand allthatshit." I didn'trespond.Responding wouldonlyconfirm thefactsof what hadhappened,whereas Iwanted to castthemin doubt.After a while Jerome setthe coffeemugdownandturnedontohisside.He wriggledovertowardmeandrestedhisheadagainstmyshoulder. Helay therebreathing.Then,withclosedeyes,hemovedhishead andtunneled underthepillow withme.Hestartedtonuzzle me.He brought his hairacrossthe skinofmyneckandafterthatcame the sensitive organs. His eyelashesmadebutterflykissesonmychin.His nose snuffled inthehollow ofmythroat.Andthenhislips arrived, avid,clumsy. I wantedhim offme.AtthesametimeIaskedmyselfif Ihad brushed myteeth. Jerome was slidingandclimbingon topof meand itfeltlike ithad thenightbefore,likeacrushingweight. So do boysand menannounce theirintentions.Theycover youlike a sarcophagus lid.Andcallitlove. For aminute itwas tolerable.Butsoontheduckcoatrode upand Jerome'surgency was pressingitself upon me. He wastrying toreach 379

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  angry man who postures and shouts, “Bring it, bro,” a possessive brute who would look asinine and ridiculous in heels and a blouse. She selected a pair of beat-up jeans and a hoodie—with a broken nose front and center, no one at work would question her outfits. Over the next few days, many of the feminine grooming habits she enjoyed revealed themselves as silly. Why bother with makeup when your nose lists to the left? She felt much more comfortable dressing in a loose androgynous manner, all boots and dark neutrals, letting the nose look tough on her behalf, so that no one asked any questions, so that no opinions ventured into her vicinity. She had, of course, long come to understand that masculinity dulled her, that it dissociated her from herself. But honestly, that’s all she wanted at that point. A pocket of space to separate herself from the bright emotions of shame and fear, a veil between herself and the curious eyes on the subway and at work, a sheath over the sharp edge of furious betrayal that lacerated her whenever she met Reese’s gaze; and likewise, a sheath over that awful longing for Reese as she had so innocently seen her before Stanley. A week before Reese’s birthday, Amy stopped taking her anti-androgens. She and Reese took their last shot together on the night of Reese’s birthday, before they went out for sushi, and that brief return to the vividness of estrogenated emotions so scalded that the next week, Amy faked taking her shot. She never took one again. Two months later, she got a new job at an advertising agency, and confessed to Reese that she’d actually applied under a male name. When they fought about it, she shouted, in that same deep bellow that had emerged in front of Stanley, “Didn’t you want a man? Isn’t that what you're into? That’s what I remember!” Only this time, she didn’t feel ridiculous. She felt righteous in her anger, replenished and intoxicated by it. She punched a cabinet, and it yielded to her fist, the wood veneer door caving in with a satisfying, terrifying splinter. Reese left her shortly after. CHAPTER NINE Ten weeks after conception Ra HAS ALREADY been to Katrina’s apartment three times. She even slept over one night, in the second bedroom—the baby’s future room. She awoke in the morning to poached eggs with Katrina, in a borrowed silk robe, while trying her best to ignore the confusing intimacy of a half sleepover/half post-unconsummated-hookup vibe. Yet despite having now spent hours in the apartment, only tonight does Reese finally place the sense of déja vu that comes over her when she looks through the bank of windowpanes that make up one wall of the living room. They overlook a narrow brick balcony, which is itself hung in a deadened air shaft.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  The suit was only part of my new identity. It was the haircut that mattered most. Now, in the barbershop, Ed was going at me with a whisk brush. The bristles cast a powder in the air and I closed my eyes. I felt myself being wheeled around again and the barber said, "Okay, that's it." I opened my eyes. And in the mirror I didn't see myself. Not the Mona Lisa with the enigmatic smile any longer. Not the shy girl with the tangled black hair in her face, but instead her fraternal twin brother. With the screen of my hair removed, the recent changes in my face were far more evident. My jaw looked squarer, broader, my neck thicker, with a bulge of Adam's apple in the center. It was un- questionably a male face, but the feelings inside that boy were still a girl's. To cut off your hair after a breakup was a feminine reaction. It was a way to start over, to renounce vanity, to spite love. I knew that I would never see the Object again. Despite bigger problems, greater worries, it was heartbreak that seized me when I first saw my male face in the mirror. I thought: it's over. By cutting off my hair I was punishing myself for loving someone so much. I was trying to be stronger. By the time I came out of Ed's Barbershop, I was a new creation. The other people passing through the bus station, to the extent they noticed me at all, took me for a student at a nearby boarding school. A prep school kid, a touch arty, wearing an old man's suit and no doubt reading Camus or Kerouac. There was a kind of beatnik qual- ity to the Durenmatt's suit. The trousers had a sharkskin sheen. Be- cause of my height I could pass for older than I was, seventeen, maybe eighteen. Under the suit was a crew neck sweater, under the sweater was an alligator shirt, two protective layers of parental money next to my skin, plus the golden Wallabees on my feet. If anyone no- ticed me, they thought I was playing dress-up, as teenagers do. Inside these clothes my heart was still beating like mad. I didn't know what to do next. Suddenly I had to pay attention to things I'd never paid any attention to. To bus schedules and bus fares, to bud- geting money, to worrying about money, to scanning a menu for the absolutely cheapest thing that would fill me up, which that day in Scranton turned out to be chili. I ate a bowl of it, stirring in multiple 445

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "A daughter isa specialthing." "Who is this?" Miltondemandedagain,andthelinewent dead. He didn't tell Tessieaboutthecall.He suspected itwas a crank. Ora disgruntied employee.Theeconomy wasin recession in1975 and Milton had beenforced to close afewfranchises. Thefollowing Sunday, however, thephonerang again.Thistime Miltonanswered onthe firstring. "Hello?" "Goodmorning, Milton.Ihave aquestionforyou thismorning. Wouldyou liketoknowthe question, Milton?" "Youtellme whothisisorI'mhanging up." "I doubt you'lldothat, Milton.I'mthe onlychanceyou have to getyour daughterback." Miltondida characteristicthingright then.He swallowed, squaredhisshoulders,and with a smallnodprepared himselftomeet whatever was coming. "Okay,"hesaid, "I'mlistening." Andthecallerhungup. "OnceuponatimeinancientGreece, there was an enchanted pool ..." Icoulddoitinmysleepnow.Iwasasleep,consideringourback- stage festivities, the flowingAverna,thetranquilizingsmoke.Hal- loween hadcomeandgone. Thanksgiving,too,andthenChristmas. OnNewYear's,BobPrestothrewabigparty. Zora andI drank champagne.Whenitwas time formyact,Iplungedintothepool.I washigh,drunk,and sothat nightdidsomethingIdidn'tnormally do.Iopenedmy eyesunderwater.Isaw thefaceslooking backat me andI sawthat they werenotappalled. Ihadfuninthe tankthat night. It was allbeneficial insomeway.It wastherapeutic.InsideHer- maphroditusoldtensions wereroiling, trying to work themselves out. Traumasofthelocker roomwerebeingreleased.Shameover having abodyunlikeother bodieswas passing away. The monster feeling was fading. And along withshameandself-loathinganother hurt washealing. Hermaphroditus wasbeginningto forget aboutthe Obscure Object. In my last weeksin San Francisco IreadeverythingZora gaveme, trying to educatemyself. I learned whatvarietieswehermaphrodites came in. I readabouthyperadrenocorticism andfeminizingtestes and something calledcryptorchidism, which appliedtome.Iread 494 about Klinefelter's Syndrome,wherean extraXchromosomerenders a person tall, eunuchoid,and temperamentallyunpleasant. Iwas more interested in historicalthanmedicalmaterial.FromZora's manuscript I becameacquaintedwiththe hijras ofIndia,the kwolu- (mtmwols oftheSambia in PapuaNew Guinea, andtheguevedocheof the Dominican Republic.KarlHeinrichUlrichs,writinginGermany in 1860, spoke ofdasdritteGeschlecht,thethirdgender.Hecalled himselfa Uranistandbelievedthathehadafemalesoulin a male body. Manycultures onearthoperatednotwith twogendersbut with three.And thethird was alwaysspecial,exalted,endowedwith mysticalgifts. One cold drizzlynight Igaveitatry.Zorawasout.Itwas a Sun- dayand wewere off work.Isatin a half-lotuspositiononthefloor and closedmyeyes. Concentrating, prayerful,Iwaitedformysoulto leavemybody. Itriedtofallinto a trance stateor become ananimal. Ididmybest,but nothinghappened.Asfar as specialpowers went, Ididn't seemtohaveany.ATiresiasIwasn't. AllofwhichbringsmetoaFridaynightinlate January. It wasaf- termidnight.Carmenwasinthetank,doingherEstherWilliams. ZoraandIwereinthe dressingroom, maintainingtraditions(ther- mos, cannabis). Inthe mermaidsuit,Z. wasnonetoomobileand stretched out acrossthecouch, a Pisceanodalisque. Hertailhung overthearmbolsters,dripping.Shewore a T-shirtoverher top.It hadEmilyDickinsononit. Sounds fromthetankwere piped intothedressingroom. Bob Prestowasgivinghisspiel:"Ladiesandgendemen, areyoureadyfor a truly electrifyingexperience?" Zora andImouthedalongwiththenextline:"Are youreadyfor somehighvoltage?" "I've hadenoughofthisplace,"saidZora. "Ireallyhave." "Should wequit?" "We should." "What wouldwedoinstead?" "Mortgage banking." There was asplashinthetank."Butwhere isEllie's eeltoday? It seems to behiding,ladiesandgendemen. Couldit beextinct? Maybe afisherman caught it. That'sright, ladiesand gendeman, maybe El- lie's eel isfor saleoutonFisherman's Wharf." "Bob thinks he'sawittyperson," saidZora. 495 "Banishsuch worries, ladiesandgentlemen.Elliewouldn't let us down. Here itis, folks.Havea look at Ellie'selectriceel!" A strange noisecame overthe speaker.A doorbanging. Bob Presto shouted: "Hey,what thehell>You're not allowedin here." And then thesound system wentdead. Eight yearsearlier, policemen hadraided a blindpigonTwelfth Street in Detroit.Now,atthestartof 1975, they raidedSixty-Niners. The action provokednoriot.The patrons quicklyemptied the booths, fanningout intothestreetand hurryingoff.We were led downstairsandlinedupwiththe other girls. "Well, hellothere,"saidtheofficerwhenhecametome. "And howoldmightyoube?" Fromthepolice stationI was allowed onecall.AndsoIfinally brokedown,gavein,and didit: Icalledhome. Mybrotheranswered."It'sme,"Isaid."Cal."Before Chapter Elevenhadtimetorespond,itallrushed outofme.Itoldhimwhere Iwasandwhathadhappened."Don'ttellMomandDad,"I said. "Ican't,"saidChapterEleven."Ican'ttellDad."And theninan interrogativetonethatshowedhecouldhardlybelieve ithimself, my brother toldmethattherehadbeenanaccidentandthat Miltonwas dead. 496