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

Life After Death

What if I invited Death in?

Let him curl my lashes,

Apply my mascara?

What if I invited Death in

And we spent together

A day filled with laughter?

What if I invited Death in

And I wasn’t afraid,

Found him handsome and sweet?

What if I invited Death in 

And we drank French red wine,

Ate oven-warm Brie cheese?

What if I invited Death in

And all my fears vanished

Like vapor in the sun?

What if I invited Death in

And he caressed my face,

Danced me like a lover?

What if I invited Death in

And in his embrace I

Was finally alive?

What if I invited Death in

And he filled me with love

And I was fully whole?

What if I invited Death in

And for the first time I

Felt no shame in myself?

What if I invited Death in 

And we walked hand in hand

While talking about time

What if we saw his old friend, Life, 

And Life was more winsome, 

More fearless, more alive?

What if I was smitten with Life:

His smile, his laugh, his eyes?

And he reached for my hand?

(The air quickens, the light changes, a thought occurs)

What if I invited Life in?

The Conditioning of My Gay Anxiety

Nick is walking down the street. The camera shot is a close-up of his face. He’s beaming. Filled with joy. His smile encompasses his mouth, his eyes, his hair. He is happy. It’s obvious.

I find myself anxious. I expect the camera to pull back and reveal impending doom.

(Spoiler alert: this is the final scene of season two, episode one of the endearingly sweet Netflix series, Heartstopper, created and written by Alice Oseman, based on her graphic novel.)

The more I thought about the anxiety I was experiencing, the more I realized I’ve been conditioned to expect shame, tragedy, and sadness. At least where gay stories are concerned. I expected there to be a bully. I felt my body tense as I prepared for a verbal attack of faggot or queer. My heartbeat sped up as I feared a fist would invade the frame of the shot and punch the smile off Nick’s face.

But nothing happened to Nick. His smile remained. His joy was uninterrupted.

I, however, had to take a pause.

Upon sharing my experience with two of my gay coworkers, who also watch the series, they too admitted a feeling of anxiety in that same moment. We have not been conditioned to sit back and watch an LGBTQ story play out in film or television that is set in a world of pure gay joy. We’ve been conditioned to expect adversity.

How thrilling it would be to live in a world without this homophobic bully-induced anxiety. As a queer fem human, who is still questioning where he fits on the gender spectrum, I think I would thrive.

Before I step outside my apartment building, I typically feel fabulous, proud, and joyous in my flourishes of nail polish or a cocktail-style ring or high heels or eye makeup. But the minute I step out into the world, I am on guard. Preparing. No matter how many times nothing negative happens to me, I am always on guard. I have been conditioned to be so. Having an awareness of one’s surroundings isn’t a bad thing. But expecting strife is.

It’s disquieting that I can more easily recall the pain and shame I felt when a group of men called me a faggot (for no other reason than they could) as I passed them to enter the building where I work than, say, the positive reinforcement from people who go out of their way to complement my nails or eyes or whatever it is. That’s because the negative moments are more traumatic. They carve out a place in my memories and live there in a darkened corner waiting to remind me why joy is more fleeting than heartache. I wish I knew how to store all the positive experiences the same way. Why do I give more credence to being called a faggot than to being complemented on my choice of nail color…by a straight man no less?

For the record, Heartstopper has proven itself to be nothing but gay joy. That isn’t to say that there aren’t negative experiences within its episodes. But overall, there was no reason for me to anticipate that expected adversity. That’s not the world Nick lives in. I wish I could live in his world.

Gay joy is something I strive to hold on to. And even though I haven’t found that easy, I am grateful for the pure joy of Heartstopper as reference.

In my world, I think it’s time to recondition my condition.

Room Fourteen: A Companion

A room has four walls.

It’s a holding space,

A hiding place,

A sanctuary.

Many things can happen in a room.

Death, for instance.

In room fourteen there was death,

Yes.

I’m sure the walls had witnessed it before.

But on this day they observed so much more:

There was Love,

Laughter,

Support,

Breathing.

There was Singing.

I was there. I heard it.

That room, its walls, guarded a Landslide of emotions…

Sympathy,

Fear,

Sadness.

But also Joy.

I was there. I felt it.

There was remembering happier times.

There was letting go.

There was surviving.

There was darkness…

But also sunshine.

In room fourteen there was death,

Yes.

There was stillness

If not quiet.

But there was also life,

And release;

A gentle fading away.

I was there. I saw him 

As he soared toward San Antone.

Convinced

When one has convinced himself that no one truly cares about the things he cares about — merely indulging him as he romanticizes about the scent of a new perfume, humoring him as he reenacts a moment from his favorite soap opera, tolerating his frustration with the lack of consequences for rule breakers — it is incredibly difficult to convince oneself otherwise.

When one has convinced himself he is his family’s shame and disappointment — welcoming him into their home, yes, but avoiding conversations about his life as a gay man, flippantly replying when faced with gay topics, silently reacting to his emotional outbursts on phobic occurrences, ultimately tempering his own shame — it is incredibly difficult to convince oneself otherwise.

When one has convinced himself that he is a unicorn peacocking among the regular horses — chin up, aloof, lips glossed with color, lashes mascara’d, perfectly armored (um, adorned), an inkling of knowledge that makes him seem well versed, a pretender even after he is safely hidden away and has removed the horn he foolishly believes makes him special — it is incredibly difficult to convince oneself otherwise.

©️MichaelRohrer