Archive | Queer Matters

Jo Marches On (Jury Duty Reading)

I got through jury duty by rereading Little Women, the 1869 YA tome that, like much of the best literature for young ladies, cloaks its subversions in pretty bows, scapegraces, and misbegotten crushes. Jo March, the literary alias of author Louisa May Alcott, was the bluntest, most boyish, and most fiercely independent of the book’s four New England sisters. As a young girl growing up within miles of their fictional home (Concord, the very heart of New England’s transcendental movement), I identified with Jo powerfully, especially with her dreams of becoming a writer and with her unwillingness to cowtow to the constraints of prescribed femininity. Goddess knows I never bought the ending in which she gave up her literary dreams to marry a plain, moralizing German nearly twice her age.

“I”ll never marry!” I’d declare upon snapping the second volume shut, and though I was reading her tale 100 years later, grownups still tsk-tsked. “You’ll grow out of that attitude once you meet the right boy.” Well, I never met the right boy nor the right girl, and it gave me great satisfaction to learn Louisa never did, either. Instead, she trumpeted statements like: “I’d rather be a free spinster and paddle my own canoe!”

Was it because she harbored secret same-sex longings? Because, as many of her biographers argue, she longed for the real-life Laurie who loved her sister best? I prefer to think Louisa May Alcott was like me: Someone for whom gender was a disease if allowed to dictate who she could be and how, not just who, she could love. I am a feminine woman who will never play femme, a butch who likes to wear long dresses and lipstick, a domestic daddy long legs who loves motherly men and stand-up bois best. And even a century after Alcott strode this earth, my love and literature can’t find a home in this oddly literal world.

I’m approaching the last age Louisa ever reached, but still I pray to her teenaged Jo to guide me through my own book, my own life. Maybe genius isn’t burning, but it’s desire all the same.

Love Lost, Love Laureate: Noel Visitations

I woke thinking of Donald Hall, who died last June at the age of 89 after living a very fine life as a poet and a New Englander. There are details of his biography that make me wince–especially the string of young girls, including the poet Jane Kenyon, his second wife who was decades his junior and whom he met when she was still his student.

But I also know that God is not always concerned with such details, and that their love helped them develop as humans and writers. That he was unseasonably proud of his wife’s artistic development. That she professionally outstripped him before succumbing to a voracious cancer a few weeks shy of her 48th birthday. Continue Reading →

Brightness Falls

I cried so much when my godfamily left this Sunday.

It wasn’t just that I was sorry to see them go, though of course I was. Melina, my oldest friend, and her daughter Luci, my youngest goddaughter, had been visiting since Thursday–long enough that we’d normally experience the luxury of getting on each other’s nerves, especially since my railroad apartment is ideally occupied by one person at a time.

But I never minded their presence this time. I didn’t mind because I love them, and because, for the first time since my 30s, I’d grown accustomed to sharing space and time with a person I loved. Continue Reading →

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy