Tag: analysis

Neurodiverse Recognition in Autobiography of Red

Psychology is an important topic in Autobiography of Red, even when it is not explicit nor centralized. Geryon grows up feeling different, illustrated by the dread of leaving home, vague injustice at school, and his red wings (Carson 36). He prefers imagery to words. In Geryon’s world, colors have influential connotations and his senses intermingle. Others perceive his emotions as morose or overly complex (looking at you, Herakles). As a child, he is derogatorily called stupid, only to later find his calling in philosophical thought. 

Something charming about Autobiography is the universality of Geryon’s story. He is embarrassed by desire and has an occasionally dry sense of humor; he struggles to belong but ultimately succeeds. Carson humanizes the monster of Greek mythology, and in doing so makes Geryon’s perspective resonate with neurodiverse individuals. It is done with that tinge of universality—Geryon can be read as expressing dyslexia, synesthesia, anxiety, or autism, to put labels on some topics a psychiatrist might tell him about in 2025. There are myriad interpretations and truths to Geryon’s mental landscape, and no interpretation is incorrect. Personally, I would like to posit that he is displaying obsessive-compulsive disorder.  

From the beginning of Autobiography, onwards, so much of Geryon’s behavior is familiar to me. His behavior aligns with some commonly understood OCD symptoms, such as his brain getting “jammed then restarted” when faced with odd numbers (Carson 91) and feeling the need to clean up after others (Carson 102). On a street in Buenos Aires, Geryon reads all the headlines of a newspaper—which could be curiosity in a foreign place or attention to detail, but we are reading it through an OCD lens (Carson 106). In the scene at the tango bar, Carson explicitly states, “Geryon had a bad thought” (101). From my point of view, ‘bad thoughts’ are evocative of intrusive thoughts, which typically feed obsessions and necessitate compulsions. A strong point of evidence is Geryon’s two instances of picking a scab, then his lip. He tries to hide his hands, but his mother notices and says, “Don’t pick at that […] leave it alone and let it heal” (Carson 30). Soon after, they are spending time together and she says, “Don’t pick your lip Geryon let it heal,” implying that this is a pattern (Carson 34). I cannot tell you how many times my mother has fondly batted my fingers away from my lips, so this instantly stood out to me. After all, skin-picking disorder is often classified as a subset of OCD. 

Then, the less commonly understood OCD symptoms Geryon displays. His loyalty to both justice and facts could be interpreted as a site of morality-based OCD. He has a rich inner world, which he prefers and cultivates compared to the outer world. His line “you can’t be alive and think about nothing” portrays his worldview as someone prone to overthinking (Carson 103).  

I would like to put this story in conversation with OCD experiences, but my chief conclusion is that Autobiography makes space for marginalized people through Geryon’s experiences with ostracization. He feels abnormal not only because of his wings but because of the way he is on the inside, too, and that is highly relatable. In the same way certain pages of the dictionary may be wrinkled and smudged, speaking to years of individuals with questions about their identities, Autobiography is a wrinkled and smudged book where I have searched for and found myself.  

Works Cited 

Carson, Anne. Autobiography of Red: A Novel in Verse. Vintage Contemporaries, 1999.  

Fama, Jeanne M. “What Is Skin Picking Disorder?” International OCD Foundation, International OCD Foundation, 29 Nov. 2022, https://iocdf.org/about-ocd/related-disorders/skin-picking-disorder/. 

“Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder: When Unwanted Thoughts or Repetitive Behaviors Take Over.” National Institute of Mental Health, U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, 2023, www.nimh.nih.gov/health/publications/obsessive-compulsive-disorder-when-unwanted-thoughts-or-repetitive-behaviors-take-over. 

Living through Trauma: Emotions and Imagery

“On relaxing she was overcome by the rage that seeped into her veins. At times like these she felt inflamed to the point of wanting to tear and scream into her father’s room, of screeching so piercingly that she disabled him, of punching him in his stomach over and over until he cried like a baby, admitted how loathesome he had been and begged hers and Asha’s forgiveness. But at such times her rage was usually muffled by a sudden injection of good sense. The success of an adventure like the one she was embarking upon depended on the control of all her faculties. Anger, hatred and even fear could very easily trip her up. Pohpoh worked on finding that perfect balance between being rigidly alert and dangerously relaxed” (Mootoo 143). 

This paragraph is incredibly evocative, beginning and ending with “relax” in some form despite being filled with volatility and pain. It explores how Pohpoh copes with the abuse she is enduring. Especially as she takes on the role of mother for her younger sister, she is learning to be wise, mature, and “alert” as a survival tactic and a trauma response. This continues into her adulthood and the relationship she forms with her younger self; Part Two states “her body remembered” despite the years Mala has lived without her father (Mootoo 175).  

The gradual rise of anger in Part Two is fascinating. As it becomes clear to readers that Pohpoh is the same woman who will later be accused of killing her father, more prose is dedicated to Pohpoh’s flashes of anger and resentment. Her desire to “[screech] so piercingly that she disabled him” calls to mind a Banshee. These supernatural creatures in Irish folklore are said to wail the night of a family member’s death—a wail which only the doomed person can hear (Britannica). Given Mootoo’s openness about being born in Ireland, and Cereus’ multiple references to the “Shivering Northern Wetlands,” it is plausible that this allusion was intentional (Mootoo 191).  

Next in the passage, Pohpoh daydreams about punching her father, which reminded me of a younger media connection. I would put that sentence—and Pohpoh’s story—in conversation with the Front Bottoms song “Father,” which begins with the lyrics, “I have this dream that I am hitting my dad with a baseball bat, and he is screaming and crying for help / and maybe halfway through, it has more to do with me killing him than it ever did protecting myself” (YouTube). This song also references rape as a mechanism of colonialism, violence, and gender stratification; what I will focus on is emotion, and how Pohpoh processes her feelings in Cereus. To me, the novel seems informed by psychological academia. Pohpoh feels guilt for “betraying” her father despite doing nothing wrong (Mootoo 212). Even Asha says in a letter that Pohpoh worries about her father in a way that seems counterintuitive to the untrained eye (Mootoo 244). These complex expressions of shame, rage, and fear are characterized well for a young girl growing up in a house of abuse. It is no wonder to me that this book resonates with survivors on a large scale. 

Gratifyingly, Cereus gives Pohpoh the time to feel horrible and angry and sad, but it also gives Mala the time to feel proud and victorious. I was elated by her sass when she told the constable about “a daughter’s duty” (Mootoo 182). Mala in the present is repeatedly described as defiant, in possession of “an insistence of her own” (Mootoo 182). She built her own life with a lush garden where no one dares to bother her. Mala is living with mental health issues and psychological pain which linger throughout the novel, but on the last page of the book she “[trembles] with joy” (Mootoo 249). She won, and her triumph is shared with Otto and Tyler.  

Works Cited 

“Banshee.” Encyclopaedia Britannica, Encyclopaedia Britannica, inc., www.britannica.com/topic/banshee. Accessed 2 Apr. 2025.  

Mootoo, Shani. Cereus Blooms at Night. Grove Press, 1996. 

The Front Bottoms. “Father.” YouTube, 14 June 2020, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xOXJZ9nh9Mw. 

Carnivals, Swimming Pools, and Elusive Trans Narratives

“[…] the portrait I had brought home from the carnival. Betsy didn’t know what my mother was talking about. Finally after much confusion, she asked, ‘Didn’t I draw your son?’ I remember the complete joy I felt when my mother came home with this story. I looked again and again at the portrait, thinking, ‘Right here, right now, I am a boy.’ It made me smile secretly for weeks, reach down into my pockets to squeeze a stone tight in each fist. I felt as if I were looking in a mirror and finally seeing myself, rather than some distorted fun-house image” (Clare 146). 

Clare’s writing in “stones in my pockets, stones in my heart” is undeniably full of emotion, but this was a particular spot of resonance, in my reading. His story of being perceived as a young boy has several connections to the rest of the chapter, notably the highlighted childhood question “Am I feminine?” (Clare 144). Clare also writes about his later discovery of the lesbian community, specifically the butch lesbian community. He states, “I knew I could be this kind of woman” and describes finding “a definition of woman large enough” to fit into (Clare 155). All these components build into the idea of being seen. The second part of this passage is principal—in it, Clare sees himself in his true form. The stone companions add to this imagery of growing up and finding safe spaces. Clare found several ways to move through the world as he grew with his gender identity.  

Segueing into a personal note, I felt seen by Clare’s story several times in this chapter. It is curious to me that I had similar experiences during similar developmental times. When I was roughly seven or eight, I went to a pool party which was being hosted by my mother’s associates—nobody’s children knew each other. I, with my choppy, chin-length hair and swim trunks, spent the whole afternoon with a group of boys my age. We played football, because that’s definitely a sport that’s meant to be played in the water. It wasn’t until my mom came to find me and called my then-name that I—and the boys—became wise to the misunderstanding. They’d thought I was a boy the entire time. I was giddy with the keen sense I’d pulled something off, even if it hadn’t been intentional. I immediately thought of this day when I read Clare’s carnival story. 

Then I was nine, eleven, thirteen. I was the class tomboy. I played sports. I did not date. I was ‘not like other girls.’ I, too, found “a definition of woman large enough” to house me until I hit high school, snapped, and came out. This makes me think about the transgender community in a broader sense. No two trans individuals are the same, and there is no universal experience, as emphasized by the other social factors Clare addresses. I advocate for celebrating everyone’s individual “definition of know and feel,” but I wonder if there are more common experiences I have yet to see (Clare 158). Trans narratives have entered the mainstream in the last decade or two, yet I am still taken aback upon feeling recognized. I wonder if trans representation feels tenuous because it is so contested.  

Queerness, Mangoes, and Streetlights

“You’re the Only One I Need” by Alejandro Heredia, an exploration of drag, queerness, femininity versus masculinity, gayness, is deeply rooted in its setting and qualities of setting. The physical setting of Santo Domingo is very central to the story, of course; but what I’m getting at is the more physical and visual qualities of the world that the characters interact with, and the importance of them to the story’s queerness. For example, the physicality, and almost bodily description, of eating a mango:

“[Fabio] claws for his [yellow] mango and tears into it with his teeth, makes a small hole in the flesh of the fruit. He massages the pulp into juice and sucks from the fruit every last drop of sun. When they are done, the skin of the mango is taut, wrinkled and saggy. Only the pit remains” (34).

The action of eating a mango is always very intimate in that way. It’s just that kind of fruit: the ripeness of it and the juice and the skin. But this description is long and detailed, every word deliberate, with so much language of touch and fleshiness. “He massages the pulp into juice and sucks from the fruit every last drop of sun” — massaging, very specific touch; pulp, the flesh of the fruit (34). They are eating the mango in a way that men perhaps are not “supposed” to do it. There is too much intimacy and enjoyment in it, too much touch and sweetness. This assumption is proved when “the girls laugh” (34), watching the boys eat this fruit in this perhaps “girly” or “gay” way. The mango is thus a symbol of their perceived femininity.

Once again I want to return to this sentence: “He massages the pulp into juice and sucks from the fruit every last drop of sun” (34), but now looking at the ending of it, “every last drop of sun.” If the mango is seen as a symbol for the perception of queerness or femininity to the outside world, then the light, the sun, that they are extracting from the mango can be read as a space and a moment of time when they can have a safe space for their queerness. That is, before the girls look at them and laugh.

Heredia plays with darkness and light, shadows and color all throughout the piece. When Ren and the two boys change into drag, they “turn to a dark alleyway, away from the light” — this is their private space, where they can be with themselves and their bodies. However, Ren then “continues the rest of his transformation before them, in the soft orange streetlight” (37). The description of light reminds me somehow of the mango: soft, orange or yellow, again light. The darkness may be their private space — but yellow, orange, soft flesh of the mango, the sun and the streetlight is the safe space for their queerness. Heredia’s work is thus thinking about queer spaces within a world where queerness is perhaps laughed at or hidden.

The Trefoil Knot: An Important Analogy in Written on the Body

So far, I’ve been really astounded by the analogies that the narrator in Written on the Body makes about love. Each comparison seems to be a way to justify their current situation through a different lens. In this post I will be focusing on the paragraph on page 87 where the narrator talks about knots, and the larger implications that this analogy has on how the narrator views their relationship with Louise.

When the narrator claims that “the interesting thing about a knot is its formal complexity. Even the simplest pedigree knot, the trefoil, with its three roughly symmetrical lobes, has mathematical as well as artistic beauty” (87), I don’t think they are purely talking about the knot itself. Here, the narrator states three important things: 1) knots are complex, 2) a specific knot (the trefoil, pictured at the top of the post) has three lobes, and 3) the trefoil is beautiful. With the knowledge that they later bring this talk of knots back around to their relationship with Louise (see page 88), I don’t think it’s as much of a stretch to consider that this paragraph about knots relates back to the narrator’s love life. At this moment in time, the narrator considers their relationship with Louise to be much like the trefoil knot – complex and 3-sided (because Elgin is still in the picture at this point), but ultimately beautiful.

It is interesting that they continue by saying, “the challenge of the knot lies in the rules of its surprises. Knots can change but they must be well-behaved. An informal knot is a messy knot” (87 – 88). For the challenge of the knot, the narrator seems to think that the same occurs for relationships; it’s the surprises and how they are dealt with that “make or break” them (i.e. Louise telling Elgin that she’s been having an affair with the narrator and how they deal with that situation). Then there’s the word choice of “well-behaved” that really sticks out to me, I think this combined with the informal = messy bit is meant to say that much as a knot must be sturdy and held together tightly, so must a relationship if the people wish to stay together.

Your Body Wants to be Naked but You’re Wearing an Overcoat

The closest thing that Jeanette Winterson’s narrator of Written on the Body achieves to marriage prior to their relationship with Louise is their relationship with Jaqueline. But, that relationship is destroyed by the narrator’s lust and love for Louise, quickly, sharply, hurtfully. It was a settled relationship, content and calm, and not enough for our narrator:

“Jaqueline was an overcoat. She muffled my senses. With her I forgot about feeling and wallowed in contentment. Contentment is a feeling you say? Are you sure it’s not an absence of feeling?… Contentment is a positive side of resignation. It has its appeal but it’s no good wearing an overcoat and furry slippers and heavy gloves when what the body really wants is to be naked” (76).

They “wallowed in contentment” — interesting choice of words to put together (76). They contradict each other in meaning, or rather in the way people usually tend to use and think of these words. Wallowing has connotations of almost trudging or floating around in a state of sadness, boredom, self pity, maybe a combination of all. Contentment, on the other hand, is most often positive: it’s a happy feeling, a feeling that’s arguably something everybody searches for and wants: satisfaction in the state of homeostasis, of balance. But our narrator is not happy in contentment. In fact, for them contentment is an “absence of feeling” and part of the same feeling as “resignation” (76). Balance, quiet, consistency, even, is a resignation for them. Resignation from what? From desire, life, or real love? Just pure lust?

Why would you want to be wearing an overcoat when “what the body really wants is to be naked” (76)? But perhaps contentment becomes a feeling when it is with someone whose body wants to be naked with your naked body, and not smothered in overcoats. When it comes to Louise, all the narrator wants is a life with her; with her, contentment perhaps would be real contentment and not a resignation because Louise is not Jaqueline. But then again, how would we as readers know that the narrator doesn’t have this euphoric state in every relationship prior — they are unreliable, after all. By condemning contentment as a lack of feeling, the narrator contradicts themselves as they desperately seek out Louise as a partner, and when or if they receive that partnership and love, then wouldn’t that be contentment?

Good Dog/Feral Dog (Written on the Body)

“I phoned a friend whose advice was to play the sailor and run a wife in every port. If I told Jacqueline I’d ruin everything and for what? If I told Jacqueline I’d hurt her beyond healing and did I have that right? Probably I had nothing more than dog-fever for two weeks and I could get it out of my system and come home to my kennel. 

Good sense. Common sense. Good dog.”  

Written on the Body, pg. 40 

On the surface, this passage is a segment of the narrator’s deliberation. They consider the cons of telling Jacqueline the truth about their affair. On a deeper level, this passage reveals how the narrator views themself; it also carries notes of societal normativity.  

The syntax of this passage holds contrast: it begins with long, unbroken sentences, questioning in tone. This is the narrator’s pure stream of consciousness. It then transitions into clipped part-sentences which shut down the narrator’s earlier ruminations. After all, there is no need to worry about the ethical implications of being honest with Jacqueline if they ‘get it out of their system’ and move on (40).  

The narrator says that they have “dog-fever” and need to return home to a “kennel,” which conjures imagery of a crate or cage that might be too small for the dog (40). Something constraining. This is not the last time the narrator refers to themself in dog-like terms. On page 56, the narrator explicitly thinks, “I want to snarl like the dog I am,” and on page 91 they are “dog-dumb.” Interesting, then, that the narrator draws comparisons between themself and a cat later in the book, stating that they take it in “the way Louise had taken me” and then referring to themself and the cat in tandem (109). Whether cat or dog, the narrator thinks of themself in terms of a household pet. Feral and dangerous, protective, mistreated, loyal—all at once.  

This metaphor is a building block of a broader theme: rejecting normativity and hegemony. The narrator lives in a society which values faithful, heterosexual marriage, and the narrator adopts this obsession, questioning how one can be happy in such a system. The movement from “good sense” to “common sense” to “good dog” shows that the three are interconnected. Common sense, which is made up of common norms and beliefs, equates to good beliefs. Morality is tangibly attached to these practices. If the narrator adopts these beliefs and stops their affair, they will be a good dog, trained by society to be a docile household pet.  

Thus, the narrator’s struggle with norms and their internal debate is influenced by how they perceive themself. The choices are 1) ‘playing the sailor,’ being honest with Jacqueline, and ‘ruining everything,’ versus 2) moving through the affair and then conforming. Readers know that the narrator is honest and chooses not to play it safe. This is a decision followed by violence from both the narrator and Jacqueline, which is quite telling. Although the narrator is a contradictory character, they repeatedly grapple with their own dark side (akin to an angry dog) and whether they are worth saving (akin to a stray cat).  

Lanyon’s Secret

“Rather, as there was something abnormal and misbegotten in the very essence of the creature that now faced me- something seizing, surprising and revolting- this fresh disparity seemed but to fit in with and to reinforce it; so that to my interest in the man’s nature and character, there was added as to his origin, his life, his fortune and status in the world.” (39)

This passage is interesting because Dr. Lanyon is the only character to wonder about Mr. Hyde’s personality and not just his persona. Lanyon is the first character to view Hyde as a person and not a sum of his parts or deformities. Dr. Lanyon knows there’s something wrong with Mr. Hyde but he wants to know Hyde’s origin, not his crimes. This is a contrast to most of the reactions to Hyde’s face and most of the thoughts on identity in the novel because almost all of the characters do not ask themselves these questions about Hyde but rather fear him blindly. However, like everyone who encounters Hyde, Lanyon also has trouble organizing his thoughts and struggles to describe Hyde in one long, messy sentence rather than a succinct description of his face. This implies that the majority of the characters have trouble with analyzing another’s identity when it is so different from their own. Utterson easily describes Lanyon and Jekyll because they are friends, but he grapples with his description of Hyde as well.

Lanyon is the only character to wonder about Hyde as a person and his origin. Tellingly, he is also the first to find out the truth when Hyde transforms into Jekyll in front of him. None of the other characters reactions to this reveal are shown but Lanyon’s is- he dies from the shock of finding out that his best friend was responsible for the murder of Sir Danvers Carew. His curiosity about Hyde’s life is what killed him. We also never discover Utterson’s reaction to Lanyon’s narrative or Jekyll’s confession nor the consequences of learning Jekyll was Hyde and therefore a murderer. Presumably, both Lanyon and Jekyll’s accounts were taken to the grave but the reader is left with no answer to this question.