REFLECTIONS of ME a Thesis Submitted to the Kent State

REFLECTIONS OF ME

A thesis submitted to the

Kent State University Honors College in partial fulfillment of the requirements

for University Honors

by

Tyler Stratton

May, 2021

Thesis written by

Tyler Stratton

Approved by

______, Advisor

______, Chair, Department of English

Accepted by

______, Dean, Honors College

ii

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PREFACE……………………………...………………………………………..iii

CHAPTER

I. REFLECTIONS OF ME…………….…………….……..……....1

II. EXPLORING THE CRAFT OF MEMOIR……………………..68

III. WORKS CITED…………………………………………………71

iii Preface

“Most of us are out of our native waters. We keep close company with our native waters. We keep close company with our family demons and ghost that, to others, seem wistful and anecdotal.”

-Matthew Gavin Frank, Preparing the Ghost

I went into college assuming my main area of interest would be writing fiction, particularly novels. This started to change once I realized how difficult it really is just to write a short story, much less a book that’s a few hundred pages long. In addition to this, I loved learning about the history of the English language with Dr. Pfrenger, but I never felt like that was a path I wanted to commit to, either. I was stuck.

Creative nonfiction isn’t a genre of literature that I thought I would enjoy when I registered for Professor Winter’s Creative Nonfiction course in the spring of 2019. However, this thought process quickly changed when he had us do a few short writing exercises. I had to write just a page or two, nothing intimidating.

The hard part was that I had to write about myself. Not a fictional stand-in for me that, for all intents and purposes, is me. Not a cold, omniscient narrator. This had to be me. My own life, from my perspective. I’d never done this before, and I wasn’t sure what to write about. My life couldn’t be that interesting, right?

iv I decided to write about something I hadn’t talked to anyone about since my senior year of high school, barring a few friends. I would effectively come out as transgender to the rest of my class. This was mortifying for me. Everyone I’ve known since starting at Kent Salem has been incredibly friendly and accommodating to me. But I had no idea how anyone would react to me being trans. Transgender rights were and are still hotly debated, and I didn’t have a clue where anyone stood on them. For all I knew, the nicest person in class might have wished me ill after they knew or tried to convert me for being a sinner.

Overcoming this fear was one of the most freeing experiences for me. I told just a small portion of my experience, about how coming out to my dad went horribly wrong. As it turns out, this was a story that needed to be told. Everyone in class was commending me for my bravery, and it was then that I wondered how many times these sorts of stories aren’t told. How many other kids, teens, young adults, or even older adults bottle up trauma inside of them, and never give it a healthy outlet? I’d be willing to bet that it’s a lot of them. I thought that by telling my story in more detail, I might light a fire in others to do the same. Now I had my first inkling of what my thesis would be.

I started planning my thesis the semester before I took Advanced Creative

Nonfiction in the spring of 2020, again with Professor Winter. During that course, though, was when I really solidified the style I wanted to write my thesis in. I knew it would be a memoir, but I was stuck on how to begin. Dani Shapiro’s

v Inheritance led to me exploring my spiritual journey more in my writing, and

Tara Westover’s Educated was just the sort of post-trauma family-based memoir I was aiming for. I also was inspired by Matthew Gavin Frank’s Preparing the

Ghost, which mixes elements of personal and academic essay in his quest for the real story of the giant squid. Preparing the Ghost was the first breakthrough I had in starting to write my thesis, because I realized I could tie together seemingly unrelated story threads, and weave them into a larger patchwork quilt that makes sense as a whole.

Originally, I honed in on my gender exploration, but this made the resulting writing fairly one-note. It wouldn’t have the relatability for a more general audience that hasn’t experienced the specific way that being trans does.

This was when Professor Winter suggested to include more parts about my family. I needed context for the scene I’d written about in 2019 about my dad.

This presented its own set of problems, though. It was incredibly hard to write about my family. I was too protective of them, even though there were definitely things I wanted to say. This caused me to have severe writer’s block for weeks, until I finally just wrote more one night. Then when we discussed my new additions, it felt like I was finally getting somewhere. I just had to dig a little deeper, flesh out my family members, make it more personal and in the moment.

The pandemic affected my writing process a lot, too. Being home all the time meant it was much easier to get off track and allocate my time. Despite that,

vi I wrote more than I assumed I could when I started this project. I’m proud of that, and thankful to Professor Winter for helping to push me further than what I assumed I was capable of. Just like in his classes, he encouraged me to dig deeper into an idea, instead of just writing about it on the surface. He made me think about connections between ideas in my thesis that I never would have noticed otherwise. Now that the thesis is finished, I feel I have a newfound appreciation for the craft of creative nonfiction and of creative writing in general. I have a better understanding of what ideas work and which ones don’t. What’s interesting and what’s filler. What is worth telling about my life, and what isn’t. As it turns out, more than I expected ended up working, being interesting, and was worth telling. They just needed some adjustments.

If I hadn’t decided to take those two creative nonfiction courses, or decided not to write an honors thesis, it’s possible I would have kept this part of my story locked away, and the emotions I spilled into the page would be left inside, rotting away, numbing me to them even more. If the writing of this thesis has been one thing, it’s been extremely cathartic. Many weights have been lifted off my shoulders just from creating some of these scenes, and this whole process has shown me the general direction I want to take my writing moving forward: shining a light on my life, writing about my own struggle for identity and my relationship with family, so that I might help others to be more understanding, empathetic, and supportive for the people in their own lives. If I can help someone

vii in a similar position to me find their way in life faster than I have so far, then I’ve done my job, as far as I’m concerned.

viii Reflections of Me

I’m young. Four or five years old. I hear a thunder crack. I hug Mom.

“What was that?”

“That’s thunder, honey. Think of it like angels going bowling up in

Heaven. When you hear thunder, they’re getting a strike.”

“Oh… okay.”

Hearing thunder now, I sometimes imagine the clouds being split open by a bolt of lightning, waves of deafening sound, strength that can’t be contained.

Relentless. Unstoppable.

*

I’m in my early teens, and on a family trip to Virginia. We brought my grandparents along too, all seven of us packed into the van with our luggage.

One day, we’re at Virginia Beach, and Grandma is walking out in the water. I’m building a sandcastle. Grandma falls, landing on her hands and knees.

Grandpa and my parents stand up. Dad takes out the video camera and starts recording, while Grandpa goes into the water to help Grandma up. She starts standing and slips again. Mom gets up and starts to walk over to help.

Dad keeps recording.

1 Brandon, Julia, and I are looking over, wondering what happened.

Grandma gets out of the water and sits down under the umbrella. Mom gets mad at Dad.

“Why didn’t you help your mom?”

“I thought maybe it would be funny to record and look back on.”

“She could have gotten seriously hurt! What if she died?”

I feel like Mom is maybe exaggerating a little, but I see her point.

Grandma still could’ve gotten hurt if Grandpa hadn’t been there beside her. Dad’s camera is holding him back.

I look back on this now and wonder just as I did then why my dad didn’t help my grandma. What if she didn’t get back up? Maybe she could have gotten permanent brain damage, or a bone fracture. But he sat back from a distance, recording it all, laughing.

*

When I was in middle school, I played with Legos a lot. My mom would get me new sets for Christmas, my birthday, even Easter. One day, she told me that when she first started buying Legos for me, it drove her crazy that I would build the set, and then tear it apart within a few days. I’d cobble it together with other pieces I had to make my own creations, assuming I was doing exactly what I was supposed to do. The pieces wouldn’t be designed to fit with different sets if they were just meant to be models. I didn’t want a model.

2 “Eventually, I just accepted it,” she told me.

Now my Legos sit in my closet, behind a row of dress shirts and some boxes. They’re stored inside fourteen large, plastic animal cracker containers.

Some with red lids, other yellow or blue. I haven’t touched them for almost a decade now. Sometimes I want to dump them back out onto the floor in a giant pile, but I wonder if it won’t feel the same. That my childhood won’t return to me, the bright memories grown dim.

*

It’s Christmas morning. I’m barreling downstairs as soon as I’m awake.

The stockings hang above the fireplace, bloated with candy and small stocking stuffers. The tree skirt is buried in a pile of wrapped boxes both large and small.

My siblings follow me down shortly after, and we all dump out the contents of our stockings: chocolate wrapped to look like pieces of coal, collectible Lego minifigures, lottery tickets that never have any winning numbers. We breeze through all of this, and head upstairs. We can’t open the rest of the gifts until

Mom and Dad get up.

I knock on the door, with my siblings standing behind me.

My dad groans. “What?”

“Can we come in?” Brandon asks.

“Yeah.”

We walk in, standing by the bed and smiling.

3 “Santa was here! Get up! We wanna open presents!”

Mom says something this time. “Give us a little while to wake up, okay?”

We all whine but leave the room to head back downstairs. Mom comes down pretty quick. Dad is still nowhere to be seen. I go back upstairs, and he’s asleep again.

“Daaaaaad! Wake up! We’re all waiting for you now!”

“Fine, give me a few more minutes to get dressed.” I know he also needs to get the camera and video camera ready.

I talk with Brandon and Julia for a while, guessing what might be inside the wrapped boxes. I make sure that neither of them start opening the gifts too early. A couple hours later, Dad finally comes downstairs. It’s almost noon, and

Mom’s ready to start making the ham and mac and cheese when Dad walks in.

“Alright, let’s go,” he says, as if we’re the ones holding him back.

He takes our pictures in front of the gifts, and gets the video camera ready.

We rip into the wrapping paper, and our annoyance from waiting for Mom and

Dad goes away as we look forward to our new distractions.

*

I’m holding a crayon in my hand as I look over my work. The TV screen is covered in scribbles, and my dad is towering over me. He has the camera out, taking pictures of me. I’m turned towards him, looking like a deer caught in the

4 headlights. He’s laughing to himself, withholding any immediate punishment. My mom is at work, but she’s much angrier than him when she finally gets home.

The pictures are a permanent reminder of what I did. Every time the story is brought up, or I’m shown the picture, I’m being told that this is who I was, and still am. I can’t escape it. The camera is recording history. My history. My family’s history, at just the right angle, only ever with nice backgrounds and zero intrusions.

*

“Hang on, one more.”

My dad has been having my siblings and I stand here for forever. He always does this. Vacations, birthdays, you name it. We have to get our pictures taken at least a dozen times, before moving on and taking a dozen more within the hour. He must be addicted to that stupid camera.

“Okay, good. One more.”

We groan.

He looks up over the camera.

“Quit whining, I’m almost done.”

I roll my eyes. I’m sure my siblings do too.

“Come on, smile, please. That’s not a real smile.”

Julia whines, “But it hurts!”

We smile more. Bigger. Wider. Cheeks burning. Jaw tight. All teeth.

5 *

I’m seventeen or eighteen when we’re all in the living room, watching old videos that Dad recorded when I was little. Moments that I barely remember, preserved forever on discs. Getting frosting all over my face while helping Mom with Christmas cookies. My fifth birthday. Exploring museums and zoos. My seventh birthday. By the time we get around to my twelfth or thirteenth birthday, I notice how much quieter I’ve gotten. I used to be so energetic and enthusiastic, and going into my teenage years, some of that seems missing.

I think fear plays a part in the way I’ve receded from the spotlight. I’m afraid to express myself like I used to. I don’t want to embarrass myself. There’s things I’d rather keep to myself. I don’t want to be judged by friends and family.

I’m not the naive child I used to be, blabbering on about whatever came to my mind.

The last few birthdays, I’ve had the same kinds of outfits. A t-shirt with some sort of graphic on it, and some generic looking shorts. I see the same shirts across some years. My clothes still haven’t changed much. Everyone is used to me wearing the same shit. I’ve changed so much, but in this way, I’ve been stagnant. I even won “least changed” for the high school yearbook during my senior year. At first glance, I’m still the same person I was eight years ago, when I started high school. Nobody sees how much I’ve changed because none of it is external.

6 *

I stare up at the massive tyrannosaurus rex. I don’t even reach its knee, and two of me could fit inside the mouth. It looks menacing, despite being unmoving. Everything that gave it life is gone now. Only the skeleton is left. No muscles. No skin. No feathers. Not even eyes to stare back at me with. Only bones and hollow sockets.

Smaller dinosaurs flank the skeleton, lining the walls of the room, while the tyrannosaurus dominates the room from the center. It has the most complete skeleton out of any others, hunched over as if it’s still on the hunt after 65 million years.

I later learn that rex is the Latin word for “king.” Tyrannosaurus is a combination of the Greek tyranno, meaning “tyrant,” and saurus, meaning

“lizard.” Standing before what remains of the tyrant lizard is like standing in the banquet hall of a great king. There is an air of awe and sadness at the same time.

Instead of merriment, there is silence. Instead of the movement of monstrous animals, the bones remain locked in place, dry and cold.

*

I’m ten years old.

I’m downstairs when I hear a door slam.

I hear Julia crying. She’s three years old.

7 Mom and Dad rush upstairs and ask her what happened. Brandon’s standing in the hallway. He’s seven.

“Did you slam the door in her face?” Dad yells.

Julia’s face is red from crying. Her nose is bleeding.

“I told you to stop slamming the fucking doors!”

Dad storms downstairs, and comes back up to dismantle all our door knobs. When I go to sleep that night, I see the dim glow of the night light in the hallway, bathing the white wall in dark orange. It’s hard to sleep.

*

I’m standing at the top of the stairs. I see my cat, Shadow, at the bottom, looking up at me. Nobody else is home. Another cat comes from around the corner, sitting next to Shadow. Then another. And five more. None of them are cats we own. Shadow starts walking up the stairs. The others follow. He opens his mouth, and instead of a meow, I hear words. Shadow locks eyes with me, and speaks in a deep, monotone voice.

“I’m gonna kill you.”

I wake up, and keep giving Shadow a second glance for the rest of the day.

*

I’m in middle school. It’s during gym, and I’m sitting off to the side in the bleachers. That’s where most of the girls sit during gym. I’m sitting here because

I don’t want to play dodgeball.

8 Jess sits down next to me. He’s much taller than me, than most of our grade. He’s just gotten knocked out of the game, and he decides to sit right next to me, of all places. I don’t like Jess. He’s really blunt when he talks to people, and he can be pretty mean. I keep reading Eragon, the first novel of a fantasy series, and try not to glance over at Jess. When he turns to me, I know I won’t be able to avoid him.

“Why are you sitting like a girl?” Jess asks.

“What do you mean?”

“You have your legs crossed like a girl.”

*

“Do you want to try any sports?”

“Not really. I’m good.”

Mom is talking to me, trying to get me to try some sort of athletic activity.

Some other kids I know are already getting started in football, or baseball, or other sports. None of those sound fun to me at all.

Dad comes in. “What do you mean you don’t wanna do any sports?”

“I dunno, I just don’t.”

“We can sign you up for something. Just to try it?”

Mom pipes in, “If he doesn’t want to do one, he doesn’t need to. He can always change his mind later.”

9 I don’t change my mind. I don’t want to do any boys’ sports, because I’m scared I’ll get hurt. And I don’t think doing girls’ sports is an option for me. So no sports it is.

*

When I’m in middle school, I sign up for a flag football program that’s being done through my church. I’m not sure why I do. Maybe so my parents will stop bugging me about it. I’m a really slow runner, and I have bad reflexes unless

I’m trying to get out of the way of a ball. The opposite of what I should be doing in a football game. I also hate being compared to all the more muscular boys my age. I don’t feel like I belong in the same group as them.

My job is mostly to snap the ball to the quarterback, and not much else beyond sometimes having the ball thrown to me, or stopping the other team when we’re on defense. I’m not very good at catching, grabbing others’ flags, or blocking catches. I don’t want to get hit.

I try this for one season. I make a few new friends, but I decide I don’t want to do it again next year I’m just not having a lot of fun. Sports just aren’t for me.

*

There’s a knock at the door. Before I can answer, it’s open. I close my laptop, as if I’m ashamed of something. I stare towards the doorway, already knowing it’s Dad. He knocks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. He just walks right

10 in. Sits on my bed. Talks about something I couldn’t care less about. Tells me I need to go do something. Sometimes he barges in just to get on my nerves, or catch me off guard.

*

I’m 12 years old, and the living room is dark. I peek in from the kitchen.

The blinds are pulled shut. Mom is groaning on the couch. She’s been lying there for hours. I go to my dad.

“What’s wrong with Mom?”

“She’s got a migraine.”

“Oh…” I say, as if he’d said she was dying. “What’s that mean?”

‘It’s like a bad headache.”

“Oh, okay. So does that mean we’re on our own for dinner?”

“Yeah. Go and see what your brother and sister want, and we can go get it.”

I walk upstairs. I think about headaches, and try to imagine how those can get any worse. I worry about Mom for the rest of the day.

*

It’s summer. Just after my twelfth birthday. Brandon and I are playing in a bounce house that my parents have set up in our front yard. The bounce house is designed to look like a small boxing ring, with a short slide going down one side.

11 We’re bouncing back and forth, aiming to knock each other over as we clash in the middle. In one of my passes, I try something new. I try to jump higher, falling onto my brother. I land on top of him. My elbow hits his face. I don’t think anything of it.

Then he starts crying.

I panic. What did I break? How much trouble am I in? I look around, and

Mom is already coming over.

“What happened?”

My brother, still crying, says, “He hit my tooth!”

“Tyler, why did you do that?”

My stomach sinks. “It was an accident!”

Mom looks at him, I can see my brother’s mouth better. Blood around the spot where his tooth was. It’s been loose for some time, and now it issn’t there at all. I don’t see it when I look around.

I actually knocked his tooth out. I thought that just happened in movies and stuff.

Mom gets us out of the bounce house, and is deflating it. Brandon heads inside.

“I’m sorry, Brandon,” I say as he walks away. Silence.

I look at the ground and head inside after him.

12 Sometimes I still feel guilty about that day. He barely even remembers it, other than what Mom and I tell him. I still remember the blood and the crying.

Mom says the tooth was loose anyway, so it wasn’t that bad, but it felt different when it happened. I felt like the villain, like everything good I’d done up until then didn’t matter. All that mattered was the blood.

*

When I was little, Grandma took care of me while my mom and dad were both working. She played with me, humoring my juvenile sense of comedy. She read me stories, like children’s versions of Bible tales. She let me watch TV shows that my mom wouldn’t, like The Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy. She got me fast food almost every time I came over, which meant I almost always came home with a cheap toy from my kid’s meal

I love spending the night at my grandma’s. I’ve done it for as long as I can remember. My mom says that my grandma spoils me a lot. She’s not wrong. I’m here right now, and she went to pick up some Arby’s for me while I play Pirates of the Caribbean Online. I don’t have to worry about boring stuff like homework or chores when I’m at my grandma’s.

She comes back with my two roast beef sandwiches and popcorn chicken, and pours some more orange Fanta into my translucent plastic cup.

“Thank you, Grandma.”

13 I keep the game open and start eating right there. She walks away to watch

TV, and I finish all my food as I continue playing for the next few hours. I finally go to bed around midnight, when my grandma tells me to be done and get some sleep. When I go to lie down, I turn on the TV in the bedroom. I fall asleep, and she has to come in later to shut it off.

*

Orange Fanta. Grandma.

*

My grandma is one of the most religious people I know. She never misses a single Sunday service. If she needs to, she feels guilty about it. She’s played the piano for her church’s services for as long as I can remember, and even before that. I’ve gone to her church sometimes to watch her play. I watch from the back pews. I don’t sing, I just watch Grandma. Her voice joins the rest of the church as they sing hymns. Her hands move gracefully across the keyboard as she sways back and forth, losing herself in the music. It’s as if God himself is entering her body, guiding her. Her smile makes the room grow brighter. I smile a little, too.

*

Grandpa never talks about God much. He does if you ask, but not any other time. He’d rather tell you about the doll house he’s building for someone, or what part of the car he needs to fix. He comes over to our house a few times to help Dad cut down trees. He’s almost always keeping his hands busy. When he’s

14 not, he fills the room up with his deep, hearty laugh. I can’t help but brighten up when he smiles and laughs. I feel at home. After a long day of work and play, he finally lets himself rest in his La-Z-Boy, watching TV by the empty fireplace.

*

I’m five or six, walking beside Grandpa early in the morning. He towers over me. I’m barely up to his waist. We’re heading to the plaza around the corner.

The pet store just opened, and he’s taking me there like he always does when we go for walks. The bell jingles as we walk in, and with a skip in my step, I head to the left to begin our circular route through the store.

The first animals I come across are the spiders. Small plastic boxes with slits in the top for air, housing huge, hairy tarantulas as big as my hand. They sit inside, not moving a muscle as I approach them. I watch them for a few moments.

Their furry bodies don’t move, frozen underneath plastic shelters.

“I don’t like those, Grandpa, they’re creepy.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, they are, aren’t they?”

The reptiles are hard to spot. Their homes are filled with leaves and sticks, and they’re dimly lit, so it’s harder to see inside. Some blend in with the plants, and others hide under plastic igloos. There’s a snake only as thick as my finger coiled, like a piece of scaly, lime green spaghetti, around a long branch.

“Look Grandpa, I can see the snake way back there, on the branch!”

He doesn’t say anything, He just smiles down at me.

15 Seeing the fish aquariums is like watching moving works of art. Any imaginable color swimming from left to right, some alone, others in shimmering schools. A miniature ocean trapped behind glass.

“So pretty…”

“Yeah.” He puts his hands in his pockets and watches beside me.

We walk back outside, into the sunlight. I feel the fresh morning breeze on my face, and smile as we start heading back to Grandpa’s house before lunch.

Grandpa feels like more than a grandparent while we walk. He’s my close friend.

*

Grandpa was a hard working man, and towards the end of his life, that fact really sunk in to me. He would always keep his hands busy with something.

Whether it was woodworking, crossword puzzles, or just having conversations with people, his mind had to be occupied at all times. I never considered what he would be like if he wasn’t doing something while he was awake. His first stroke changed that.

It came out of nowhere. None of us expected it, and we all feared the worst. It was a nasty one, but Grandpa was a fighter. He wasn’t done yet. He recovered, but not without a cost. He had to be monitored, even when he was allowed to leave the rehab center. Grandma had to make sure he didn’t try to do anything too strenuous. He could barely walk. He needed a cane to stabilize himself, and even then, every step was nerve-wracking to watch. It looked like he

16 could fall and die at any moment. At first, he would not let the stroke keep him from going back to his old ways. He tried to mow the lawn, until Dad or Grandma stopped him and did it instead. He tried to go outside to create something, until he was dragged back into the house. He went on and on like this, pushing back against something he couldn’t control. Then the second stroke hit.

It amplified what had already happened, making it harder still to walk and do what he loved. When he was allowed back home again, he was not the same person. After the first stroke, his eyes still retained the excitement they always had. After the second stroke, the life had left them. He rarely got up from his chair, other than when he had to. He usually stared off into the distance, never saying a word. When we would come to visit, we would ask him how he was doing, and his only response would be a slight shake of his head, before saying softly, “not good.” There was no more frustration and rebellion. He had accepted defeat. We knew he didn’t have much time left.

*

The last time I see Grandpa face to face, we’re visiting him and Grandma a week or so after Christmas. Mom asks how he’s doing, probably expecting the same answer as normal.

He smiles faintly, and says, “I’m doing good.”

He seemed to be in a pleasant mood, and for those few hours, I felt like I was ten again, going for a morning walk with him. He died a few days later.

17 Grandma told me that for those last few days before he died, she had heard him talking in the night, saying “I’m coming home.”

*

My mom comes into the dining room while my siblings and I are eating lunch. I know something’s wrong, and I imagine my siblings can feel it, too. My mom’s face is red, and she’s already crying before a single word is even said. The three of us sit in silence, waiting for what she has to say. A pit grows in my stomach as I think back on recent events. I already know what she’s going to say.

“Kids, your grandpa just passed away a little bit ago,” she says, choking up as she finishes the sentence. None of us react at first. I don’t know what to say.

I don’t think my brother or sister do either.

My brother starts to cry. All four of us embrace each other and cry together.

*

I found out after the funeral that in addition to his two strokes, Grandpa had also suffered from three heart attacks years earlier, when I was too young to remember. I knew he’d had at least one, because of his defibrillator. Three heart attacks and two strokes still couldn’t kill the man. The fourth heart attack is what did him in. He died on the ambulance ride to the hospital.

I’ve wondered since then what Grandpa’s final thoughts were. I imagine they were of home, however that looked in his mind. While I can’t say with

18 confidence that there is a higher power, I have been fascinated by his ability to know his time had come. He seemed to know he only had days remaining in his life. It comforts me to know that he died peacefully. In his desire to go home, he was able to let go.

I hang onto my secrets. I don’t let them go. I’m scared to. I’m at home, and I can’t let go.

*

I have a big interest in family history. Grandpa’s brother, my Uncle Dave, compiled a book showing the lineage of my dad’s side of the family. The Stratton side has names going as far back as the late 1600’s, to a man, William Stratton, who lived in Stratford-upon-Avon in England. The same town Shakespeare grew up in. He was a Quaker, and his sons, who were also Quakers, travelled to

America in the early 18th century, settling in modern New Jersey. One of

William’s grandchildren became one of the first settlers in Ohio’s Western

Reserve, and that side of the family has largely stayed in the area since then.

For generations, that side of the family remained Quakers. Most of my relatives alive now are Baptists. Combined with the pop culture depiction of

Quakers as old-fashioned, like the Amish, I feel as though I’ve lost touch with those Quaker roots. Quakers were at the forefront of abolitionist activism and gender equality, and I sometimes wonder if I might have fit in better with them than with some of my current family. They might be ashamed of me.

19 Quakers to this day, in general, retain a strong sense of equality. Children are held more or less to the same standard as adults. They aren’t talked down to, and they are given an equal voice to speak during meetings. The same goes for women and people of other genders. This equality of speech was seen as one of the most dangerous aspects of the Quakers when they first formed in the late seventeenth century. There is no hierarchy of control among the Quakers.

Everyone is equally capable of giving testimony of their own spiritual journey when they feel called to speak.

The spiritual journey is also unlike many other Christian sects. Though

Quakers do often use the Bible as a reference point, it is not a requirement, despite Christian roots. There are Quakers today who are not Christian, and some are even atheists. The common trend is that all Quakers believe that spiritual power resides inside oneself, whether that power be God, the Light, the Spirit, or something else that resonates with the individual. Every Quaker going to the same meeting might have a completely different way of practicing their spirituality.

This equality is enticing to me, when I learn about it in high school. I want a place where I can be me without any judgement, where I can have spiritual experiences without worrying about agreeing with a certain doctrine. It’s so different from any of my preconceived notions of what religion is. I can have a truly personal experience with God, instead of the one I feel like I’m supposed to, and feeling isolated.

20 *

Months after my grandpa’s funeral, I am holding the small golden box that houses what remains of him. I read the words engraved on the lid over and over.

The first line proclaims who the ashes belonged to: Robert Lee Stratton. Below the name, a range of years shows how old the bones were before they were incinerated: 1932-2015. 83 years old. I’m 17. A fifth of his age. He was seven years old when World War II began, and the Korean War began shortly after his high school graduation. He lived through so many technological advancements, it’s no wonder he couldn’t keep up with all of them.

I am thinking about everyone that showed up to the memorial service.

Dozens of people I had never met, or barely knew, not to mention all the family members. Everyone lining up to tell stories to my grandma, and to my dad and his siblings, stories about how great my grandpa was. That time he helped so-and-so with their broken car. The way he was always laughing, no matter what was going on. Everything that was said at the service made my grandpa seem like a saint.

*

I’m talking with Grandma after mowing her lawn. The topic has come around to Grandpa, and in her reminiscing, I learn things I sometimes wish I hadn’t.

21 “Your grandpa and I had a period where we weren’t getting along very well,” she says. She doesn’t seem bothered by what she’s saying. Whatever happened, she must have come to terms with it.

“I always thought you got along well. What happened?”

“We’d just been fighting. Your grandpa got angry a lot. He’d never hurt me physically, but he would yell and throw things across the room. After one bad fight, we lived separately for a while. I stayed with the kids, and he went back to his parents.”

I’m shocked. None of this lines up with my previous assumption of the happy marriage that they had maintained for decades.

Before I can say anything, she adds onto her last statement, “I was ready to get a divorce, but my friends talked me out of it.”

I’m barely listening to what she’s saying. I look at the name on the urn beside her. My mind jumps back to one of the times I spent the night here as a child. Grandpa did something that Grandma didn’t like. He didn’t clean up some mess he made. He didn’t get the right thing at the grocery store. The reaction was always the same. Grandma would raise her voice, while Grandpa would stay silent, pretending not to hear. I was watching TV or playing games on the computer, but I always heard these one way arguments. Occasionally, Grandpa would defend himself against Grandma’s verbal onslaught, but he was always

22 wrong. It was always his fault. Grandma didn’t want to be wrong. She was in charge.

*

I’m in 5th grade. My mom and I are at a meeting at our church for parents and children. A guest speaker is discussing the upcoming film Twilight. He looks like he’s around my dad’s age.

“So this new movie that’s coming out, Twilight. Kids are going to see this, and learn how to become vampires.”

That sounds pretty cool.

“You all need to understand that this movie is evil. The Devil wants to tempt our kids, and we need to remain vigilant, and keep them away from stuff like this.”

But you invited kids to come with the parents.

I glance over at my mom, who’s staring intently at the speaker. Taking in every word as truth. Being told what to be scared of.

The speech grabs my interest, but doesn’t make me afraid. I know something is off. I feel like this guy is telling all the parents what they want to hear. He’s just an outside person that sounds like he has authority.

My mom doesn’t say much about it afterwards, other than asking if I was planning to see Twilight.

“No, mom.”

23 I still haven’t seen Twilight, but my interest in vampires has been sparked.

The idea of being transformed into a creature of otherworldly beauty, an alluring seductress. Fangs that look just enough like canine teeth to seem plausible when I run my tongue along my own. Crimson eyes. Dark clothes. Almost invincible.

*

I’m at my church’s after school program. It’s a free-for-all. Some of us want to play football or basketball in the gym, while others like myself stick to the adjacent cafe area for the duration. I’m content to sit in the corner booth, enjoying snacks and playing Monster Hunter Freedom Unite on my PSP.

This never even feels like a church event. The quick lessons and prayer sessions at the end are the only thing that makes this feel like it’s not a trip to a rec center. It’s so boring, too. Everyone is having fun, and then Pastor Shawn has us sit in a dimly lit room for a half hour to hear about Jesus. He never mentions

Abraham putting a knife to his son’s throat. God flooding the entire world for insubordination. Lot turned into a pillar of salt as he gazes, horrified, at Sodom and Gomorrah.

*

We’re all on vacation in Virginia. We’ve been in Williamsburg all day.

The town is filled with old historical buildings and people in 18th century period attire. It’s hot, too. By mid afternoon, it’s over 90 degrees. The heat makes my hunger stronger.

24 “Mom, can we get something to eat?” I tug on my mom’s shirt, whining.

“Ask your dad.”

He’s gotten ahead of us a bit, and I run to catch up.

“Dad, can we eat something? I’m so hungry.”

He stops. His camera is dangling from his wrist.

“No, everything here is overpriced.”

“Can we leave, then?”

“We still have stuff we can see. I’m gonna get my money’s worth.”

I exhale, defeated. My mom has caught up by now.

She heard what he last said. “We’re all hungry, and we haven’t eaten anything since we got here. If you don’t want to get something to eat, we will, whether you come or not!”

My dad stands there speechless for a moment. We all do. I feel a pit grow in my gut. My mom holds her ground and crosses her arms.

My dad caves. “Fine. Let’s go.”

In an hour, we’re back in the hotel, eating Pizza Hut. My parents don’t talk much for the rest of the night. My siblings and I entertain each other by sitting on one of the beds and watching some TV back in the hotel room.

Brandon asks, “Why were Mom and Dad mad?”

I blurt out, “I don’t know!”

25 He’s quiet for a moment. Then he hits me and goes to the other bed to watch TV from there.

I feel guilty, but I keep quiet for the rest of the night. I’m turned away from everyone else while I sleep.

*

I’m 9, and Pokemon Diamond and Pearl have just come out for the

Nintendo DS. Dad doesn’t let us have any video games, because he thinks they’ll rot our brains. I want to change his mind. I love Pokemon, but I’ve never played any of the games.

“Dad, can I have a Nintendo DS?”

“No, haven’t I told you this already?”

“Please?”

“No.”

“What if I ask for it for Christmas?”

“No, not even for Christmas You don’t need one.”

I feel like my questions are bouncing off the wall. I’m invisible. I don’t matter.

*

It’s Saturday morning. I’m 11 years old. Brandon and I are downstairs, still in our pajamas. We’re sitting on the floor in front of the TV, waiting for the new episode of Pokemon to air. Neither of us have played the games, but we’re

26 still huge Pokemon fans. We have toys and trading cards, and we watch the anime whenever we can.

The current season is Battle Dimension, and I hum along to the lyrics of the opening theme song, “We Will Be Heroes.” My favorite character is Dawn.

She has a pink skirt and boots, and a cute beanie. She’s really confident in her abilities, and she knows exactly what she wants. She has a lot of Pokemon, and treats them like best friends. I want to be like her so much.

*

I’m 11 when I become friends with Adam. We share the same homeroom at school, and we’ve met each other briefly before at church, but never talked much before now. His mom works in the cafeteria in the middle school cafeteria, so it’s easy to make plans to come over to his house. We especially start hanging out a lot around when I turn 13, when we’re both in the latter half of middle school.

I spend the night a lot, and we stay up playing video games on his PS2 and

Wii, like Shadow of the Colossus and Super Smash Brothers Brawl. I don’t have any video games at home, so this is where I get my fixation for them. Getting destroyed by Adam at Smash, while we eat chicken nuggets that his mom just made us.

*

27 Shadow of the Colossus is a game where you’re riding on your horse, through an ancient, forbidden valley, slaying monsters to save your lover from death. Adam and I play this at his house for weeks, switching the controller back and forth when we die, until we beat the game. It looks incredible, and one part of it stands out to me: the way the monsters die.

The character climbs onto the monsters, which all tower above, titans made of fur and stone. You have to climb onto specific spots that are represented by glowing symbols. Then, keeping your balance, you hold your sword up and plunge it into the weak point. And then again. And again. Every stab causes a black mist to erupt from the spot. It’s never clear if it’s some sort of energy, blood, or both. Once the beast falls, the black energy forms into a large mass, barreling towards you. No matter how much you try to run, it catches you. The dark, demonic tendrils enter your body, consuming you, until you collapse. All goes dark, until you reawaken to search for the next monster, the previous ones festering inside you.

*

I’m 15 when I meet Jake. We’re both taking a summer gym class for our phys ed credit. We’re walking with some of the other students on the bike trail that runs behind the high school. He’s talking with someone else a little ways in front of me. I notice that they’re talking about Pokemon, and I pick up the pace a

28 little to better listen in. I’m not good at being subtle, because Jake looks at me and smiles.

“Hey, you look like someone who likes Pokemon!” I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean, but I catch up with them.

“Yeah.”

“Cool, what’s your name?”

“Tyler.”

“I’m Jake.”

We talk more about Pokemon until it’s almost time for our parents to pick us up. Jake asks me something else before that happens.

“Hey, what’s your phone number? Maybe we can hang out sometime.”

So we exchange phone numbers and part ways. I tell my mom about Jake on the way home, and she asks, “Isn’t he part of the family that just moved in down the road a year or so ago?”

“Is he?”

I text Jake immediately.

“Hey, what’s your address?”

Sure enough, when I get my answer, I find out his house is just down the road from mine. I can even see it from my upstairs bedroom window. Hanging out hanging out is suddenly much more possible.

*

29 I get Jake hooked on my favorite video game series, Monster Hunter. The new game, Monster Hunter 4 Ultimate, just dropped in February, and we both have our own copy on our 3DSes, but school gets in the way of us playing together regularly. Once summer rolls around, the hunt is on.

We spend multiple days a week at each other’s houses, smashing monsters with blades, hammers, and bowguns, grinding for materials to craft better gear.

We stay up until one or two in the morning trying to get rare materials, and tensing up during frustrating fights. Laughing over trivial ones. We began the game as a mentor and student, since I had played a Monster Hunter game before this one. By the end of the summer, we’re in the endgame content, battling monsters we can’t grind for anymore. Skill alone supports us. We’re both equals, standing side by side, facing down our adversaries.

As we get towards the end of the game, I make a second save file. This time, I make my hunter a girl. I tell myself it’s because I like the way the armor looks, or because I’d rather stare at a hot girl than a guy while I’m playing. I’m jealous of my new character, but I don’t tell Jake.

*

It’s Thanksgiving. I’m fourteen or fifteen. Like every year, my grandma says the prayer. I look around at everyone bowing their heads. I bow mine, keeping my eyes open.

30 My dad also has his eyes open. He glances at me. I close my eyes and tilt my head further down.

I don’t say amen at the end. I don’t mention how I’m feeling. I hide my fear. Nobody can know. They won’t understand.

*

The late December air is frigid, and I feel a slight draft from the window next to me. My tablet feels cold as I scroll through YouTube and Google for videos about religion. I don’t remember how I arrived at this. Two words stand out to me as I look through posts and video titles about alternatives to

Christianity. Wicca. Witchcraft.

I look into Wicca first. Witchcraft is part of it, but I still don’t understand what that means. Wiccans believe in a god and goddess. To some, they are literal beings. To others, they are manifestations of the human mind and willpower.

Literal makes more sense to me, but it still feels wrong. I thought God was a literal being until now. If he isn’t then what makes these gods and goddesses different? Another interpretation is that the gods and goddesses are the natural forces and energies of the universe, the ebb and flow of the cosmos. Putting a face and a name to the foundations of the universe we know. It helps us to feel less alone.

I learn that Wiccans and witches use a book of shadows, where the practitioner fills out information for use in spellwork, or other rituals.

31 Correspondence charts for crystals, woods, and herbs. Details of dreams and nightmares. Meditation rituals. A book of shadows is held as sacred, and some allow others to see theirs, while others forbid it. Many use fancy leather bound journals, while others use three subject college ruled notebooks. For some,

Google Docs houses their book of shadows. A book of shadows is a special sort of diary or journal. For everyone, it is a place to record who they are, and what makes up their being. Book of shadows sounds like such a dark, evil term, something monstrous that should be avoided. I’m intrigued, though. It sounds healthy, like a type of therapy. A safe book to work on yourself with. If the shadows are a reflection of someone, then I want to get in touch with them. I want to understand why I feel so alone. Why I don’t belong.

*

For Wiccans, the feminine is held as sacred. This was another selling point for me, because I had grown up being told in school that women could do everything that men could. In practice though, I began to see that wasn’t always the case. Feminine and masculine work hand in hand in Wicca. One cannot function without the other. Together, the god and goddess create life.

In Christianity, God is threefold. The Holy Spirit. The Son. The Father.

*

I’m a Cancer. Cancer is associated with feminine energy, and those born under the sign are characterized by being more introverted, hiding in a shell as a

32 method of protection. Cancers are dreamers, and think more than they do. Cancers are also tied to the element of water, its emotions ebbing and flowing like the tides, beholden to the moon, crashing in with the tide, or calm as a small lake.

*

Clear quartz is seen as a source of power, used for amplifying energy and strengthening the intent of the person that is utilizing it. It helps one to better attune to their higher, truer self.

*

I’m at the Great Lakes Medieval Faire with Jake and Adam. Among all the people dressed as knights, nobles, and merchants, we find an open-air shop that has pewter necklaces, and a selection of crystals off to the side. I head to the crystals first, drawn to the spectrum of colors, and the small waterfall washing over a few of them. I want to get one, to try to connect with it like Wiccans and witches do. I pick up a few, feeling the weight of each in my hand, and gazing into them, taking in the beauty and the imperfections.

What catches my attention the most is a piece of clear quartz. Most of it is cloudy inside, with fractures along the length. The tip ends in a point, and is almost see through around there. For some reason, I feel a sort of kinship with this quartz, like we understand each other.

I head over to the necklaces, which have source material ranging from religion, to books and video games. The key to Erebor from The Hobbit. The

33 dragon symbol of the Empire in The Elder Scrolls games. Crosses, moons, pentacles. It’s the pentacles that I want. I choose one with a thick circle around the upright star, engraved with Norse runes. The dark gray of the pewter makes it look like an old relic of a bygone era. I don’t put it on. I stash it in my pocket so my dad won’t ask about it when we leave. I don’t want to be ashamed of it, but I have to be.

I show my friends the pentacle, but they don’t really get it. They nod and say it’s cool, but not much more than that. I feel embarrassed, but a surge of confidence washes over me. This pentacle serves as a reminder I can be who I want, even under the watch of others. Even if they don’t understand.

*

Quartz is used as a jack-of-all-trades healing crystal among Wiccans and other pagans. It’s supposed to help with any condition, but especially relieving pain, both physical and emotional. Gemstones are to energy what metal is to electricity. Quartz absorbs the negative energy from around you, into itself, but then the negative energy gets trapped inside over time. This is why it’s important to cleanse quartz regularly, even more than other gemstones.

Water and moonlight are both used for cleansing gemstones. It varies by individual practices whether or not both are used. The clear, fluid nature of water helps to wash away the negativity in a gemstone. The moon is a symbol of the goddess, and moonlight is held as sacred, even more than the sun. The night after

34 I bring home my clear quartz, I take a plastic cup from the kitchen, fill it up with water, and set it on the window sill of my bedroom, with the blinds pulled up.

There’s a full moon out.

Once my quartz is cleansed, I sleep with it under my pillow for the next few nights. I don’t notice any real change, but I continue with it anyway. I sometimes bring it with me in public, too, and keep it in the pocket of my hoodie.

I trace the cold edges and rough cracks of the crystal helps to ground me in reality. I close my eyes and try to envision myself as a tall, beautiful woman, wearing black boots, a frayed dress, and eye shadow. Powerful and imposing. Not taking shit from anyone. I don’t see her.

*

For many Wiccans, choosing a god and goddess is a significant ordeal in one’s practice. When I’m first doing my research, I feel like I need to decide on a god and goddess before moving any further, so I do research on Greco-Roman,

Norse, and Egyptian deities in particular.

Isis, Egyptian mother goddess, and goddess of magic and wisdom.

Hecate, Greek goddess of magic, witchcraft, and crossroads.

Nyx, Greek goddess of night.

Freya, Norse goddess of magic, love, and beauty.

The pull of the goddesses, particularly those with an affinity for magic, draw me in the most. I’m fascinated by the images of women wielding their own

35 power, independent of anyone else. It’s inspirational, and I feel a kinship with them, even if I don’t know why.

*

The black sky meets my eyes as I look out my bedroom window. It’s cracked open, so I can feel the sharp chill of winter slip inside. The moon is masked in darkness, and the stars are hidden by clouds.

I speak softly, so nobody can hear. I invoke the name of Nyx, asking for her to show herself, if I am meant to work with her. I am met with silence moment after moment.

*

The pentagram is used widely as a Wiccan symbol of protection. It also symbolizes the element of earth. For Wiccans, one point is generally facing upward, and is referred to as a pentacle.

The pentagram that often comes to mind for Satanic rituals is an inverse pentacle, with one point facing downward, and two facing upward, like horns.

*

My phone wallpaper is a bony white pentacle, with a dark red background.

I almost forget that I made it my wallpaper, until I have my phone out near my parents.

“What’s that?” Dad asks.

I freeze. My heart skips a beat.

36 “Nothing.”

“Isn’t that an evil symbol?”

“No.”

“It’s not Satanic?”

“No.”

The tension is rising, and I make a meek attempt to defuse the situation.

“I can change it, it’s not a big deal.”

I leave the room before either can respond, and my heart pounds in my chest for the next ten minutes, until I’m fairly sure they won’t ask me about it further. Now I know better than to be that obvious again.

*

I can’t keep up with meditation and rituals. I don’t even know where to begin with them, and I’m too lazy to put in the effort. I try looking for other alternatives, since Wicca clearly isn’t working for me with my lazy research and half-assed rituals. Am I just doing all this to feel special about myself?

I’m immediately intrigued by Satanism. It sounds so enticing and tempting. The name itself is taboo, and I want to learn more. Whether curiosity or rebellion is my driving force, I don’t know.

*

Satanism was created by Anton Szandor LaVey in the 60s. His book, the infamous Satanic Bible, outlines his philosophy, where he discusses a

37 fundamentally anti-Christian way of living. He encourages living a life of indulgence, with the idea being that it is not as horrible of a concept as Christians make it out to be. LaVey believes that living free-willed lives, not held back by a religious collective, is what we should strive for.

LaVey utilizes magic in his rhetoric, like Wicca does. For LaVeyan

Satanists, though, magic is more of a metaphor than a literal fabric of reality.

Magic is a tool to be used for self-gratification and self-indulgence. It’s a placebo effect for self-confidence.

*

I hold my copy of The Satanic Bible. It’s a few weeks before Halloween.

Jake bought it for me, because I knew there was no way I’d manage to get a copy without my parents knowing. He gives it to me while we walk to school in the morning, and I stare for a moment at the small black book, with a pink pentagram in the center, resembling a goat head. Baphomet. On the back cover, in the same pink, is a photo of Anton LaVey. His face is in front of the same pentagram as the cover. It looks like he has horns coming from the top and sides of his head. His grim demeanor, combined with his pointed beard, make him look like a supervillain.

Holding the book makes my hands tingle. I’m nervous. This isn’t a book I ever expected to hold, and if my parents see me with it, I’m screwed. It feels forbidden.

38 I take it out later in class, ignoring the looks I get from some of the students near me. It reads like half unholy text, and half essay collection. LaVey has an eloquent way with words, fitting someone who used to be a circus carny.

*

In his preface to The Satanic Bible, Anton Szandor LaVey states, “Herein you will find truth - and fantasy. Each is necessary for the other to exist; but each must be recognized for what it is. What you see may not always please you; but you will see!”

*

LaVey’s Church of Satan allows individuals autonomy. It does not function as a death cult like Jonestown. LaVey didn’t rely on members to listen to every word he said.

*

Anton LaVey hated drugs. He also had a distaste for rock and metal music. He was friends with a fascist, and supported the idea of blending fascism and Satanism. On top of this, he felt that eugenics would be a necessity in the future of humanity.

I don’t know any of this when I read The Satanic Bible. It makes a lot more sense in that context, though. I haven’t touched the book in years, and I don’t plan to.

*

39 I’m lost. I don’t know what’s right or wrong anymore. Christianity,

Wicca, witchcraft, Satanism. All of it sounds equally absurd to me, but I can’t figure out what’s right for me. I’m done searching for different religions. I’m getting myself caught up in labels. I’m an atheist now. Final answer. I don’t believe in God, gods, goddesses, nature spirits, faeries, ghosts, anything. We’re born, we live, and we die. There isn’t any reason to explore it further.

*

I watch YouTube videos of atheists debunking religious people. One day during school, around the lunch table, one of Jake’s friends, Mitch, starts talking about religion. He’s saying something about being Catholic, but that’s all I need to hear. My brain is switching into attack mode, thinking about how horrible

Christianity is.

At some point, I speak up. “Oh, did I mention I read The Satanic Bible recently?”

Mitch looks wide-eyed at me.

“Yeah, it’s actually pretty interesting. They don’t actually believe in a real

Satan or anything, most of them are atheist.”

“How can you not believe in God?” The question I expected.

“I just… don’t. It doesn’t make sense to me. Why would a loving God cause so much bad stuff in the world I’d rather live with no God than an evil one.”

40 Around this time, someone else shifts the conversation to something lighter, before it gets more awkward. Nothing bad comes of this. We all still stay friends. We just avoid bringing up religion.

*

I’m seven or eight. My dad gets me up bright and early to go to the Air

Force Reserve in Vienna. He works there, and goes up at least one weekend a month. He does communications, so he’s sitting in a room with computers and radios.

Today is Family Day, where the people at the Reserve can bring their family members to tour certain areas, and go inside some of the planes. That’s later today, though. Right now, I’m standing in the communications building with my dad, waiting for someone else. I don’t know why. I’m impatient, so I walk around the room, looking at everything I can.

The one thing that sticks with me: a stuffed raccoon on a top shelf in the hall before the offices. Its small, thin body is pressed against the wall, but the head is turned 90 degrees, staring out at, and above me. The beady eyes look like they still have life in them, mouth open in an endless snarl.

*

Later, my dad takes me into one of the bigger planes.

“This is what we take when we go to other air bases. Do you wanna see what it’s like?”

41 “Sure!”

We head up the ramp into the back of the plane, into a narrow hallway flanked with side-by-side seats along the length. We peek into the cockpit, and then I sit down in one of the back seats. It’s huge compared to me, and the seatbelts are too big. There’s one strap for each arm, and the worn material feels soft and limp against my shoulders.

“This doesn’t feel very comfortable, or safe.”

My dad chuckles. “It definitely isn’t the safest I’ve ever felt on a plane.”

For all I know, this plane will never take off. It will stay here, grounded, with the entry ramp open for all to see its exposed innards. An enormous metal fortress made vulnerable with the press of a button. I think about the raccoon’s stiff, snarling face as I stand inside the frozen plane.

*

Dad’s ranting again. Nobody prompted him, as usual, but he sure thinks we all want to hear. He’s talking about how faggots are going to Hell. It’s absurd to him that gay people can marry legally now. I never understood the problem. I never understood why being gay was bad. I was told why it was bad, but I was never given a good reason.

“Dad, please, we just want to eat dinner. Can’t you see Mom and I giving each other awkward glances? Are you that oblivious? You haven’t even gone to church recently. You only go when it’s convenient for you, when you’re upset, or

42 it’s a holiday. All four of us have been to church more recently than you, and all of those days, you stayed at home and watched some pastor I’ve never heard of on

TV, because you didn’t want to get up and join us. So who are you to invoke

God’s judgement, when you’re being a half-assed Christian?”

I don’t say any of this, of course. I never do.

*

I am standing in line at a convenience store, waiting to check out. My head is locked in place, unable to do anything but stare at my body. I know it’s my body, even though it looks nothing like I’m used to. Under my bathrobe, I can see the shape of breasts. I feel hair brushing past my shoulders. I start to walk closer to the cashier.

I feel a pit in my stomach. I stop walking. If the cashier says anything, I don’t hear it. My heart races. My ears throb. I keep staring at my body, afraid of what I’m seeing, but I don’t want to let this go.

*

I don’t own a bathrobe.

*

Once I’m in high school, I start to pick apart my faith. I begin to ask myself questions.

Why does God never answer my prayers?

43 Am I evil for watching (and enjoying) the music video for Katy Perry’s

“California Girls?”

Am I going to Hell because I imagine myself as a girl sometimes?

*

Lunch is ending. My friends and I are walking to the next period. Band class. As I pretend to listen to Adam and Jake, my focus is on the girls. As they walk past me, I hear their voices, higher pitched than mine. I notice the curves that I lack. The sway of their hips. I see the fashion styles. Jackets. Skirts.

Aeropostale skinny jeans. Ugg Boots. Chokers. Earrings. Dyed hair. Makeup. My plain black hoodie and casual pants won’t do.

*

In an article written for the Washington Post, “How my role-playing game character showed me I could be a woman,” Joan Moriarity discusses her experiences with Dungeons and Dragons:

I often played female characters. I sometimes asked the women playing

those games if they would be all right with me playing as a woman, and

even though they all responded with enthusiastic assent, I still worried

about being disrespectful… But I kept playing, and I began to notice

patterns in the characters I embodied.

For instance, my characters loved to dance. They needed it, for stress

relief or self-expression or both. Me, though? I couldn’t dance… But

44 when I realized that my characters shared this in common, I wondered if

perhaps I was trying to tell myself something. So at the age of 29 I went to

my first rave, and it was a revelation. A wall between my body and mind

was demolished. Now I share my characters’ need to move with music.

Did I reveal this truth to myself by subconsciously adding this inclination

to the characters I played? Or did the characters bring it out in me?

*

My earlier D&D characters aren’t much more than vague memories. My friends and I played a lot, but our early games only lasted for half a dozen sessions at most before we got bored and moved onto a new one, with new characters. The first time I played a female character, it was a solo game with

Jake. He was the dungeon master, and I was the sole player character. I decided to play an elven cleric. She had long, brown hair, and hazel eyes. At the time, I’d have passed off her lithe figure as the sexual fantasies of a teenage boy. Now I know it was the jealous fantasies of a girl who hadn’t yet found her voice.

*

My most recent character, Vera, is different from me. She’s an acrobat.

She has no concern for her own personal safety. She’s murderous, willing to kill to rise up in society. She loves to flirt with people. She’s impulsive, and let’s loose in the heat of battle, hacking her enemies apart with her dual-wielded swords. She’s pretty.

45 Vera is also similar to me. She has a found family in the circus troupe she travels with. Her parents don’t accept her lifestyle. She hates her father for trying to stop her from being who she wants to be. She feels regret for what she’s done.

She wants to change her life. She feels backed into a corner. She’s scared. She’s angry at the world, and at herself. She doesn’t feel like she deserves to be happy.

*

From “Chapter 4: Personality and Background,” from the Dungeons and Dragons

5th edition Player’s Handbook:

You can play a male or female character without gaining any special

benefits or hindrances. Think about how your character does or does not

conform to the broader culture’s expectations of sex, gender, and sexual

behavior.

You don’t need to be confined to binary notions of sex and gender… You

could also play a female character who presents herself as a man, [or] a

man who feels trapped in a female body… Likewise, your character’s

sexual orientation is for you to decide.

*

The Internet is my refuge. I don’t know where I would be without it. It is the vessel through which I learned about what it means to be transgender. Online,

I have found incredibly supportive communities that understand my struggle. I have learned about the struggles of others within the LGBTQ+ community, even

46 just by learning of a group’s existence. Gay, lesbian, and bisexual people I knew about beforehand, but nobody had ever told me about pansexual, asexual, genderfluid, or nonbinary. There are so many expressions of sexuality and gender, that it was honestly overwhelming at first.

I learned that there is a difference between gender and sexuality. I learned that neither are set in stone. Sex, gender, and sexuality are each malleable in their own way. Intersex people can be born with both male and female genitalia.

Transgender people may undergo genital reassignment surgery, but others may choose not to. Sexuality can change with time, and it can sometimes be a struggle to pin down.

None of this was ever taught to me in school. Sex ed didn’t tell me I could undergo hormone therapy to look more feminine. I had to teach myself. It’s no wonder I feel like I’m falling behind in life. I’ve lost precious time living a lie, being someone I’m not.

*

I spend a whole afternoon writing out a coming out letter to Dad. I told

Mom and my friends already, but he’s the one I’m saving for last. I make it as precise and to the point as I can. Open and honest. Before I head to my friend’s house tonight, I hand it to him. I don’t look him in the eye.

“Here. This is for you to read.”

I walk out the door quickly, and Mom drives me to my friend’s.

47 Once I’m there, I get a text from Mom.

“Dad read your note. He’s not happy.”

My heart is pounding. “Should I come home tomorrow?”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine after he gets some sleep. Try not to worry. Have fun with your friends.”

It’s hard to have fun, and I don’t sleep well.

*

My mom is calling me while Jake is driving me home from his house. I’m nervous. She told me my dad didn’t react well to my coming out letter, and her calling me when we’re less than a mile away is worrying.

“Hello?”

No answer. I think I hear muffled sounds, but I don’t know what they are.

“Hello?”

“What is it?” Jake asks.

“I don’t know. My mom was calling me, but then nobody was saying anything. Now I’m kinda worried.”

Jake says nothing else.

*

My mom and I are running errands, and we stop at Taco Bell on the way home. While I’m deciding what I want, the cashier calls over to us as she walks out from the kitchen.

48 “What can I get you, ladies?”

My heart skips a beat. Do I really look that much like a woman? I haven’t gone through HRT at all, and I’m not even dressed remotely feminine. It must be my hair. It’s getting longer, but curly enough that it doesn’t look that long. I don’t say anything. I want to savor this moment, even if I know it’s undeserved.

She gets a better look at me. “Oh, I’m so sorry! It must be your hair.”

I knew it. I smile awkwardly, still not saying anything. I walk up to order.

She says more. I assume she’s meaning to be humorous. “You just need a haircut I guess.” Her smile is poison. I want to run out, cry, scream, anything. I want to tell her to take it back. I want her to refer to me as a woman. I want her not to think twice about it. I don’t say any of that, and I sit down to eat. I don’t say a word of this to my mom.

*

I’m working on the floor at Michael’s, stocking glitter. A customer approaches me from behind.

“Ma’am?”

I turn around. Just like at Taco Bell, my heart skips a beat, but I know what’s coming.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I thought you were a girl!”

49 I try my hardest not to be mad at her. She can’t possibly know what I’m feeling. I laugh awkwardly, pretending to shrug it off like a casual joke. I think about it for the rest of the day, though.

*

“Get out of the fucking car!”

My dad is storming out the front door of our house. I’m in the driveway, in Jake’s car. I’m breathing faster, going into panic mode. I see my mom following shortly behind my dad. Her face is red. Close to crying.

“Tyler, run to the neighbors’ house and call the police!”

My dad goes to the driver’s side of the car and tries to reach for Jake through the open window. I don’t hesitate, and I push open my door and run around the back of the car, sprinting to my neighbor’s house. I knock on the door.

By the time there’s an answer, my mom has caught up to me, and Jake is pulling out of our driveway.

When we’re inside, my mom calls the police. I’m too busy sitting at a table, crying and hyperventilating. My dad reacted just like I thought he would.

Maybe worse. My neighbor brings me a glass of water so I can cool off. I’m burning inside. My situation is even worse now, all because of me. I’ve seen hints of how my dad feels about transgender people. Now I know beyond a shadow of a doubt. I’ll never be able to transition.

50 When the officers arrive, one of them asks me what happened. I want to explain that I’m a transgender teen trying to come out to my dad so that I can be myself, and not live in fear and shame anymore. The same fear I felt when I handed my dad the letter is the same one I feel standing in front of the police officer. What will he think of me? Will he call me a freak? Will he side with my dad?

“I told my dad something really… personal, and he didn’t take it well.”

“I see.”

The questions continue, but I can already feel myself closing off from the outside world. Shame. Guilt. Fear. Hopelessness. Why did I bother telling my dad?

Later that night, I’m lying in the small bed my aunt has for when my little cousins are staying over. My mom, my siblings, and I all came here after police reports were filed at the station. I’m alone now in the dark, underneath dinosaur bed sheets that, ten years ago, I could have called my own. I think back on the eight-year-old child that knew every dinosaur name from Tyrannosaurus Rex and

Brachiosaurus, to Compsognathus and Pachycephalosaurus. I knew them then as the names of friends, and not scientific titles for use in taxonomy.

Ten years later, I am among those same dinosaurs. I want to return to the

Cretaceous, when religion didn’t cloud the judgement of a father. Gender wasn’t something you had to worry about hurting over back then. You lived your life,

51 and you died. The circle of life. The complexity of the human experience hadn’t entered the stage yet. Not until long after the world of the dinosaurs came crashing down.

*

The next day, we drive back to our house. Dad’s gone. He left the house after the police showed up the night before, and apparently never came back. A police officer escorts us just in case Dad shows up to cause trouble. We’re here to grab anything we didn’t get in the rush to leave, like clothes, and electronics that aren’t our phones.

I’m packing a bit more, since I’m planning to stay with Jake for a while. I don’t know how long, but I fill a trash bag up with clothes, and get all my school supplies in my backpack. I put a dagger from the medieval faire at the bottom of my bag, just in case I need it. It’s mostly dull, but it’s all I have. I can’t bring as much as I’d like. My backpack and trash bag can only fit so much. I sit down on my bed and cry for a few minutes, wondering when I’ll see all of this again. My life has changed dramatically in less than twenty-four hours. Staying with Jake sounds nice, but it isn’t the same as the comfort of my own room.

We eat at Taco Bell once we have everything we need. Mom let the school know we wouldn’t be showing up today. While I sip my Baja Blast, I change the password of my Google account, forgetting if Dad made the password I’m currently using. I don’t know if he’d do something with it anyway, but I don’t

52 want to take the chance. I also remove his email from my phone, which had been on it since he gave it to me. I could have removed it anytime, but for some reason, it never registered to me that I should until now.

I already feel like a stranger around my mom and siblings. I’m eighteen, sure, but this isn’t the sort of independence I had in mind when I pictured being an adult. I’m a leaf that’s fallen from the tree, being tossed around in the wind, unsure of where I’ll end up.

*

I’m at Jake’s house. He’s upstairs, getting an air mattress. I’m sitting on his bed, which he’s letting me sleep on. I have a creeping sense of guilt. I’m intruding on his life, and his mom and siblings’ lives. I shouldn’t be here. I should be in my own house. My own bed. Surrounded by my own family. I lie down, and tears stream down my face as soon as it hits the pillow.

Jake comes back and sees me crying. He sits down next to me, and doesn’t say anything for a bit.

“Do you want a hug?”

Still choked up, I nod.

I don’t hug back. I just let him hold me for a while. I need that comfort right now. I sleep easier after that.

*

I step out of the car and stand to face my dad.

53 My fists are clenched tight.

My knuckles are white.

My blood is on fire.

He makes a move to grab me, but I step out of the way, and lash out at him. My knuckles slam into his arm, and I scream. I make the loudest noises I can. I make a huge scene, getting the attention of the neighbors, as I defend myself.

Mom tells me to run.

I won’t. I won’t give him that satisfaction.

I don’t let up. I let my anger free.

A punch. A kick. More yelling.

I get hit hard, but I keep going.

In the end, I’m standing. I couldn’t be stopped. I won.

I snap back to reality. I don’t know how long I’ve been staring at the wall in the darkness of Jake’s room. I take a few deep breaths. I’m ashamed of the fantasy. That can’t be me. I’d never do that.

*

I’m still at Jake’s. I want to die. I’m sure that everyone will be better off with me dead. I think about all the trouble I’ve caused from trying to just be myself. I’m causing more pain than it’s worth. I’m tearing my family apart, and burdening my friends.

54 I can’t bring myself to do it, either. I don’t know how I’ll kill myself, or when. I’m scared of doing it. It scares me to think about it. Even when it’s just a passing thought, a brief “what if I died today?”

I think about how those I love would react. I don’t want them mourning and upset. If I can leave as if nothing had happened, I might. I need to keep going, even if I don’t want to. I’m tired. I want to stop. But I can’t.

*

Abi and I are on the dance floor at prom, sticking to the edges, where it’s less lit up. We’re holding each other close. Dancing slowly. I start to cry. My tux is constricting me. Her dress is beautiful. Bright blue, matching her eyes. Her smooth legs. Her bright red lipstick. Her dark blonde hair falling past her shoulders. I look away from her. All the other girls’ dresses are mocking me. I’m not one of them. I never would be. My tux is getting tighter. I’m burning inside. I can’t stop crying. Everything’s blurry. I don’t know what song is playing anymore. Abi pulls me into a corner.

“Erin? Erin, what’s wrong?”

Erin. The first name I choose for myself. The first of many.

“I can’t take it. Everyone else is so beautiful, and I’m not. I’m stuck in this stupid tux!”

“Oh, Eri…”

55 Abi hugs me tight. Her embrace dries my tears after a minute, but it doesn’t stop the thoughts pestering my mind. I’m a mistake. I’ll never look how I want to. I’ll never be able to explore new ways to express myself. Why can’t I just be normal? Why did I have to be born in the wrong body?

“Eri, you’re beautiful, you know that, right?”

I’m not beautiful.

“Eri, it doesn’t matter how you look…”

Yes, it does. It matters how I look because that’s how everyone will judge me. I can say I’m a girl all I want, but all they’ll see is a boy trying to be weird.

*

I’ll be myself…

...when I have a steady job.

...when I’m in college.

...when I tell people about my experience.

...when I write about my pain.

...when I have enough money.

...when I stand up for myself.

...when I stop living in fear.

...when I work up the courage to say “fuck you, Dad.”

...when the world stops committing hate crimes against people like me just for existing.

56 ...when my facial hair stops growing so fast that it’s a pain to keep up with.

...when I have breasts.

...when I have wider hips.

...when I don’t look like a stick.

...when my hair grows out.

...when my hair stops being curly.

...when I can make my mind up whether I like having curly hair or not.

...when I can decide if shorter hair is cute on me or not.

...when I have a few feminine outfits to try.

...when I decide to just run away from everything I’ve ever known.

...when I figure out what I believe.

...when I stop living a lie.

*

I wish I could have the power to shapeshift. I want to be able to make my hair longer or shorter on a whim. I want my eyes, lips, skin, brows, arms, legs, everything to be able to be modified to my exact specifications with just a simple thought. I can approach every day as the person I want to look like that day.

On Monday, I’ll have short, black hair, shaved on one side.. My eyes will be red without needing contacts. I’ll wear black knee-high boots and a leather

57 jacket with spikes on it. I’ll have eye shadow and black lipstick. I’ll intimidate people on the streets, but also draw admiration.

On Tuesday, I’ll wear thigh-high socks, denim shorts, and a crop top. It’ll look good with my long, blonde hair that falls past my shoulder blades. My eyes will be my natural gray-blue. I might go out, but I’ll just be looking to relax, and enjoy my body as it is.

I wish I could live in a sci-fi story where this is all possible. It’d make everything so much easier. I could look how I want. Be who I want. Escape when

I need to.

*

It’s a few weeks after my dad shouted at me. We’re in a side room at the library, and he’s apologizing for what he did.

“I don’t know what came over me. I wasn’t thinking. I was just mad.”

I don’t say much after the talk. I accept his hug, but only because I don’t want to find out what would happen if I don’t. Why make this whole situation even worse?

As we ride home, he says something to cut the silence.

“So what’s the deal with all this transgendered stuff, anyway? You want your dick cut off or something?”

My throat dries up. I feel sick.

58 “I don’t see why you’d wanna mutilate your body like that. God made you this way, and it’d disappoint him.”

I don’t give him an answer. I won’t give him the satisfaction of one. I feel hot, and I know anything I say will come out flustered.

I wish I had shouted back at him. I was vulnerable, and couldn’t stand up for myself. I let myself get dragged into the mud by my dad’s cutting words.

I don’t want that to happen again. Next time, I’ll be strong. I have to be.

*

Dad and I are on the way to Grandma’s. We drive by an outdoor baby shower. A large white banner with blue letters hangs from the tent: It’s a boy!

My dad speaks up once we turn the corner. “You know, your mom and I never bothered with painting the room blue or pink with you kids, or anything like that.”

I’m silent. He continues.

“I don’t really get why parents can’t just go with neutral colors for baby stuff. Why does it matter?”

I clench my hand and hold my tongue.

I think about all the pink clothes, stuffed animals, and plastic furniture that my sister had when she was little. The dresses she got her family pictures taken in. Being seen as a girl from a young age. All the opportunities I missed, and will never get back.

59 *

My gender shouldn’t have to be a statement. Not political. Not religious.

Not rebellious. Just me. Apparently the fact that my brain isn’t wired to the right body means that I’m a confused kid that doesn’t understand how the world works.

I should just shut up and stop playing pretend. Let the grown-ups do the work. Let society keep killing trans women for supposedly tricking men into having sex with them. Let the murderers get away with it because of the Trans Panic

Defense.

No, I don‘t want to chop my dick off. That’s not even how this works. I’m not blaspheming God by wanting to change my body. He made me this way, so I should respect that? I’m disrespecting him for wanting to change how I look?

Screw that.

I’m not going to do any of that, though. If I’m playing pretend, then I’m going to scream from the mountaintops of Middle-Earth until my lungs want to burst. Fuck you, dad.

*

The article “LGBTQ+ ‘Panic’ Defense,” from the website The LGBT Bar

(a website that discusses LGBTQ+ legal issues) states:

The LGBTQ+ “panic” defense strategy is a legal strategy that asks a jury

to find that a victim’s sexual orientation or gender identity/expression is to

blame for a defendant’s violent reaction, including murder. It is not a free-

60 standing defense to criminal liability, but rather a legal tactic used to

bolster other defenses. When a perpetrator uses an LGBTQ+ “panic”

defense, they are claiming that a victim’s sexual orientation or gender

identity not only explains—but excuses—a loss of self-control and the

subsequent assault. By fully or partially acquitting the perpetrators of

crimes against LGBTQ+ victims, this defense implies that LGBTQ+ lives

are worth less than others.

*

I’m still not over my fear. I still live at home, and I feel trapped, like I can’t make progress. Not as long as my dad’s around. That night he came running out and shouting at me has left a scar on me, just not a physical one. I feel scared when I relive the moment. I try to avoid another moment like that, but I know it’s inevitable if I want to be who I truly am.

I’m told I’m brave by those who are closest to me, but I don’t feel like I am. I’m scared. I don’t want to confront my dad. I’m worried what others will think of me when I transition. I’m worried I’ll lose friends and family. Another part of me knows that if those people won’t accept me for who I am, then they aren’t worth keeping anyway. My indecision is what keeps me from tipping to one side or another. Cowardice or bravery. The easy road or the hard road. Both will lead to pain.

*

61 The Wiccan Rede binds together all the sects of Wicca: An ye harm none, do what ye will. A variation on the Golden Rule. You are free to do whatever you want, so long as you aren’t harming anyone or anything in the process.

*

I’m 21. I’m in college. I’m supposed to be rationally minded, but spiritual ideas keep coming back to me. I’ve decided Wicca isn’t for me, but witchcraft and paganism are independent of it. Maybe a different kind of paganism is what I need. Maybe I can practice witchcraft as an atheist.

Witchcraft can be an elaborate performance, dressed up in robes, sword and wand in hand, enclosed within a circle, invoking the spirits of the world. For some witches, though, the craft is a purely psychological practice, just like how a coping mechanism is a conscious action that someone takes to deal with a threat or trauma. For these witches, the craft is much more subtle. Carrying a crystal in a pocket. Whispering a prayer to the goddess. Meditating by a tree before using wood from it. Listening. Feeling. Being one with the natural world and the self.

Embracing life’s simplicities that we normally take for granted.

I think this is why I keep coming back to witchcraft. Witchcraft as a harmony of science and spirituality. Rationality and mysticism. Old and new. It simultaneously confirms and questions our preconceived notions of how the world works.

*

62 When I learned about witchcraft, I didn’t believe it was compatible with

Christianity in any way. They felt like total opposites. Then I remembered what

I’d learned about Quakerism. Even though Quakers aren’t strictly Christian anymore, I could see a lot of similarities between Quakers and witches.

The individualistic nature of both practices are the first aspects that come to mind. Quakers want to find their own path that feels right, so that they can become closer to their inner divinity. They believe that everyone has a bit of God inside of them. Witches also believe in an inner magical power, whether that is purely psychological, or through the power of literal deities. Witchcraft and

Quakerism are both ways to improve one’s life through self-empowerment, rather than the doctrines of an authority figure or religious text. Both of these practices see something on the inside of every human being that isn’t as clear from the outside. They give a sense of agency to the practitioner, where they know their life is still in their own hands, and they have the power to change it within themself.

*

Being in the middle of a pandemic has taught me a lot about myself.

Having so much more time to just sit down and think has made me realize that there’s more that’s missing from me than just the correct body. For one, I think I need some form of spirituality. I’m still trying to figure out what that path is exactly, but witchcraft has called to me more than ever. The self-empowering

63 nature of it fits well with me. I need a way to motivate myself, and this may be what I need. Witchcraft is a way to build confidence, and following this path might nudge me into a spiritual journey as well. I hope it does.

Just being agnostic doesn’t cut it. It doesn’t feel quite right. I feel like there’s something more out there, and I just need to find it. Or maybe it will find me while I’m searching for it. Ever since I decided Christianity isn’t for me, I’ve felt a void, like something needs to fill its place. I think using witchcraft for rituals will create the same sort of ordered and secure feeling, while making manifest the power that I already have inside myself, and don’t always acknowledge.

I also wonder why I’m searching so hard for a spirituality that fits. Maybe

I want some sort of outer philosophy to help me understand what’s going on within me, my emotional turmoil and confusion. Maybe it’s so I have a bandage to cover up my emotional wounds, a crutch to hold onto while I avoid real help.

Maybe it’s a bit of both. I don’t know. And that’s okay. I’ll figure out what works, and I don’t have to be in any hurry about it.

*

My body is a tricky thing to wrap my head around. There’s still a lot I want to change about it. I’m far from where I want to be. I haven’t even begun to transition yet. No curves. Hair that won’t look long because it’s too curly. Facial hair that needs shaved on a weekly basis. Leg hair that I try not to think about

64 because it’s too much of a pain to keep constantly shaving. It’s not all the self hatred I had in high school, though.

I love the color of my eyes. I never looked that closely in the mirror until one day, I just did. I saw the gray-blue irises, and had to do a mental double take.

My brain didn’t want to register that something about myself could be good.

There was a shimmer hidden in my eyes that I never saw before. The shape of my face does look good from the right angle, in the right light. There’s hope for me.

*

Identity is so much of who I am. Everything I say, do, and am is part of that identity. The stuff I can control, and what I can’t. Sometimes I wonder if I invent parts of my identity to feel special, or fit in with the friends I meet. When I have so many different strings pulling me in different directions, it’s hard to tell what’s me and what’s someone else.

The emotions and convictions I feel when I’m by myself are the most genuine. I get caught up in the moment when I’m with friends. By myself, I have time to reflect, to think about what I feel and why.

When my friend makes a racist joke, I say nothing, because I don’t want to stir up trouble. When I go home afterwards, I kick myself for not saying something. With my friends, I can be at my strongest, but also my weakest. My convictions, pure when isolated, get thrown by the wayside when I’m confronted with real situations. So what then do I believe? Who am I really? Am I just fake?

65 Maybe.

I never seem to be able to sort this issue out.

I might never know.

*

I’m walking along the bike trail near my house. There is a cool breeze in the shade of the trees. There are pockets of light peeking in from the leaves of the trees, giving the ground a soft glow. Birds are singing above and around me. The lazy creek running under the bridge trickles along. A dragonfly darts along the creek. A mosquito lands on my arm. I swat it away. Someone rides by on their bicycle, snapping me back to reality. The mosquito and dragonfly are long gone, out of sight. The water I saw before has moved further downstream. The light has shifted. The air is still and warm.

*

The clear quartz sits on my bedside table. Sometimes, when I remember it’s there, I hold it. I feel the smoothness and the rough cracks again, like I did in high school. I stare through it, everything obscured and distorted as it’s always been. I close my hand around it, feeling the coolness on my skin. I breathe in.

Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. I open the blinds in my room to look outside for once. It’s bright outside, and the trees sway in the breeze. I envy the birds above, flying where they please, without a care in the world.

*

66 I am the thing my family doesn’t talk about. I haven’t mentioned being trans since my dad’s outburst towards my coming out. I hide behind the mask of the life I’ve always lived, hiding my true self out of necessity, out of safety. It’s a stalemate, and I can’t keep it up forever. I want to be free.

67 Exploring the Craft of Memoir: An Analysis of Educated and Preparing the

Ghost

Memoir is a genre that, more than most, explores the deep-rooted emotions and feelings of what it means to be human. When writing Reflections of

Me, my primary inspiration was drawn from the unorthodox writing style of

Matthew Gavin Frank’s Preparing the Ghost and Tara Westover’s struggle to break free from the family she was born into in Educated. Both of these novels were important to the creation of my thesis, as they changed the way I approached the genre as a whole. They both embody the genre of memoir, while also showing that it is more than simply telling one’s own story; there is much more craft and aspects of life to pay attention to than just what centers around oneself.

Educated is written with a more traditional memoir structure, working in chronological order through Westover’s life, from her repressed childhood under her delusional father, to her adulthood where she finally learns to discover who she is as an individual. Westover’s life leads her into numerous scenarios of doubt. She has crises of faith, wonders what it means to be a woman, and struggles to come to terms with the fact she will need to leave her family behind to be truly happy. These doubts are stumbling blocks for her, but they also make her stronger in the process.

68 More than these doubts, though, the trauma she endures at home has her emerging stronger than ever by the end of the novel. Her family is a source of immense pain and fear, especially her brother, Shawn, and her father. For years, even into her teenage years, Westover suffers physical and emotional abuse at their hands, and never recognizes it until after she has already been scarred by those experiences. But her story is not one of victimhood, it is one of perseverance. Through all of this abuse, she is learning. She teaches herself algebra. She gets a job at a local restaurant, where she can be away from her family. She gives in less to Shawn. This perseverance, this progress, is what is at the heart of the novel. Westover doesn’t tell a victim story, where she explains all the horrible events that fill her childhood. She recounts these events, but she weaves in her own decisions to show what she did and did not do right in these moments of abuse and stress. This is what memoir is about: weaving together those events in life that one can and cannot control. Westover, towards the end of the novel, states, “No matter how much I appeared to have changed - how illustrious my education, how altered my appearance - I was still her. At best I was two people, a fractured mind” (328).

Matthew Gavin Frank takes a different approach to memoir than Westover does. Preparing the Ghost uses a blend of traditional memoir and personal narrative, along with purely factual, academic essay portions. This is not what many would think of as a memoir at first glance, but Frank also reaches a similar

69 goal to Westover. In his quest to uncover the truth about the giant squid, he unravels myth after myth to find reality, breaking apart his own existing assumptions, and finding revelations about himself. Amidst his musings of the squid, he poses the question, “Can I ever know my grandfather if I can never know his pain?” (145). This profound question speaks to the empathy Frank reaches through the mixed nature of his text, which allows approach from multiple angles. It is not a cold, objective truth that Frank is getting at, but rather a universal truth about us as humans, and what we are doing when we create and spread stories and myths. Our ultimate desire is to connect to each other and the world around us, and to seek whatever truth has meaning to us. For Frank, it is learning about the giant squid. For Westover, it is getting her education and living her life free from the chains of her youth.

These authors and their respective books were integral to the writing of

Reflections of Me. They came together in a way that I did not think possible in the genre and opened my eyes to the possibility of what a memoir of my own could become. Frank’s atypical structure, and Westover’s bravery and perseverance led me down a path to a piece I am proud of, and that I might turn to one day to inspire myself again.

70 Works Cited

Frank, Matthew Gavin. Preparing the Ghost: An Essay Concerning the Giant

Squid and Its First Photographer. New York, Liveright Publishing

Corporation, 2014.

Westover, Tara. Educated. New York, Random House, 2018.

71