Nonfiction

Certain things we just don’t want to know about until they’re real, to admit that a time comes when the only good parts left are all in the past, a time when we can no longer tread water, no longer put food to our own lips, no longer hobble to the bathroom on our own, no longer hold ourselves upright, no longer get into a car unassisted, no longer do any of the things that living requires without the need of someone else’s hands, without the need for someone to hold us up.

The main reason I didn’t publicly celebrate ten years on hormones was that I’d always felt ambivalent about meds.

I used to think my brother died of a brain tumor. That was the story that had been passed down to me when I began asking questions.

Olive trees stunt and twist and gnarl. It’s easy to dismiss them, to not even notice the rows and rows of olive orchards when driving around the countryside in places like Greece or Jordan or Turkey. They are unaesthetic, utilitarian. They are the ugly ducklings of trees.

But they are also my favorite story of survival, a story of flourishing. 

My lover asked me to turn my gaze, tilt my chin, adjust my limbs. I watched him tune my real body to match his imagination. I saw the photographs he took of me flick across the camera’s screen. I was spectating. 

Never in my early thoughts of grad school was there a chance that I could fail. 

When I stun an animal, and cut it, and pump its blood out, and decide that it is really dead, I give it some time. A few minutes before I begin skinning, to fully leave its body, just in case.

I watched my mother die. I just didn’t know it at the time. It was Saturday morning. I had spent my second night in a row by her side in the ICU. There was a rhythm to my visits. I had to teach on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so I would stay all day Wednesday, and […]