In All We Knew But Couldn’t Say, Emmy Award–winning actress Joanne Vannicola examines her painful relationship to her biggest fan and greatest tormentor: her sexually abusive, morbidly obese mother. The memoir flips back and forth in time from Vannicola’s tap-dancing childhood in 1970s Montreal to Toronto in 2002, where her mother lies dying from cancer. After nearly 15 years of estrangement, the reunited women must reckon with the constraints of their expected roles, different ideas about family and forgiveness, and previously undisclosed secrets. Vannicola writes, “The need to feel separate is so big, so old.”
Although the story follows a more or less linear, chronological timeline, the book’s division into four parts, each highlighting a formative influence of Vannicola’s identity—family, anorexia, lesbianism, and storytelling—is worth closer examination.
Part One: “Walking Through Glass” shows Vannicola’s budding theatricality and the stage mother who encourages her—“Mother’s escape was the same as mine, only she experienced it vicariously through me”—as well as life in their chaotic home. Father is an Italian immigrant, a construction worker with a glass eye and “his Kodiak boots” who beats the girls (young Joanne and her older sisters, Sadie and Lou), but never their brother, Diego (who sometimes carries out the father’s beatings for him), at their mother’s bidding: “she wound him up like a music box.” It’s hard not to see the transference in one of Vannicola’s earliest memories: “My favourite kitten was smothered by her mother and lay dead beneath her. I couldn’t stop wailing. Sick of my screaming, my father went upstairs with a shovel and killed the remaining kittens.”
After a particularly bad beating, Sadie speaks up at school and never returns home. Mother offers no explanation, only that “‘she said some things she shouldn’t have.’” Vannicola writes, “The only lesson I learned from Sadie’s absence was to keep my mouth shut, to never tell on my parents, even when I was the victim.”
At 8, Vannicola successfully auditions for Sesame Street. A few days later, she accidentally walks in on her mother in the bathroom: “Mother sat on the toilet with the door open, naked…She didn’t say anything, just stared at me. There was no toilet paper so she grabbed a towel...wiped herself with it, and widened her legs with her woman parts exposed, her eyes empty, like a dead person.” This is not the first time Vannicola remembers seeing her mother so exposed. One afternoon she walks past her in her bedroom “lying down, moving around and breathing heavily, naked. She lifted the top sheet from her body when she saw me staring at her through the open door…and caressed the side of the bed where my father usually slept, gestured for me… ‘Come lay down with Mommy, I’m lonely.’”
After her parents’ divorce, Vannicola’s father gradually drifts away. Vannicola writes, “I knew that both of my parents were disturbed; I just didn’t know how to speak that truth. Or who to speak it to.” Martha, her drama coach and the leader of a young people’s acting troupe, is not a candidate to become a confidante: she quickly becomes chummy with Vannicola’s mother. They coach her for an audition at Juilliard when she’s only 13. Vannicola makes it to the top five, but feels like her immaturity blows her interview. “I hadn’t realized how much I wanted it until it was over,” she writes. She takes solace in her budding relationship with a boyfriend, Clint, whom her mother begins flirting with and plying with beers. Brother Diego heads off to college; Mother kicks 18-year-old Lou out of the house and arranges for Joanne, at 14, to attend theatre school in Toronto. Vannicola is shocked by how carelessly she’s suddenly discarded, like the rest of her siblings, “falling off like a button from a shirt.”
While Part Two: “Broken” focuses on Vannicola’s experience at a Toronto high school for the performing arts—“I could not read at the same level as the other students,” she says, and she doesn’t know how to take care of her basic needs—the emphasis is really on her developing coping mechanisms for trauma. “Nights were a nightmare. My flashbacks were becoming regular, and any loud sound might set me off,” Vannicola writes. She develops anorexia (“I pinched my belly … and cried because the skin felt like fat and I didn’t know the difference between the two anymore”), rebels at school, and tries to kill herself, first with pills, then by other means. “Though I wasn’t yet sixteen, I felt like an eighty-year old,” she writes. She props up a mirror next to her bed for company and feels reassured by her jutting bone structure: “The bones had been my friends at my lowest weight.”
“Navigating the world of lesbians could be tricky,” Vannicola writes in Part Three: “What I Knew.” “There were all these power dynamics to adjust to, like in any family or tribe,” Vannicola writes about her first important same-sex relationship with Carla, the director of her first important film, who “was old enough to be my mother.” The relationship is strained by “the power imbalance between us, the secret”—neither of them is out. Vannicola, at a high point in her career, then moves to California—pitched by her agent as “a cross between Angelina Jolie and Jodie Foster”—and completely freaks out. “I didn’t have the language for what I was experiencing—a reaction to homophobic undercurrents and extreme sexism, not just in the town, but also in the scripts.”
Part Four: “The Stories Our Bodies Tell” expands fully into the book’s present day. Vannicola’s play-by-play description of her mother’s death, after the mother has unburdened herself of some pivotal family secrets, is some of the most powerful writing in the book: “She inhales deeply, like she is trying to breathe through a straw. She gasps, her eyes widen. She seems so engaged with someone or something above her bed. She nods as if in conversation, or in answer to a question. Yes.”
All We Knew But Couldn’t Say conveys a wide range of the enormous complexity of human relationships, and a number of mysteries. They don’t all need to be solved, but they need to feel resolved within the book’s own harmonic structure. The disappearance (and later reappearance) of the sister, Sadie, and especially the agency of the acting teacher, Martha (whose motives for both helping and hurting young Joanne are never sufficiently unpacked) will likely leave readers frustrated. Vannicola’s breakthrough moment with a therapist, Alice, is greatly stripped of its power because their conversation rehashes scenes we’ve already witnessed for ourselves elsewhere in the book—the only one who’s in the dark about what happened is Alice.
Vannicola’s strength, throughout, is in her scene-writing. All the scenes are vivid, well-drawn, and the (reimagined) dialogue rings true. Vannicola excels at bringing a fresh, sharp immediacy to the story of her struggle with anorexia, and the insidious way the effects of trauma can take hold: “The nagging voice inside my head was like a tripwire, sometimes sounding like my mother, words incessantly rotating in my head, like fat or Don’t cry or Do you love me?”
Vannicola writes, “I held on to my secrets about my mother in feminist circles… No one talked about women who hurt women.” Many readers will be glad that Vannicola found the strength to speak up. By staying silent, who was she really protecting? As Vannicola realizes, “I had long been motherless. Her death made it finite.”
Four poems, each spread out a few lines at a time, over several pages, each ending with a line of a song (by Leonard Cohen, Patty Griffin, Blood Orange, and Neil Young) comprise Hailey Higdon’s spare, introspective collection Hard Some. In these poems Higdon takes hard, unflinching looks at herself: the roots of her ways of thinking, her behavior in relationships, and her ideas about what happens when we die.
“A Wild Permanence” begins like the setup of a joke: “Two women walk into a town.” What emerges is a moving story of two lesbians trying to make a life for themselves, moving from place to place, from small town to small town, to increasingly isolated regions in nature, even resting for a moment in the cab of a truck. There is a sense beyond the words of this poem that the women are young and in love, and don’t need much else beyond each other, yet an understanding is beginning to dawn that the world isn’t so hospitable to same-sex love. For now, the women are accustomed to a youthful kind of slumming it: “looking to see what’s in the garbage can / because we are young and curious and just want to know.”
But the need to find a home and something to sustain them is great: “So here we are digging, digging / until we’re wild, find water.” The narrator interrupts her own story (and the poet interrupts her own line of poetry) to say, “As an American I want to talk about myself,” and resumes again on the next page, “Two women walk into a town,” as if to start again, to try to assert a simple narrative, or retell the same story until she arrives at the iteration with a happy ending. The starting over mirrors the way the two women in the poem keep moving, and keep trying to fit in.
A line like “We tried for neighborly” might suggest the way that gay people try to blend in in small towns, places where “violence [is] used in relation to purity,” where “two women go to places inhabited by risk.” The narrator asserts “We are here” (and perhaps in between the lines, we are queer, get used to it), “permanent & wild with / that community of moving target, that community / that says you are better off real imaginary and real far away.” When people “figure it out”—discover that the women are gay—“between us evaporates.” The couple no longer feels safe to be a couple. “[W]e are scuffmarks on floorboards / a wild permanence”—something unwanted, perhaps an accident that most people would work to scrub out, albeit with great difficulty.
“Breaker” compares a relationship to something safe and confined, like a lake, whereas the narrator feels like something wild, like the sea. (“Fuck the lake,” the poem begins, as if in evidence of the narrator’s testiness.) The title evokes a wave, of course, but also suggests the command “break her.” Certainly the narrator breaks down her lover (“Most / relationships I’ve had I’ve / been you / a fan”), along with their relationship, calling it “the place where / a creature and its shadow are connected.” A creature, not a person; there’s a sense that a relationship is somehow not humane. The narrator lists her grievances, such as, “we take turns enjoying / but never quite experience together.” This suggests sexual fulfillment, and also not being on the same page. “How many times do we try something new / and before it feels comfortable / retaliate,” the narrator wonders. The narrator admits that “things get better” when “boundaries form,” but they increase her desire for freedom and wildness. “What the fuck is domestic / suffering?” the narrator snarls, and you can see the way she’s cornered herself. There is a sense that, for all her strength (“I imagined vulnerability was liability”), she is the one broken by the experience of the relationship. The narrator points to all the other things that are broken—sexual bond, communication, her lover—but ultimately, the thing the narrator breaks down is herself.
“Children” explores the roots of our traumas, and how these traumas are activated by relationships. “Some run,” the poem notes. But for other people, relationships provide the means to heal these traumas: “Things happen / in pairs / and define each other.” We see ourselves mirrored in our partners, and can perhaps identify our shadows there. But relationships also bear the brunt of our suffering. In relationships, we often tiptoe around one another (“The floorboards ask you to step lighter”), and relationships don’t always last (“You were the rainbow / it was impermanent”).
“Yes & What Happens” explores the question of an afterlife. “I believe we come back,” the narrator ventures, and lists all the reasons why. The poem is a summing up of who the narrator is, and also addresses her regrets: “It came from a sad place all that wronging / all that doing it to someone else.” It’s a kind of reckoning of the ways she’s lived her life, from her independence (“I lugged solitude from place to place”) to her hardness (“What thirsty ways I’ve tried to out fox / the books about softening”), and perhaps articulates her own ideas about heaven: “to be as queer as you are without boundaries.”
Like the poems before it, “Yes & What Happens” beautifully and movingly explores the idea of the individual inside and outside of relationship (“The rivers of the world become the sea and they / were also rivers, tied to each individual place”). In its closing, the narrator, alone, realizes she isn’t alone. She has more than her memories of her relationships. She has the evidence of the ways that they have changed her. And she bears witness to her own experience by just sitting with it, perhaps feeling the presence of her higher self, a hard-earned kind of with-ness that comes from a deep knowing of oneself.
The final lines root life in its everyday domestic picture, chores on a weekend afternoon, while at the same time elevating life in terms of destiny and fate, when seemingly out of nowhere, unbidden, clarity arises and pierces the mundane:
“Thank you for waiting, incurring the damages
which were going to happen, I’ve been told
everything was always going to happen, and
away from you and near you are the same thing, and
it was Sunday, and I did laundry, and you were all there,
all my changes, all my changes were there.”
The poems in Hard Some mysteriously invite us to reflect on something almost spiritual: the ways that relationships change us. It is in our capacity to love that our transformation lies. To hurt the people we love, and to make amends; to understand our capability to hurt the people we love, and to resist hurting them. This is how we are changed; this is how we change.
Poet Kate Gray’s new book, For Every Girl, ends with a transcript of a conversation between Gray and Oregon poet laureate emerita, Paulann Petersen. “[T]his book is not arranged as we might expect ‘a new and selected poems’ to be arranged,” Petersen points out. “We might expect four sections. One section from each of your previous books…plus a fourth section of new poems…the new poems and older poems are all mixed together, and not in chronological order.”
Gray seems less interested in charting a clear evolution of her voice as a poet than in redefining how her work could be read in accordance to how her understanding of what’s important in life has evolved. In “Manifesto for the girl” she writes: “You are not a spoon. You do not have to curve / in service.” Consider how this idea of a manifesto has informed the purpose of the poems’ arrangement. Each of the three sections Gray has corralled the poems in is marked by a sentence declaring her intent:
Part I: “You write about the things that scare you to give courage to people who are also afraid—you go to the dangerous places first so others can feel less alone.”
Part II: “As women and men are empowered to tell their stories, the world is a lot richer from those stories and from the landscape that is created by the many voices speaking up.”
Part III: “We won’t be silenced. The more voices, the better. The more stories of survival, stories of community, the stories of siblings helping each other out—all of those stories will help us understand where we go next. And we need to go someplace.”
Gray has dedicated this collection “for my sibs,” and brothers and sisters appear often in these poems, sometimes as individuals (as in “We hear you” and “Coma”), but more often as a collective who help support one another through experiences of shared trauma, starting in childhood. “Drought” is dedicated “for my brothers” and intimates at the lasting effects of these damages: “Record rain / cannot restore what a fist / or hunger hollows.”
“Swimming in a thunderstorm” addresses the way these adult children are changed after their mother’s death. “My sister asks in a voice as soft / as water on water, Is it different, this place, / everything? Yesterday she held our mother’s hand / eggplant and black from weeks of needles.” The sisters float in a pool, aware of the threat of an approaching thunderstorm. “Mother used to sit under the awning / by the pool,” the narrator remembers, sinking to the bottom, “the rain circling on the water above me.” Now she and her sister “swim under threat / of lightning strike.” They feel bereft of a mother to say, as theirs once did, “Time to come out.”
If Gray is the narrator speaking in “Hand-me down,” she is the “youngest of six, I lived / in soft clothes, elbows bowed. Inheritance / smelled like hand-me-downs.” In “Dear sir, comma,” she listens to her mother taking a bath, “her voice, tired / from raising six children / in the ’60s, tired / from hacking herself away / from my father rooting / his madness in us all.”
Gray opens the collection with a poem about this father. “Pears” finds her in a Pacific Northwest coffee shop in winter. A pear scone is to Gray what a madeleine is to Proust. The fruit reminds her of learning to prune fruit trees from a Japanese gardener, and remembering her own father “barking” lessons and spooning out “canned pears soaked in syrup”—a sharp contrast from the sophistication of how “The scone, soft with the baker’s waking, holds / the sun of last summer.” Her thoughts of her father are painful ones to remember, “stuck in the place for speaking, beneath that cold V of skin.” She compares the pastry’s shape “of folded flags” to “The flag folded / from his coffin I never saw.”
“Rarely anymore do I wake myself calling” highlights a serious reason for that estrangement, suggesting sexual abuse by her father—he “slipped from my room”—and the damage it continued to inflict. “Year after year I kept quiet, growing / around my silence the way pine bark / folds barbed wire in its skin.” Gray is not alone with her father in this poem: “My mother never heard,” she writes. “And she didn’t hear.”
The mother’s deafness seems possibly willful, and appears in another poem, “Trauma brain: a love song.” Gray writes, “Mother shut / the door when she played Fats Waller, the piano crying / more than she did, her pain the score she settled / in our bones, what she ignored bored through.” Her father’s crimes are again catalogued: “Daddy isn’t supposed to do what Daddy / does, and let me live screamless for twenty-eight years.”
The mother in these poems (if indeed Gray’s) comes from Southern stock. Looking again at the poem “Hand me down,” the narrator visits the American South where her grandmother lives, “An azalea of a woman,” “her staircase a waterfall of wisteria,” and witnesses her mother accommodating the fierce tribalism of that culture, surprising her children when she “could suddenly drawl.”
“Peony” is another poem that links flowers to the women in Gray’s family, this time to her mother. “You are a beautiful wound / loosening / like the bruises packed in a mother’s / compliments, her withered / blooms never deadheaded.” Perhaps this speaks to the generational impact of trauma. Her mother’s wounds, never excised, continue to hurt the next generation. It’s an idea that several of the poems seem to suggest: our stories of the past painfully wound us, yet we hold on to them—also painfully.
These connected ideas of women and flowers might speak to the collection’s prologue, a quote from Anaïs Nin: “And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” Here we have this idea of opening, and one way this idea shows up in this collection is again connected to women, when Gray writes about her sexuality.
“My people” is Whitman-esque in its exuberant inclusiveness, each stanza beginning with the words “I claim” and then describing different “dykes”: “the dyke in the weightroom, puffing,” “the dyke in the barroom gloating,” finally opening up to embrace “all dykes honking and flocking.”
In “Beginning with the bang,” Gray writes of what she did with a lover—“With hands / passing from breasts to breasts, we try to hold what we / cannot grasp”—whereas in “Pleasure and need,” she addresses her lover directly: “Imagine your legs / are the river parting, the island / supple, a tongue.” These poems are deeply erotic and capture the heat and obsessive need of sexual desire.
“The moon on the tsunami” is more of an elegy. It mourns not only a lover lost, but the person herself:
the woman I loved
on the other side
of an ocean wrote daily
notes to say the moon
she saw was the same one
And then moves us with the realization that “After she / died, the moon was all / I saw of her.”
“Why I teach English in a community college” is a declaration that again speaks to an idea of a manifesto. “Their stories are my skin,” she writes. Here Gray again touches on her relationship to trauma—“In polite white / worlds, we spoke the only language we / knew: fine, everything is fine.”—this time discovering the solace she and her students experience in the work of finding a way to write their truths, ones that could not be expressed any other way.
Many of the poems (“Some sign,” “Something to wear,” “Someplace safe,” “Veni, vidi, vici,” and “Unlike other exiles”) highlight Gray’s experience in social work, combating societal stigmatizations, and advocating for social causes. “The frame of memory” recounts the opening of the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C.:
Once pinned with pink triangles, they perished.
Because they were slaughtered, they live on.
They are the only dead we can identify, whose gassed
and ghostly bodies we claim, whose lives resonate
in the walls of one of the few museums in the world
to call us by name.
If we read these poems autobiographically, For Every Girl not only takes measure of Gray’s work, but her life. In clear, simple language and understated prose, the poems show how Gray has lived, and also how she thinks it helpful to live: sensitively, urgently, responsibly. “I will die in Portland in the rain” she imagines in “Variations on texts by Vallejo and Justice” and there’s no fanfare, no remorse or regret. There is a sense of the rightness of everything being washed away. “And after a while the friends with their warm hands / pushed off from the doorframes, stepped past the oak leaves, / and walked into the rain, eyes soft and full.” The final chord sounds, and it’s ringing with acceptance—a fitting end to an extraordinarily fine collection.
I love the outdoors, yet I am not so outdoorsy that I would want to kayak up an Alaskan river, or even to read about someone who had—or so I thought before reading Lava Falls, the latest collection from Lucy Jane Bledsoe. Given the author’s bio—name-checking physical exertions in the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone, Alaska, and Antarctica—somehow I feared these 11 stories and one novella would be vigorously good for the reader, like exercising outside at six in the morning in the middle of winter. I wasn’t prepared for how engagingly Bledsoe would write about the physicality of being in the wild. The thing that really struck me afterward, though, is the breadth of this collection. Each story was different from the one that preceded it. Different characters (with different sexual orientations); different struggles; different settings; different themes.
Many of the narrators and characters are in mid life: 50 and up. There is a weariness in their voices, and a longing, but something placid as well. Some understanding of the self has, at last, been attained. “Everyone relaxes when a woman reaches a certain age, and I find that very relaxing myself,” says the narrator in “Poker.” The stories aren’t always told in the first person, but when they are, as this one is, the narrator is often speaking to herself. Here she does that by mentally addressing an old lover. While there isn’t much outward drama in the story, the relative physical isolation of being “on the ice” in Antarctica heightens the wayward inner feelings.
The writing throughout this collection is direct and the overall tone is unaffected and admirably plain. In “Wildcat,” a blind grandfather and his grandson hunt the animal that’s been stalking their suburban neighborhood. Reviewing the strained relationship with his daughter, the grandfather understands that “Years were like sand. They slid and dispersed. You couldn’t pick them back up again.”
This understated narrative quality nicely highlights Bledsoe’s subtle touches of beauty. In “The Antarctic,” two spinsterish sisters squabble about taking a cruise to the South Pole. Bledsoe describes the pivotal moment that they fight as “when the sky was flat and gray, and only a few red apples hung hard and near-frozen from the tree in the backyard.”
Then again, in a story like “Skylark,” about a talented teenage singer who runs away from home to discover her sexuality and find her voice, Bledsoe gets hold of her conceit like a dog with a tennis ball in its mouth, who noses you with it, yet won’t let go, and you wind up with slobber all over your leg. She does the same thing in “Life Drawing” and “The End of Jesus.” Both focus on the strangling chokehold of a Christian fundamentalist upbringing. Ironically, the “message” of these stories is obvious to the point of sermonizing. “The confusing thing about returning to a place that so warped your existence is that you simultaneously can’t believe you’ve let it have so much power over you even as it exerts its force all over again,” the latter story’s narrator realizes at the start. But there are no further surprises for the reader. I would have welcomed more nuance, and for at least one of the stories to offer a different take on things.
The title story, the novella, concerns a group of intergenerational women who see ghosts from both the past and future on their Grand Canyon rafting trip. Set in a dystopian near-future, what’s most terrifying is how ominous their present time—so close to our country’s present moment—reveals itself to be.
Unfortunately, the six main characters—names, ages, careers, relationships to one another—are all lumped together in one paragraph. It’s like being at a cocktail party where you’re introduced to everyone in the room at once. Wait, who’s Paige? Which one’s Kara? Mark that paragraph because you’ll need to come back to it. Is the novella not long enough for the characters to be introduced gradually? Or is Bledsoe just in a hurry to plop everyone in the boats and head on down the river?
There’s another couple in another boat, and something isn’t right about them, but the suspense doesn’t build. The action is confused and even the dialogue suffers in the end: too much exposition and speech-making. It’s especially a shame because the germ of this story is such a good one. It needed room to develop and grow. That said, I can definitely see this as a movie.
And oddly, the cover of this book shows a young woman underwater in a flowing white dress. The characters are nowhere near as fanciful as this image would suggest. They’re out in kayaks, in boats, in tents, on banks of ice. I see them in anoraks, in shorts and sports bras and tank tops and Teva sandals. In none of the stories does anyone dressed like this Ophelia appear. I don’t understand this choice. It’s confusing, and I really hope Bledsoe doesn’t lose readers because of this. (Anyone drawn to this book because of the cover is bound to be disappointed, or at least confused.)
Overall, though, the spare writing and subtle tonal shifts throughout make for a satisfying, varied collection. The final story, “The We of Me”—dedicated “with thanks” to Carson McCullers—is incredibly charming and comes off almost like a throwaway. It’s much more bonkers than the rest. I’d be happy if this was a direction Bledsoe decides to paddle in for her next collection.
The decision to transition late in life is a bold one. In Chloe Schwenke’s memoir Self-ish: A Transgender Awakening, which documents her own such choice, we meet Stephen, a married man, with a college-age son, a teenage daughter, and a flourishing career as a human rights advocate. But the pressure of another self demands to express itself. “When that dam breaks,” Chloe writes, “it does so with such intensity of thoughts and feelings that many outsiders misinterpret this as a radical life decision that is being rushed, or one that is irrational or bizarre—instead of being simply long overdue.”
Born Stephen, Chloe emerges a woman “who never had a girlhood” in her late fifties. “I still don’t know how to braid my hair,” she laments, and it’s a poignant reminder that despite her advancing age, Chloe is in some ways more emotionally a girl than a woman. It’s an idea that Self=ish reinforces so well: that what we present as may be a far cry from who we really are.
While Stephen agonizes about hurting those to whom he’s made commitments, Chloe’s commitment is firmly to herself. “To be present in any relationship means first to be present to self,” Chloe argues. Hence the title’s conceit. As Chloe later explains, “[f]or transgender people…the decision to claim and own one’s authentic self is wholesomely self-ish…We’ve paid the most awful price for not being more selfish…without a “self” that [we] could love or respect.”
The consequences of the decision to transition are felt almost before Stephen’s even aware that a choice has been made. “It was quickly made clear to me that my decision—choice—to…transition gender was going to be turbulent and emotional for everyone concerned. ‘Everyone concerned’ turned out to be a long list with my name on the top.” Chloe’s conception initiates the gears of destruction on Stephen’s life—as if Chloe, not Stephen, had made the decision.
What makes this story compelling is this push-pull of perspectives: the emerging identification as Chloe and diminishing association as Stephen. We identify with and root for Chloe—yet it’s like a horror movie for those closest to Stephen. The scenes with Stephen’s ex-wife Christine and their children, the guilt and anguish conveyed, are some of the strongest in the book. As Chloe observes, “Christine was uniquely victimized by having to watch, powerlessly and without any control, as each change took place.” Each decision and act that brought Chloe more prominently into the picture was a swipe of the eraser to Stephen. The children each draw their own boundaries. Daughter Audrey, for example, admits she isn’t comfortable having Chloe accompany her to a high school football game. Chloe respects her family’s decisions, and yet between the lines, there’s a nagging feeling: Can’t they just be happy for me? And yet no one understands better than Chloe why they can’t.
Self-ish is a fascinating puzzle of identity. One of the most interesting pieces is Chloe’s faith as a Quaker. “Quaker listening is directed inward as much as it is upward; that essence of the divine is right there inside,” she notes. “I had only to open myself to its message, and listen.” Though the answers are not immediately forthcoming, Chloe’s faith never falters. She continues to engage herself in the quiet found within. ”Those answers were within me, once I knew how to access them—I surprised myself when I found that no one had to teach me to be a woman.”
Another compelling aspect of this book is Chloe’s direct assault against ageism. She’s in her late fifties when she starts to transition Shortly afterwards, she was made one of the first transgender political appointees of the Obama administration as Senior Advisor on Democracy, Human Rights, and Governance for Africa at the US Agency for International Development. This high point is followed by a series of challenges which ultimately find Chloe living in a room in her ex-wife Christine’s house where she writes this book and looks for work and love.
As many people her age discover, dating’s no walk in the park. Discovering her attraction to men, Chloe is repeatedly rejected. We feel for her. One possibility for a new life is already foreshortened. Yet Chloe demonstrates resiliency and grace. “I have growing doubts that there exist many men of my generation who are able to accept me as a woman. Fortunately, my womanhood isn’t going to be defined by their acceptance of the same. I am what I am, and I am Chloe, a woman.”
One wonders if there’s been so much distancing from the man she was, that Chloe can no longer inhabit Stephen’s memories and recollections. The early scenes, flashbacks into Stephen’s youth, are dealt with summarily. Young Stephen may come across to some like a fledgling homosexual, but Chloe doesn’t seem to be introspective about Stephen when he was young. There is an awkward insistence on what a “dashing” young man Stephen was, playing his role of the “big man” during his stints living in Africa, yet these sections have very little life in them. Nothing is given of Stephen’s first wife’s perspective. Melanie doesn’t even get a name until the second time she’s mentioned.
Chloe’s experience as a public speaker is apparent and serves her well here. Her writing has a natural engagement, an easy way of letting the rope out--although there’s a somewhat annoying tendency to circle back and “land” her point at the end of each chapter. The book, a memoir, might have been better structured as a series of essays since there are overlapping details and themes. The repetitiveness leads to awkward bridging devices (“as described previously,” “That choice—as I relate later…”) which are clunky. One solution might have been to organize the material chronologically. But perhaps it was Chloe herself who resisted. In many ways she’s like Athena, bursting whole from the split head of Zeus armed with her own ideas about what’s right for her. I’d have liked to have seen more of her gradual development. Why the name Chloe? We never find out. Stephen might have been able to tell us. But then, it’s refreshing that Chloe is there at the outset, on page one. It’s her story now.