Being Woke Is Simple, But Tell That To The Conservative American Christian

 

To be woke, as defined by dictionary.com, is “having or marked by an active awareness of systemic injustices and prejudices, especially those involving the treatment of ethnic, racial, or sexual minorities.”

Isn’t that a good thing? Shouldn’t we embrace a positive reaction to our historical and present-day negative actions? 

Wouldn’t you think those who profess to be Christians would be at the forefront of this movement—more woke than anyone else?

I would think so. But no. I would be wrong.

American Christians, most of whom are conservatives, use woke as a negative term and fight hard against changes in the world being made by those who recognize the movement's eyes-wide-open benefits.

The Woke Movement isn’t new. It’s been around since the early 1900s when Black Americans coined the term for use in the racial justice movement. It simply meant that a person was “informed, educated and conscious of social injustice and racial inequality,” according to Merriam-Webster Dictionary. I had never heard the term woke until recent years when the 24-hour news cycle and social media brought it to my attention because conservative American Christians were using it as a double-edged sword against those striving for progress and change.

I was discussing the definition of woke recently with a friend who said that Christians don’t see that there is a problem. Or that there ever has been a problem. He added that Christians view wokeness as an attack on them.

Investigating further, I read a post from a Reddit thread from a couple of years ago. The original poster believes woke means being sensitive to injustice and having compassion for the marginalized and minority groups, adding that conservatives mock “bleeding heart liberals” who understand movement and try to implement its intended change. A responder to that post spoke of the perceived toxic environment created by the Woke Movement, opining that when one doesn’t follow the rules perfectly as laid out by those in charge then one is reprimanded. (Who’s in charge?) Further into the thread, responses of “simply having respect” and “wokeness demands repentance but offers no forgivenesses” caught my attention.

Why is there no forgiveness? Why aren’t Christians the ones with bleeding hearts? Why does respecting another person’s color, sexuality, gender, gender identity, religious beliefs (or none), etc., cause such fear-based outrage?

I can’t answer these questions.

From what I remember in my nearly 18 years of going to Sunday school and Baptist worship services three times a week, this man Jesus was supposedly a kind, generous, loving person. He is characterized as a man who opened his heart and his arms to the sick and the poor, to kings and outcasts alike. And he supposedly taught lessons of acceptance and forgiveness.

As a queer from a small town in the red state of Kentucky, I sure know what it means to feel, and be, different. I know what learned fear feels like from the repeated warnings of a fire-and-brimstone preacher as he spoke of a God who would punish me for my sins, turn his back on me if I failed to heed his attempts to convict my heart to turn toward him, and send me to Hell for being gay. 

Side note: if we are all created in the image of this God of the Bible, then that means my non-binary, gay, queer, femme-ass self was made in the image of that God too. And I would suggest that you stop thinking of this God as some white-haired, white-bearded, white man who resides somewhere above the clouds. I suggest instead that you think of this God as an entity that posses both sexes, all colors, and every race. This God would be trans and bi and poly and glorious and glittering in his various shades of life. But I digress.

We all know this biblical God of the White Right, don’t we? And so, too, this man Jesus. (If either of them even exist.) But if this God does exists then he’s clearly a man with a penis. As is this man Jesus. That’s the only option for most American Christians. And the God of the American Christian doesn’t seem to want his followers to embrace trans people or queer people or gay people. No. This God wants his followers to close their eyes to the injustices perpetrated on these communities. They’re angry all the time and righteous as they point out how threatening we are. Their God wants his followers to speak with nasty vitriol and in some cases even perpetuate the injustices with violence. He doesn’t want those dirty fucking trannies to live happy lives. And we shouldn’t even speak of how he seems to feel about the nasty gays and their disgusting sexual habits. Not in His America. Hell no. 

Of course none of that is true. If there is a God how could this entity want anything but happiness and love and full lives for all of its creations? Human beings are the ones who don’t want that. Human beings live in fear of what we don’t understand. Human beings have decided they can speak for this God.

Let’s look specifically at two words in the above mentioned definition of woke: active awareness. That’s it, right there. To be woke is to have an active awareness. Of what? Well, of racism, homophobia, transphobia, misogyny, to name just a few. And with an active awareness, a person can actively work against these negatives. 

So why are so many Christians actively working against being woke? To simply respect and support other people seems like something this man Jesus would do, something very Christlike.

This feels like the perfect time to bring up the word “agenda.” I am aware that many American Christians think anything different, or new, is part of someone’s “agenda.” They love to say these “agendas” are being shoved down their throats. We’ve all heard of the Gay Agenda. Of course now there’s the Trans Agenda. And we can’t forget that old stalwart, the Black Lives Matter Agenda.

Agenda is not a bad word. It’s a plan. And the agenda for any of these movements is to shine a light on the disparities and the prejudices and the treatment of people in these communities. But these “agendas” sure rile people up, don’t they?

It’s American Christian who have the biggest “agenda.” Example: you may be a person that’s against abortion. And that’s fine. You can be against abortion. To me, that means you’re not going to have an abortion.

But many Christians rejoiced when the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade, even though that meant millions of women most of who these Christians will never know, lost access to safe and legal abortion. Tell me Christians don’t have an agenda. And theirs is the Agenda being shoved down the throats of too many Americans on a daily basis.

What about your Ten Commandments? What about the Golden Rule? What about “Judge not lest ye be judged?”

Woke merely means I see you. I acknowledge your struggle. I recognize your community hasn’t been treated well. I want to understand. I want to help. I have empathy. I include you.

If I seem frustrated, maybe even a little angry, (and a bit more than anti-Christian) you’re not wrong (and, yes, I am). The truths is I, too, struggle with being woke. But it ain’t that deep. And it sure as hell isn’t something that conservative American Christians should be getting their panties in a twist over.

My Recruitment Office Was In The Church

Anita Bryant, the acid-tongued former orange juice mouthpiece turned born-again Christian anti-gay savior of the children, once said, “Homosexuals cannot reproduce, so they must recruit. And to freshen their ranks, they must recruit the youth of America.”

What a load of fear-inducing horseshit!

I am a homosexual. I am QUEER!

I was born. Two parents: a mom, a dad. Loving home. Raised in the Baptist church.

Homosexual. Queer.

I was not recruited. I just am.

But do you know who recruits—that is, indoctrinates—children? The church. Yes. The church indoctrinates children because they want them to believe a certain way and to accept—without question—that their God is real and that a man named Jesus died for their sins and that homosexuals are godless sinners. They have to replenish their numbers to keep their hate strong. That’s recruiting.

The church was the place where I found my first sense of community. But, in the opinion of a person who walked away from that community, the foundation is built on quicksand. One must follow and conform and walk the “straight”and narrow path.

(Horseshit)

In reference to my Baptist church upbringing: I am still recovering from that. As a queer person, what I learned in my time there about their God’s wrath, punishment, Hell, fear, and blind faith continues to affect my life. I haven’t attended a church service regularly in just about 35 years. But the teachings remain imbedded in the adult mind of the child who absorbed them.

I was indoctrinated, for sure. My attempted recruitment to be a soldier in the “Army of God” failed. Thankfully. But the recruitment attempt happened during the formative years of my life and therefore still fucks me up.

Back to Anita Bryant, it seems to me that fear played the biggest role in her ridiculous passion play about saving the children. Maybe she was afraid of what she didn’t understand. Maybe she was grossed out by the idea of homosexual sex. Maybe she truly believed the shit she said. She recruited people to her cause by using the fear tactics she no doubt learned in a church service.

(And if you believe in karma then it truly is a bitch because Anita Bryant has a gay granddaughter. Suck it, Anita!)

I was not recruited to become a homosexual. I was not recruited to become a queer. I was not recruited to become non-binary.

I was not molested.

I was born.

(And once upon a time I was Born Again. I reject this.)

I continue to fight to accept myself. I continue to fight against the need to be accepted—I want to be accepted for who I am, but I want to not need that acceptance.

And sadly, I continue to have to fight the fear.

I walked away from the church years ago and a community that pushes for believing without question and doesn’t accept LGBTQ humans. But I continue to walk through my own life—albeit on a curvier much more spacious path—with heels on my feet and polish on my fingernails, questioning everything.

Queers do not recruit.

Christians recruit.

Another Visit to Melancholy City

There wasn’t a tilt. But there was a shift. A mood change. The sidewalks seem the same. The sun is still shining. But the light is different. And the Air. The air is heavy. Heavier than when he’s in Anytown. Here the air insulates him with his thoughts. 

(sigh)

 

Melancholy City. He’s back for another visit.

 

When he’s in a period of deep melancholy, a period in which he currently finds himself, another wander through the streets of Melancholy City is inevitable. And when he’s there he longs for it all to be over.

He wishes there were no more days. That his fading from people’s memories would begin. That he no longer existed

 

Have you ever wished it were over? That you were done.

 

Before you even ask the question, yes, he knows what he’s saying. He knows the above scenario would mean that he was dead. And surprise, there are days he wishes he were.

 

He longs to stop trying. 

 

He longs for sleep.

When he’s visiting Melancholy City, sleep is a drug. It takes him to Dreamland. And when he’s in Dreamland he doesn’t have to think. Thinking

(overthinking)

is a must in Melancholy City. But while slumbering in the lighter breezes of the pastel void of Dreamland, he is free. Yes, he knows that Dreamland can be vivid with color. He also knows that sometimes it can be alive with technicolor nightmares. But he so often lives in a fantasy world—even in Anytown—that Dreamland is the better respite from his thoughts.

 

(mostly)

When he’s in a period of deep melancholy, he wallows in self-pity. There’s a lot he doesn’t like about himself, which he can keep at bay most of the time in Anytown. He ignores his feelings, pretends they don’t exist, pushes them so far into the dark corners of his mind that he believes he’s happy.

But when he visits Melancholy City, he can’t keep the negativity in the darkness.

He sees himself as old and ugly, worthless with shallow tendencies that announce themselves like a scent that enters the room before he does. He wears his anger like a pair of shoes and clomps around hoping to frighten people away otherwise he will condescend and judge until they run. His fear has kept him afraid and alone and lonely. 

(and insecure)

When he’s visiting Melancholy City his wounds ache, they bleed. While there he longs to be invisible. He wants to go unnoticed. He stays silent. He tries to give no one anything to talk about, no reason to stare. But inevitably, every laugh he hears piercing the thick air as he passes through stabs him with mockery for something, anything, nothing he’s doing.

 

As he wanders those desolate streets of MC alone, he thinks about his age and his life and sometimes he wishes his retirement were closer.

(another ending)

Before him there are fewer years left to work than the years of working already behind him.

But then he thinks about retiring from life and wonders how much of a relief that would be. 

 

He knows there’s beauty in the world. He sees it most days. There are colors he wants to surround himself with because they breathe life into his day. He knows the sky, when its blue stretches uncluttered for miles, is a miracle. He loves the green shade of baby leaves that trees produce as they burst back to life in spring after a cold dormant winter. He knows the cooing of a dove is somehow calming.

He’s seen the majesty of a sunrise, the glory of a sunset. He’s smelled the sweet floral fragrance of a pink peony, inhaled the creamy scent of sandalwood drifting off his skin. He’s tasted the bitter sweetness of cinnamon in his coffee, the explosion of flavor from a greasy skillet-fried cheeseburger 

He’s felt the rough brush of stubble on his face from a man’s chin during a passionate kiss.

 

This is life.

But when he’s visiting Melancholy City, he mostly feels like he’s just surviving instead of really living.

(a side effect felt in Anytown)

He’s alive but perfunctorily going through the motions; no thought to carry him through a day. 

Or, for that matter, through a life.

 

The idea of dying

(literally being dead)

freaks him out. But when he’s in one of his periods of deep melancholy, the idea of not being feels like relief.

There are too many days he wishes for what he can only assume is its “sweet release.”

But maybe death is merely a metaphor for ending this way in which he sees himself.

From The Land of Tethered to the Land of Un: A Journey of Truth Toward Freedom

I can’t believe I’m starting off this piece with a biblical reference, but it seems apropos as most of us have heard the phrase, “The truth will set you free” (John 8:32, KJV). That might actually be true. The truth can certainly have a positive effect on people. It can also hurt like hell. But let me focus on the clarity-providing positive aspects of the truth.

I have long avoided asking questions to which I feared the answers. Answers that I suspected I knew but didn’t officially know. In recent weeks, however, I asked some of those questions of my family, and I was graced with a bit of truth in their answers.

Imagine wandering aimlessly down a path cracked with uncertainty, overgrown with weeds of assumption, constantly trying to evade being ensnared by snaking vines of suspicion. This path is in the Land of Tethered and I’ve been walking it for a long time. Avoiding. It’s exhausting. I thought knowing the truth would hurt too much, so I avoided it. I trudged along, believing the “truth” in my head. I let the unspoken “truth” weigh me down. I’ve been rambling down the path wearing concrete shoes.

Turns out I was right about the answers. I know my family loves me. But being loved is different from being supported. Love might allow one to throw out the welcome mat but that doesn’t mean it will open all the doors. There is silence between us. Conversations, when they happen, have moved into the zone of politesse. There is no depth, no revealing honesty. We tiptoe around each other, avoiding topics like religion, politics, anything LGBTQ. We’re on different sides. What I didn’t know is there’s a perception that I am selfish and self-absorbed. Those thorny words pricked my skin. Yet, I know I can be both. But so can we all at times. It was expressed to me that I am the cause of heartbreak, which is never my intention. But sometimes our actions and choices break the hearts of those we love. Sometimes even the questions we ask. My heart has definitely been in a state of break due to the choices made by my family based on a religious moral code. But the most surprising disclosure of this truth-telling delivery was the anger. I was on the receiving end of anger that I didn’t know existed. I’m usually the angry one.

We are not entitled to know what other people think about us. And we would all probably be better served not knowing. But learning the truth, in a way, released me. I was relieved to know that what I had always thought was the truth was actually the truth. I began to accept it. I began to process the fact that I will (likely) never have the relationship with my family that I long for or the type of support from them that I desire.

I was recently speaking with a gallery associate at the Bowersock Gallery in Provincetown, Massachusetts, about the artist/owner’s series of hot air balloon paintings. I had first seen a few of the paintings in the series in June 2021, when I was there to celebrate my 50th birthday. I was so drawn to them. Initially I thought it was because in October 2010, my best friend, on the occasion of his turning 40, had planned a hot air balloon ride in the Berkshires as part of the celebration. However, the weather didn’t cooperate. The winds were too strong that day. The hot air balloon ride was cancelled.

It was nearly eleven years later that I first laid eyes on Steve Bowersock‘s hot air balloons. Set against ominous skies, these colorful hot air balloons were floating toward something, away from something, through and above. They hovered in their dreamscape world, frozen but not. Were they carrying the rider into danger or transporting him to freedom? One painting in particular continues to fascinate me. In it, a rope dangles freely from the basket of the balloon, a body clinging to it. I can’t help but wonder if the person is trying to climb aboard or trying to escape?

(I want in.)

My best friend was on that trip but not in the gallery with me on the day of discovery. I wanted him to see those beautiful hot air balloons. I found him and brought him to the gallery. I hoped he would love them as much as I did. I hoped he would buy one and then by proximity I would be able to view it and contemplate its strange surreal beauty every time I was at his home. Alas, he did not buy one. And while he liked them, he wasn’t actually as drawn to them as I.

I’ve been to Provincetown a few times since that trip. Each time I’ve stopped in the Bowersock Gallery to see if any of the hot air balloon paintings remained. There’s always been one or two available. I’ve always gotten to see them. Ponder them. Wonder what was happening in their world. But on my most recent visit in October 2023, they hung in the gallery no more. Sold. All of them. And it was during that visit, and the aforementioned conversation with the gallery associate, that I began to think more deeply about the hot air balloons.

They’re untethered. They’re free. They can float aimlessly but they can also soar with direction. I want that. I want to leave the path.

Admitting the truth that I am non-binary gave me a sense of freedom. Learning what I feared was true is true gave me a sense of freedom. What am I doing? Why do I keep trying? I want to be accepted for who I am in all of my queer, non-binary fabulousness. Not despite who I am. I’m not sure I even want to keep pushing and trying to educate. I’m kind of tired. And that’s not a bad thing. I think my family is just as stuck as I’ve been but I don’t have to be. I can soar.

I’ve found a clearing at this juncture in the path and I’ve stepped into it. The clouds might be ominous but there’s a sliver of sun shining through. There’s a balloon. It’s beautiful: pink and teal blue patterned in yellow and purple, sage and red. I feel hesitant but I also feel the thrill. I want to untie the rope and get in the basket. I want to soar upward and float freely away to the Land of Un, knowing that even if a major wind blows me off course, I will be fine because just like the balloon I can right the course or even change direction.

Using hindsight, one can always connect the dots of a past experience to that of his present, finding greater meaning in something from then when applying it to now. Maybe the meaning is something he couldn’t see at the time. It’s possible the hot air balloon paintings were simply something I loved because they made me think about my best friend and his canceled hot air balloon ride. But maybe they represented something that I longed for even before I understood fully what that was and how desperately I needed it.

Funny thing about this truth: it wasn’t as heavy as I’d feared. None of it. The fear itself is what was heavy. The fear is what choked the path, kept me tethered to the ground. I don’t believe the truth has fully set me free. Not yet. My fear did not magically disappear. But I know it has helped me feel freer. And while I will probably continue to fear the truth, even after knowing and understanding its benefits (it’s my pattern), my hope is that I will spend less time limiting myself in the Land of Tethered and more time soaring free among the clouds in the Land of Un.

It’s More Than Just A Little Lipstick, It’s About Identity

Oddly, I didn’t feel scared. This was different for me. There was a bit of anxiety pulsing in my chest, but it felt different than normal. The pulsing might have even been more from excitement than fear.

The day after I officially came out as non-binary, I went to the Chanel beauty boutique at Saks Fifth Avenue with the sole purpose of buying a new lipstick. I am not new to lipstick or lip gloss, but my chosen colors tend to be pinks and nudes that are similar in color to my lips and therefore don’t stand out as much as they enhance the already existing color. These lipsticks don’t announce themselves to the world yet still give me the pleasure of feminine expression.

If you’ve read my previous post, you know how pink and red shades of polish on my nails once made me uncomfortable. The same can be said of lipstick. A bold shade that proclaims itself before the lips wearing it are determined to be mine is something that I have been unwilling to do. The culprits are fear and shame. Those two hateful siblings allow me to feel more uncomfortable in my skin than anything else.

But, just like my desire to wear the pink or red nail polish, I truly desire to adorn my lips with color. And so here I am.

 

I knew that I had to face my fear of being seen and what better time than the present? The eyes were done. The clothes were chosen. The earrings were in place. The final step before departing my house was to swipe that color on my lips. And as you can see from the above photo, swipe it I did.

As I said above, I was oddly calm when it was time to leave my apartment. I was ready to step outside of their protecting walls.

And you know what, nothing happened. No one said anything. The negative reaction I feared was not expressed. As one prone to holding onto the negativity provided because of other people’s insecurities, I know how important it is to hold onto the positive ones. I’m working on that.

I also know that no matter how small the steps, forward is forward. I am supported and loved by the people that I have chosen to share my life with.

Courage comes from within. But surrounding myself with people who encourage me and lift me up and push me forward makes being brave a little easier. And with bravery comes confidence.

Today I confidently wore Chanel Mystérieuse lipstick. A bold and vibrant choice for a (hopefully) bold and vibrant new me.

Another Coming Out: I’m Non-Binary, My Pronouns Are He/Him, But I Also Respond to Hey Gurl.

LGBT Foundation, a United Kingdom-based charity whose roots date back to 1975, defines non-binary as “people who feel their gender cannot be defined within the margins of gender binary. Instead, they understand their gender in a way that goes beyond simply identifying as either a man or a woman.” 

It can go deeper than that. Some people identify as both male and female while others identify as neither. Some feel that their gender fluctuates with fluidity between the two. 

I am that. That is me.

I have written more than a little about my young life in small-town Kentucky. As early as three- or four-years old I discovered my mother’s shoes. Specifically, a pair of white platform sandals. I loved those shoes. Who knows why? How often do we hear that children like playing with the box better than the toy that came in it? All I know is little boy Michael loved those shoes. 

What I also know is that I always got in trouble when I got caught wearing them. I know our memories can cloud and change as we get older. What was once just a statement can become a stern reprimand. But I do remember the words always being a stern reprimand to take off those shoes.

I will always believe that this is when the seed of my shame was planted. And that it has been growing since before I understood what shame was or that I was feeling it.

I’ve written about when my foot had finally grown to the size of my mother’s and what pure joy I felt when her high heels actually fit my feet. I loved getting to stay at home alone while my parents were away grocery shopping or running other errands. I wore a pair of her heels from the minute the car was out of sight until I heard it pulling back into our driveway. Of course, I always made sure to put them back where I found them because I didn’t want to get caught. And I sure didn’t want the reprimand (possibly in the form of a spanking) that would follow.

Fast forward to 40-something me living in New York City. I was dying to paint all ten of my fingernails, but afraid to do so. I allowed myself just one at first, then two. I professed them just a part of my style. I always felt like I needed an answer for why I only painted the one (eventually the pair). My therapist at the time said my answer need only be that I liked it. I tried that for a while. 

Eventually I felt brave enough to let my inner female show herself. But not on my hands.

I bought a pair of Gucci platform heels and I felt fabulous while wearing them and supported by those around me. Jewelry followed: cocktail rings, jeweled bracelets, earrings. It was baby steps in the coming, these outward expressions of femininity. 

Eventually I got all ten nails painted—September 12, 2019. I felt complete. I was nervous to be seen…a man with painted fingernails. But I loved them. I had been denying myself this happiness of expression out of fear for way too long. The color was dark slate gray. A very masculine color for fall. Masculine. I remember thinking that. As if the color being masculine would somehow be a distraction from the fact that I was a male with painted nails.

The gray was fine and the reaction was positive. But what I really wanted was pink. 

It took a while to get there. I had tried pinks and reds when I was still painting only one (or two) nails. The color made me uncomfortable. I found myself hiding the nail when coated with one of these shades. I was embarrassed by it. I had no idea why? Maybe because I saw pink as feminine?

Eye shadow, lipstick, perfume, and a white asymmetrical Halston jumpsuit joined list of feminine expressions

Eventually I succumbed to my desire and got all ten nails painted pink. It was life. It was empowering. Pink is so vibrant and alive. It has energy that no gray will ever possess. I became a pink-nail queen. I almost feel incomplete when my nails are not some shade of pink. I do allow other colors to live on my nails from time to time, but it always comes back to pink.

All of these things are mile markers on my journey: questioning myself, discovering myself, revealing myself, accepting myself (if only in small increments).

I’ve been questioning my gender for some time now, though I would always conclude I’m a cis gay male: assigned male at birth and living as male. However, the questioning began in earnest one day when I approached a person on my subway platform wearing pearls. I was curious if this person felt nervous and guarded like I always do when wearing categorically feminine attire and/or accessories. We got on the same train and as we rode into Manhattan we talked. She was a trans female and younger than I. She was kind and generous. She let me ask questions and she answered. She posed questions. After that conversation I couldn’t stop examining myself. I know there are a lot of people who hate labels but I wanted to figure out where I fit. I wanted a label to help me understand, accept, belong.

I did a lot of thinking. 

I thought about how when I was a child I always liked to be the wife or girlfriend when I played house with my male cousins. If I could be pregnant in our make-believe world I was even happier. And I loved being a bride.

I thought about how I often feel pretty not handsome. 

I thought about how I often feel female not male.

But I didn’t feel as if I was in the wrong body. One of the questions I asked the woman on that subway ride was: “When did you feel like you were in the wrong body?” She said she’d never felt that way. Her answer was a revelation. 

I couldn’t get there until I got there.

I don’t feel like I’m in the wrong body either. I like my penis. I don’t want breasts. I just don’t feel like I’m wholly male. I truly feel I am both male and female, yet not exclusively one or the other. I definitely feel more feminine most days but the male side of me comes out to play sometimes too.

I admitted the truth: to myself and others. It's been there all along. I finally feel brave enough to admit it.

On October 3, 2023, I finally had the courage to say that I am non-binary. At the time of this writing I feel happy. I feel light. I feel as if I might be even closer to understanding, accepting, and loving myself than ever before. I feel like admitting this out loud to my friends makes it even more real to me. As if admitting it has allowed me to breathe in my skin for the first time in years. Maybe now I will finally begin to dispel the shame.

My name is Michael Rohrer. I am non-binary. I am human. I am gay. I am queer. I am a person in progress. I am on a journey and my most recent discovery is “huge,” to quote my friend Mandy.

I am.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go put on some lipstick then change the sheets on my bed.

Seeing Myself in Jude: thoughts on A Little Life

The first thing I remember upon hearing of Hanya Yanagihara’s novel, A Little Life is that it’s terribly sad. And at 814 pages (the paperback version) that was a lot to consider. But I found myself more intrigued than intimidated.

 

At 10:49pm on the evening of August 19, 2023, I began A Little Life.

 

I won’t lie, it took me a few days to penetrate the world of the novel, find its rhythms. But once I did, all I cared about was setting aside time to enter it again, turn the page, find out what happened next.

 

This essay contains spoilers, so if you haven’t read the novel, and there’s any thought in your head that you might, you should stop reading right now.

 

Malcom, J.B., Willem, and Jude: college friends, post college friends, four young adults supporting one another as they build their lives in New York City, old friends. I have those friends in the presence of Neal and Matt. The novel’s four men experience a lot of life together in this chronicle, and so have we three—turning 21, coming out, learning ballet, graduating from college, living in NYC, marriages, cheating, break-ups, dating, divorces, births, deaths, laughter, anger, tears, silence, forgiveness.

 

But A Little Life really centers on the character of Jude. It struck me like a distressing blow to the face when I recognized my own reflection staring back at me in the way he feels about himself: the shame, the low self-esteem, the feeling that all good is undeserved. His desire to be alone, to fade away, to shrink himself into an unnoticeable figure—small and ignored. His anxious recoil at being touched. (I don’t so much recoil as I just don’t often put myself in a position to be touched. Yet I know my body craves that intimacy.) His fear of sex and dislike of it. (I fear men even as I desire to feel the closeness that sexual penetration can provide.) 

 

If you’ve read the novel let me state without further hesitation that my life experience does not mimic Jude’s beyond how we both feel about ourselves. I have not been molested. I have not been forced to be a prostitute. I have not been beaten to unconsciousness or run over by a car. I have not inflicted physical self-harm upon myself. And I have only half-heartedly given thought to taking my own life—the pills were in my hand, but I didn’t have the courage. I have not experienced his trauma—so much trauma. I don’t know how he keeps going, keeps breathing, finds any moments of joy or happiness. Yet I have experienced people who taught me shame and fear, which led to my feelings that I am undeserving of love or of a life without the expectation of suffering. My experiences have led to my traumas. Mine. (I know Jude is not real but that doesn’t change how powerfully his story affected me.) We all have some sort of PTSD from the traumas in our lives. Comparatively though, Jude wins hands down, and I feel like a whiny bitch.

 

I have thrived in the relationship/friendship/chosen family threesome that is Neal, Matt, and I. But I have also pushed them both away. I often feel that when I once again begin speaking about how religion affects me, about my family’s political beliefs, about how ashamed I often feel when expressing my femininity, or about the depression of the moment, that they roll their eyes when I’m not looking. I know I’m blessed to have them, but I also don’t see myself as easy. I often wait for them to say enough is enough and then move forward in their lives without me. Sometimes, I feel as if I’m trying to push them beyond their Michael limits so they will eventually prove my expectations warranted. This never happens.

Brother Luke to Jude; “When you’re with your clients you have to show a little life; they’re paying to be with you – you have to show them you’re enjoying it.” (Yanagihara, 2015, p. 473)

As I learned more and more about Jude’s life experience (the agony was often relentless), I felt gutted, sad, sick to my stomach, broken. When my heart wasn’t pounding out the rhythm of anxiety in my chest, (my breathing dancing in the shallows), it felt as if it had been ripped out of my chest. I wanted Jude to find happiness. I wanted him to feel safe. I wanted him to fight to get mentally healthy. I wanted him to stop apologizing for everything. I wanted him to share all his secrets in the hope that it would set him free. I wanted him to trust those who professed their love for him. But he didn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t.

We learn at an early age from the adults in our lives what is expected of us, what we’re worth, how much we’re loved, who we can trust. I know I was loved. Am loved. But I also learned to fear and to be ashamed and I didn’t trust. Jude learned those things, and more, but from extremely disturbing circumstances that no child (or adult) should ever have to experience.

 

At 4:22 pm on the afternoon of September 22, 2023, I finished A Little Life. 

 

I now know what happened next, and I feel relieved to know it. But I also feel tremendous sadness at the revelation. There was a lump in my chest. I’ve felt this lump before. I know how to deal with it. I need to cry it out. And while I had cried a few pages before the end of the novel, I needed to really cry. I needed to face my feelings and get them out of me. The first thought I had was to play “What Was I Made For?” by Billie Eilish. So I did. Music is magic at helping one express his feelings.

 

When her breathy voice gently breathed, “I used to float, now I just fall down,” I couldn’t hold myself together. All I could think of was Jude as a little boy. (Me as a little boy.) The word “float” in the context of this song conjured for me images of that joyous time when one fears nothing. Memories of me playing, laughing, running flickered through my mind. Jude never really had that. I could picture him as a little boy, at the monastery where he was raised, happy in the greenhouse helping Brother Luke, the monk who had always treated him with the most kindness. This was before Brother Luke revealed himself to be the catalyst of Jude's ruin. Jude never felt safe. But I did, until I didn’t. I have fallen down.

 

I bawled. I howled. I shook as I wept. For Jude. (For myself.) I held the book to my chest, over my heart, as if Jude was a real person and by holding his story over my heart, I would somehow comfort him, and me. I listened to the song twice. The deluge continued. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. My heart was so broken.

 

After the tears stopped, and the nasal congestion that accompanied them began to clear, I took myself outside for a walk. I needed to move. I needed to clear my head. I wanted to have a cigarette. I focused on my breathing, the inhale and exhale of the smoke, and the beauty of the colorful flowers still in bloom around me. I noticed a vibrant pink and yellow flower with a bumble bee sitting in its center doing what bees do. It was life. A little life.

 

If I hadn’t seen myself reflected in the form of Jude’s own feelings about himself, I have no idea how I would feel about A Little Life. It is gripping and rich in description. But there’s no use wondering what might have been as I will never know because I did see myself, and when the story was over, I cried for us both.

 

Again, I know Jude is not real. But I am. I’m alive. I’m a 52-year-old man-child whose heart is old but tender because I’ve rarely let it get broken (no calluses). But I should be able to change how I feel about myself, shouldn’t I? There's still time, right? But will I? I’ve been trying for years, but I’ve been stuck longer than I was ever free. I know that I have to believe that I matter, that I’m worthy. I have to believe that I have nothing to be ashamed of. With each new day, as I wake to breathe again, I wonder if there is still a chance I will believe it. Will I live more than just a little life? Will I one day finally loosen the shackles of my fear and shame and live more freely, more fully, more vulnerably, more happily, more openly? I’m not sure I believe I can.

 

I see A Little Life as a story of friendship: its challenges and rewards. I see it as a love story: unexpected and thrilling. It’s also a story of child abuse and its detrimental effects. It’s a story of physical damage that, for Jude, is too difficult to overcome. It made me think about my life, my friends, my family, the relationships that still exist and the ones I’ve walked away from. My anger. My avoidance of vulnerability. My internalized homo- and femmephobia. The dates I wouldn’t go on. The sex I’ve refused to have. The loneliness cultivated by solitude. All the wasted years. 

 

Referencing the aforementioned Billie Eilish song again, these lyrics weigh heavily on my heart: “Think I forgot how to be happy. Something I’m not, but something I can be.” It isn’t that I’m always sad. There is joy. There is happiness. They’re just harder for me to hold on to.

 

This story clearly had a profound effect on me. Jude’s story touched me deeply. It is one that I will not soon forget. I may never forget it. And even though its pages are singed with sadness, it is quite possibly a book that I will one day read again