Class Blog

Stories, and the art of sharing them with others, are vital to sustaining humanity. This may seem like a bit of a stretch; on the surface, stories may seem like another shallow mode of small talk, or a fun silly interaction you share with loved ones. And yet, all of the readings from our class discussions have centered heavily around personal stories. The stories of Clare and Houska, even more dense academic writings of authors like Halberstam and Freeman, have been the driving points of conversation during each class. It is experience, example, and emotion that allows us to learn about the workings of humanity. It would be nearly impossible for a person to gain a wider worldly perspective without first understanding and listening to the experience of others. We learn about queer diversity and sustainability through Clare’s struggle with queerness in a rural childhood environment- about connections (and separation) between humanity and the earth through the intimate struggles and battles advocated by Houska- and the psychology of queerness, structural binaries and restrictions synonymous with the “ideal way of living” through the meticulous exploration of personal views, ideas of identity, and the organization of one’s self in the writing of Freeman and Halberstam. 

The very end of Stones in my Pockets, Stones in my Heart by Eli Clare details a sort of metaphorical utopia, in which Clare finds comfort and belonging not in one certain label, identity, hometown, or outfit, but in a space dedicated to storytelling. “…people of many varieties and trade stories long into the night. Laugh and cry and tell stories. Sad stories about bodies stolen, bodies no longer here. Enraging stories about false images, devastating lies, untold violence. Bold, brash stories about reclaiming our bodies and changing the world” (Clare, 159-160). The kinds of stories Clare describes are for the most part unpleasant, something that, in theory, shouldnt be something you wish for in daydreams; however, these somewhat depressing stories (which are impossible to shy away from in any genuine reflection and recollections of a person’s life) do not shy away from sharing the very worst parts of being alive. It is these stories that produce connection, these stories that bring people together through good and bad to understand one another’s emotions and experience even if it may seem to be completely unfamiliar. Houska notes in her essay Sacred Resistance that too many conversations about progression center around a flat language meant to draw in everyone, and touch no one simultaneously. That humanity shouts for change but screams over each other trying to be the one to say “I know what we need”. Perhaps through a bit of genuine reflection, empathy for ourselves, others and the environment we share, we would be able to actually speak to one another. Sharing stories is imperative to sharing the earth with one another (cheesy, but seemingly true from what I have read these past few weeks).

A reoccurring theme of capitalism invading activism efforts has arisen in our class discussions as of late. Eli Clare mentioned his two cents on this phenomenon in losing home, talking about Stonewall 25 and pride events in general. He says, “Stonewall 25 strikes me not so much as a celebration of a powerful and life-changing uprising of queer people, led by trans people of color, by drag queens and butch dykes, fed up with the cops, but as a middle- and upper-class urban party that opened its doors only to those who could afford it,” (43). At an event supposed to be celebrating the joy of queer existence, admission had a cost. Queer community lost its inclusivity, something that might seem paradoxical. The capitalist mindset that pervades the social activism sphere prohibits lower classes from inclusion. The non-inclusive middle- and upper- class party idea applies to sustainability too. Many people simply can’t afford sustainable options. Somehow, highly processed food and other industrially made consumer goods are priced lower than local or sustainably made food, clothing, and goods. Houska says, “Far too much of our collective energy is directed toward a pursuit that leaves us mirroring capitalism…” describing the environment of administrative-level climate change activism, which also is profit-driven, despite its original ideals (214).  

This inability for us to enact change outside of capitalism is reminiscent of the desire for “queer time.” If capitalism is the “normal,” regulated subjugation of people’s organization of life, then queer and sustainability activism are a battle to broker a reality where we can exist outside of those bounds. Eli Clare is fighting an essential battle in this arena, highlighting the ways we can truly exist outside of the binaries and confines of the dominant culture– by escaping back to nature, finding peace within ourselves in a natural way, existing in a fluid, genderless world of connection. In stones in my pocket, stones in my heart, Clare describes the mental stone wall he retreats to when considering his experiences of hardship with identity. He writes, “In the end, I will sit on the wide, flat top of my wall, legs dangling over those big, uncrackable stones, weathered smooth and clean,” (159). The language he uses to describe this wall is strong, evoking an image of something that withstands the test of time. He hopes to conquer this wall of gender, class, disability, but also live in peace, working together to build something sustainable. 

Louise’s grandmother, the Pea, though present for less than ten pages, is an extremely interesting character. One of the most interesting things about her is the way she is introduced. She lives with Louise’s mother, and although she had a steady hand, she liked to spill because “[i]t made work for her daughter” (164). From this description, I assumed the Pea was a jerk. However, we later learn that Louise’s mother is even more of a jerk, which in turn, makes the Pea a lot more likeable. Louise’s mother, I think, can be seen to represent or at least be a product of white, heterosexual, patriarchal, British (even though she’s Australian) society. She is very concerned about appearances and propriety (165) and she knows more about England than her mother (ie. The fact that they do not have a Disinfectant Department [165]). She also talks very formally, calling the Pea “mother”, while the Pea calls her “Kitty” which I assume is a nickname (165).  

Because of this, the Pea being a pain in her ass is comparable, I think to taking digs at the patriarchy. This starts even before the Pea has Louise’s mother. The Pea had “over one hundred proposals of marriage in the 1920s” from high society men, like bankers, but she “married a sheep farmer” (167). Which goes against the classism of British society as well as capitalistic society. The Pea moved out to the country with her husband where their “nearest neighbour had been a day’s ride away” (167). In class we talked about “cottage core” and the idyllic nature of being away from society and escaping from patriarchy, which is particularly relevant to people who do not fit society’s idea of “normal”. The Pea also strays from societal norms with her crudeness. While Louise’s mother puts on a polite and proper front when the narrator visits them looking for Louise, the Pea does nothing to hide her personality and try to fit into British society’s idea of “normal”. She uses slang, contradicts Mrs. Fox, has no reserves about bad-mouthing Elgin, and makes a racket “screaming” and “banging her stick” in a way that reminds the narrator of a “knife thrower in the circus” (166). 

Associating the Pea with the circus is an interesting choice, because the circus often houses “queer” things for “normal” people to observe and be entertained by. The “queer” people in the circus are an interesting contrast to queer people in society, because in society, few queer people are as open about their queerness, and even fewer invite “normal” people to gawk at them. We established in class that there is something queer about the narrator and their relationship with Louise, and by presenting the Pea as queer too, the narrator creates a sense of community there, which is kind of reassuring; even if the narrator does not have Lousie, they have the Pea. 

In Eli Clare’s chapter losing home, he talks about the realities of living as a queer person in rural versus urban areas. Clare uses the words queer, exile, and class to describe the ways in which he has lost his home, queer being the easiest to explain, exile harder, and class “the most confusing” (Clare 36). While the terms rural and redneck often carry connotations of bigotry with them, Clare points out that rural white people are not any more homophobic than “the average urban person. Rather the difference lies in urban anonymity…in the face of bigotry and violence, anonymity provides a certain level of protection” (Clare 34-5). 

This is the appeal to many queer people of big city life. You can reinvent yourself, or show yourself as you have always been without fear of having to defend it to everyone around you. No one is there to report you to your family or your boss, and there are others equally happy to find solace in their anonymity together. The term metronormativity assumes that this is the only way to be queer, essentially being out/liberated/welcomed in the city versus being forced into the closet/being endangered in rural areas as a queer person. Eli Clare acknowledges that he doesn’t believe he “could live easily and happily that isolated from queer community…My loss of home is about being queer” (Clare 34). There is a sort of paradox in these sentences. A lot of being queer is about found family, found homes. People that accept you because the people who were supposed to didn’t. And yet Clare still refers to the town he left behind as “home” and describes at length the people and the places that he misses, the neighborly attitudes, the environment that made him who he was. Clare’s “home” holds both these qualities and also the fear of homophobia should he return and the abuse he suffered growing up. He asks the question “is queer identity worth the loss?” (40). Queer identity and community is what helped heal him of his trauma and find a sense of belonging, but it’s also what cost him his home. It’s the mix of his urban and rural identities that make him who he is today, but is the loss of home enough to make someone want to change themselves? It’s this dichotomy that allows Clare the grace to write with empathy about both types of queer and rural people that he is familiar with. He maintains that even if he can’t go to his home as it stands today, the connections between rural and queer people are still important, because they’re not two separate concepts. We can’t dismiss the importance of where we come from in favor of an anonymous urban lifestyle. But we can’t ignore the very real fears that come with being queer out in the open, so to speak. This paradox of queerness and home speaks to the difficulty of having many identities tangled up inside one person. You cannot have one without the other, they are all interconnected.

A passage that was of interest to me in Written On The Body is one at the beginning of the novel where the narrator is discussing the phrase “I love you.” The narrator asks about the phrase, “Why is it that the most unoriginal thing we can say to one another is still the thing we long to hear?”

This shows an incredible level of vulnerability from the narrator, who is also unafraid to share their experiences about being the other person in an affair with a level of matter-of-factness that contrasts starkly this phrase. They are blunt about how one of their lovers, Jacqueline, offered them contentment and a place to settle but not much else, while Louise offers excitement, which the narrator expresses as obsession over her.

This sentence discussing the phrase “I love you” could be seen as foreshadowing for what happens much later in the novel, where the narrator falls into a deep depression and desperation upon leaving Louise and peels back their many layers to once again show a deeper level of vulnerability. They describe in detail the many things they do to try to get back Louise, but visiting patients and reading books to understand cancer to fighting Louise’s husband when he will not give them any information as to Louise’s whereabouts.

This layer of vulnerability at the beginning and ending of the novel humanizes the narrator and makes them more than just “the other lover.” The fact that the sentence discussing “I love you” is written as an unanswered question shows a level of openness not often seen throughout, as the narrator is indirectly admitting some weakness. They are not as assured as they may want others to believe, but only with you, the reader, can they take off their mask and show a different side to them than they do with the actual people in their life. It gives the reader the first glimpse of a narrator they can relate to, one that is not as different from them as they may seem. Innately, humans look for love, connection, and people to surround themselves with, and by asking this question the narrator makes it clear that they are no different, despite how unashamed they may be at times when discussing the relationships they have that many people would consider morally questionable.

~written by SilverFlute

Everyone ends up the same. We all grow up differently, but we all die. There is not much equality in the world but there is equality in death. If someone is homeless and has no money to their name they will get the same after death care as someone who has billions of dollars and fifteen houses. This passage serves as a reminder that everyone is equal in death. No one gets a bigger coffin or grave because they have more money. It is all the same. The choice to use the word “hole” instead of grave is important because it tells the reader that in the end it does not mean much. You will end up in a hole in the ground just like everyone else. The last line of the passage, “…for no matter what fanciness goes in it, rich and poor occupy the same home at last” is something a lot of people should pay attention to. The phrase “occupy the same home at last” is powerful because it shows that it was meant to be. At last, there is equality among people. There is a standard among death, and everyone meets it. Death sees everyone as the same. No matter status, gender, or sexuality. In life, people are prejudice and treat people differently because of these things even though they will all end up the same. Everyone gets the same death and hopefully this will never change because death unites everyone. Death greats everyone the same. This passage is an important reminder for everyone that life is too short and individual for you to be worried about anyone but your loved ones. Do not spend your time spreading hate and misinformation. Spend it with your family and friends because in the end everyone will have the same ending. Everyone needs to read this passage and live life based on the fact that everyone is truly equal no matter how hard people try to fight against it

Why is that the case?

The very first line of Written On the Body by Jeanette Winterson is a question, reaching out to the reader asking, “Why is the measure of love loss?”. The speaker then spans into poetic prose, describing the dismal and unbecoming summer they have experienced. Upon first read, I was admittedly both intrigued and confused by this decision, but having finished the book, I can confidently say that Louis is dead, and that’s okay. And the reason why it’s alright, is because the trauma of her death is not restricted to just the speaker, but to us readers as well.

Based on textual evidence, I propose that the speaker, importantly ungendered and unnamed, uses their recountment of past relationships in order to process and grief Louis’s death.  The two places I will be pointing to most in the book itself are the first and last paragraphs, should you wish to refer to them yourself as well. I urge you to join me in analyzing these paragraphs, since they are some of the most complex and dense in the novel.

The ungendered nature of the main character in the novel, allows for the reader to envision themselves in the respective situations as the speaker. Essentially, this prevents any biased conclusions about the speakers experiences and views. Should the speaker claim to be a woman, men reading the book would feel excluded in some situations, and those who identify entirely differently would feel excluded from the start. Given this, the reader feels part of the speaker, because they can put themselves into their figurative shoes Throughout the novel, there are events that made me laugh (the closet incident) and that pulled at my heart strings all the same, and that effect would not be as dramatic if I identified the speaker with a gender.

Tying this in with the first and last paragraphs of the novel, I draw an importance in the speakers ambiguous identity and the relationship with the reader. Just as the novel begins with an implied You, it ends the same with an assumed unity by saying “I don’t know if this is a happy ending but here we are let loose in open fields”. The truth is, there is no ending to this story. Our speaker must continue through life after this novel is written, and so will we after reading it. However, grieving is a process that is tiresome. By losing a loved one, the speaker spirals in hopes to find answers, bringing us back to the first paragraph when they ask “You said, ‘I love you.’ Why is it that the most unoriginal thing we can say to one another is still the thing we long to hear?” This novel can be read cyclically, the way grief is cyclical in nature, starting and ending looking for answers.

The question being, why is love measured by loss?

Your favorite crime,

Jay Walker

This blog post will focus on the letter from the Narrator to Louise on page 105. Specifically, the following lines, “You are safe in my home but not my arms. If I stay it, will be you who goes, in pain, without help. Our love was not meant to cost you your life. I can’t bear that. If it could be my life, I would gladly give it.” (Winterson, 105). The opening line of the section demonstrates the powerlessness and impotence the Narrator feels in their current situation. The line implies the only way they are valuable is as a provider of housing but not as a partner or source of comfort. This feeling is perpetuated in the second line with the opening and close words, “If I stay” and “without help.” The Narrator works under the assumption that the only way one can be helpful to someone afflicted with cancer is by providing medical treatment. They ignore the possibility that their emotional support is just as valuable as anything Western Medicine can provide.

In the final three sentences the Narrator creates their excuse for leaving. They perpetuate the idea that they must abandon Louise for her to survive. This is exemplified in the third sentence with the use of the words, “Our love” and “your life.” This sentence could be written as “We should not cost you.” That the separation of the two, and destruction of “we” is necessary for the survival of Louise.

The last two lines are a confession of the Narrator’s feelings, “I can’t bear that.” (105). Rather than handle the messy aspects of a relationship they would rather leave. Even after Louise had already states she will under no circumstances go back to Elgin, the Narrator feels it is necessary for her to do exactly that because they “can’t bear” to be the person Louise relies on. These lines attempt to make a selfish decision seem selfless. They suggest that the Narrator chooses to leave out of fear rather than sacrifice.