Quotes

“Driving through Georgia, we lie like Abraham” (Dordal, 50).

Here, in her The Lies that Save Us, Lisa Dordal brings us on a trip alongside her partner and herself. My speculation is that these two simple lines, more so the second, hold deep-rooted meaning to Dordal. Her Lutheran upbringing is reflected in her writing on a number of occasions, but this instance specifically relates her to a religious figure. Abraham, a biblical patriarch, is known for his white lie, or lie of protection. A lie similar to Lisa’s, a lie of caution, and for the sake of his wife. Abraham feared that his wife would be killed if the knowledge of their marriage became known to the wrong people, so he claimed to be her brother. Lisa, just like Abraham, is well aware of the evil intentions that are far too common amongst humanity. The unfortunate truth to society is that some people think they have a right to interfere with the lives of other people. There is no way of knowing what someone is thinking in their head, which is why it is better to be safe than sorry. As sad as it is, unjustified acts of violence happen to people regularly. Lisa speaks on such senseless violence in Amanat, another poem from the same collection. A terrible attack on an innocent woman in New Delhi, India that is just one of many instances of human horror. As a member of the lesbian community in an unknown place, Dordal knows that she is at risk of having a halfwit do something to her and her wife because of how she identifies. The Lies that Save Us speaks on the sadly necessary precautions that must sometimes be taken.

“In the park in the rain I had recognized one thing at least; that Louise was the woman I wanted even if I couldn’t have her. Jacqueline I had to admit had never been wanted, simply she had roughly the right shape to fit for a while” (Winterson 61).

Life with Jacqueline was stable, normal and everything that heteronormative culture tells us is the purpose of life – to find a partner who provides stability, both in life and financially, who grounds you and offers up a sturdy platform for marriage, children, and ‘growing old together.’ Life with Jacqueline is a security of warmth, a mother bringing a steaming bowl of chicken-noodle soup to her ill child, nutritious but light on the tongue, satisfying in the moment but unable to quench the thirst for flavor on burdened taste buds. When the narrator says “she [Jacqueline] had roughly the right shape to fit for a while,” they identify their entire relationship with Jacqueline as temporary, something necessary to experience but no longer needed (Winterson 61). They equate their relationship to Jacqueline as if it were coat, thick and quilted for the solemn bitterness of winter but quickly shed for the kisses of sunlight on skin.

The narrator longs for otherness, a life and place besides Louise. Louise incites an incredible hunger in the narrator that goes unsatisfied by Jacqueline. Louise offers promises of a life in lust and love, of romance and passion, without the restrictions/tethers of the status quo.

Life with Louise, by heteronormative standards, would be anything but considered ‘desirable.’ It is “immature and even dangerous” in the same lens (Halberstam 5). A life spent with Louise would be without the constraints of the familial monolith, without designated roles of gender and sexuality. Life with Louise opens the “potentials of a life unscripted by the conventions of family, inheritance, and child rearing” (Halberstam 2). It would be as if the two are delicate ribbons, curled into one another and uplifted by a strong wind, relentless and powerful, each hour bringing new places and sights for exploration. Never stagnant, never without variation.

The narrator’s relationship with Jacqueline and Louise represents this crossroad between choosing normalcy, therefore losing their individuality, and embracing queer identity – all the possibilities and avenues that would blossom beneath their eyes should they choose it. With their arms outstretched for love, they create their own narrative.