Relating to the Real

At the beginning of this month we were in DC, and I was reminded that I don’t mind traveling to places that I don’t particularly  like when I travel with Jen. Perhaps I like it because we spend most of our time wandering around cities looking for independent bookstores (and queer bars). In DC we went to Politics and Prose, Lost City Books, Kramer’s, (and Pitchers). In bookstores, I peruse fiction, mostly unable to find what I’m looking for, or, if I do, I find too much of it, aware that I only have a carry-on to travel home. I always look for the Queer/LGBTQ section and spend too much time there, despite how small it usually is. In Kramer’s, I picked up a new hardcover book. My mother had recommended it to me, the author had won awards, and I knew I would like it because it was about mythology and connected ancient and contemporary stories. I also knew it was by a straight, cis, white man. I bought Last Night at the Telegraph Club, by Malinda Lo, instead. I’m recommitting to reading only books by queer and minority writers. This was a New Year’s resolution a few years ago. For me, buying a book is like buying a piece of art. I’m supporting an author, and an independent business when I travel. Queer authors need this support especially considering all of the book bans that have been so present in the news lately. 

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Writers and especially writers of fiction do the work of translating feelings into language, into something we can understand and relate to. The work is to take the emotion, the non-verbal communication, and to communicate it verbally, linguistically. When I read queer authors, I feel joy, inexplicably sometimes because the stories are as devastating as they are beautiful. But maybe the joy is at being able to relate, to see relationships that look like mine and people who feel what I feel. Or, maybe it’s recognizing that the someone who wrote the book found some sort of necessary life-saving joy in writing it. These stories are life-changing, they have the incredible power of making you feel less alone. 

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I am often reminded of Daphne, of translating her myth for the first time in high school and trying to decide whether or not she got away or was trapped by Apollo – that question suggested there was a way all my own that I could interpret the story, I just had to explain it. Then later, reading translations, mostly men’s, that had Daphne consented, given in, agreed to be Apollo’s, their published words as permanent and immovable as my own feeling of the opposite. Or, the feeling that she could be free. Now there are stories like Daphne’s and many other myths retold by women, voices no longer silent. Starting with the original texts and then translations reflecting the same patriarchal, sexist, and misogynist values, retellings do the work for making me realize that I can relate to these stories, that there is someone like me contained in those pages, she just has to be found.