Interviewed by Jasmine Ferrufino Editor in Chief at Chaotic Merge
Jasmine Ferrufino: What would you love your audience to know about you that you might not express in your writing that often?
Shome Dasgupta: Oh! I’m not quite sure—I’m afraid there’s not too much about me to know other than I love to read and write. I used to be somewhat athletic way back when—I love sports, particularly basketball, and I think I still hold a few records from my high school days such as free throw percentage, assists, and also, likely, most turnovers! I don’t follow the sport all too much, but I love playing street cricket—when I lived in Manchester, UK, I certainly fell in love with the game.
JF: There are many new/ arising creatives out there , but I wonder how your specific process works and if you have any advice for them?
SD: I generally don’t feel like I’m in a place to offer advice because I still think I have so much to learn about the creative process, especially for writing, and it manifests itself so differently for everyone. Creativity seems so fickle. It can be never-ending, I guess, because maybe creativity is infinite within our own minds and in its limitations. Perhaps, I can offer to say that I like to explore all ideas, thoughts, experiences, and see where they take me even if it feels like there’s little movement. Sometimes the causes and effects are so strange and intangible, I never know how it affects whatever it is I’m trying to do until I realize it upon reflection. I also try to soak up as many mediums of creativity as possible—which is pretty much everything!
JF: Do you have a certain setup before writing? (Example: Do you wake up at 5am ? Do you have to make coffee before? Do you write random line until you finally get going?)
SD: Coffee—coffee—coffee, always. For me especially, iced mochas—I’m a sucker for them. It’s either iced mochas or black coffee. I don’t really have a certain routine these days; however, if I’m in the middle of writing a story, a poem, or a CNF piece, I usually try to write, or give time to it, every day while I’m working on it—for however little or large amount of time. I tend to do this when I know I can be a bit regular about it though I’m fine with not visiting a draft every day—I’m also being a bit hypocritical because I started a manuscript about 5 months ago, but I haven’t looked at it since then. Currently, I love writing at night, but this definitely changes.
JF: If you had one sentence/fact to describe you and your life what would it be?
SD: Always—I’m thankful and grateful for this opportunity at life.
JF: What made you want to write A Sound of Dew and how do you think it has evolved to the version it is?
SD: Thank you again for taking in “A Sound Of Dew.” The idea came to me during a summer, when I was in a pretty obsessive mode of routine—this includes going to get my coffee in the morning. I feel like I became acquaintances with everything around me—mailboxes, trees, squirrels, turtles, litter, the way of the sun. So when there’s a slight change, it’s almost magnified—such as the dead squirrel, and it made me so sad. So I just wanted to kind of combine that experience with the chaos and confusion in my own mind in an effort to try to make sense of it all. Then, there’s the turtle, too. Thanks again for giving this piece a chance!
Who is Shome Dasgupta?
Shome Dasgupta is the author of i am here And You Are Gone (Winner Of The 2010 OW Press Contest), The Seagull And The Urn (HarperCollins India), Anklet And Other Stories (Golden Antelope Press), Pretend I Am Someone You Like (Livingston Press), Mute (Tolsun Books), Spectacles (Word West Press), and a poetry collection, Iron Oxide (Assure Press). His fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction have appeared in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Hobart, New Orleans Review, Puerto Del Sol, Necessary Fiction, New World Writing, Parentheses Journal, Magma Poetry, and elsewhere. He is currently the series editor of the Wigleaf Top 50. He lives in Lafayette, LA and can be found at www.shomedome.com and @laughingyeti.
My writing and art are worth less than my boobs. That’s a fact I’m quickly learning as I progress in my attempt at a creative career. Where brown skin is involved on the part of the creator, labor can only operate in a single direction: from the brown person to the Western audience. Subconsciously and inherently, people are taught that we are not worth the mutual channeling of worth or labor. My work is not worth the money without easily consumable, sexual, objectual incentive: ergo, my boobs. And even then, getting financial support for my art from a Western audience feels like a reach.
As a brown, non-binary, AFAB person whose presentation essentially encapsulates that of the MySpace himbo femboy and many-time sexual assault survivor, the reality that my livelihood as a creative person more or less relies on how much sex I am willing to exude to a potential audience is riddled with challenges, dysmorphia, and general inner-turmoil. Worse yet is my knowledge of the fact that even if I whip out my pussy and make it exceedingly wet for any potential readership, I will still likely be consumed and exploited for free, or else for scraps (only if I’m lucky). And in this, I either risk building a loyal audience of people who are willing to take a chance on the actual labor I gear toward creative pursuits – my writing and my art (AKA the loves of my life) – or alienating them from considering me as an intellectual possibility forevermore. The irony in this is the fact that almost all of my writing and art are – often unintentionally – about autonomy, or more accurately, the utter lack of it.
I’ve studied the juxtaposition of subjecthood and objecthood at length. I spent the entire second year of my M.F.A. program working with the transformations of object to subject in media such as Detroit: Become Human, the equivalent regarding subject to object in sex and pornography texts such as Helen and Desire and The Story of O, and even in corporeal, non-corporeal, and hybrid examinations of my own life and obsession with every potential aspect of wraithood: moreover, the self as a wraith. As my M.F.A. thesis was a book exploring the complexities of the suffering self, I often joke that “I quite literally wrote the book on suffering.” Sadly, it’s a gimmick lost on all but those familiar with my work.
From experience, I know first-hand what it means to have your humanity violated, diminished, and chipped-away through multiple, never-ending instances of physical, emotional, mental, and sexual abuse, assault, and violence. This is furthered still by the constant objectifications and fetishizations that have shaped my adulthood in contrast to a childhood of being regarded as hideous, grotesque, repulsive filth unworthy of humanity or compassion by my peers. They were always tremendously better at being “normal” and “ideal” than me, despite my best [and truly grueling efforts] not to stand out among them. And they never let me forget it. Due to my familiarity with that treatment, Iife makes the most sense when I am consensually being objectified, beaten, violated, used, and abused.
In Kathy Acker, I feel understood. In Khadijah Queen, I find the person I can only dream of someday becoming. In Britney Spears, I find a level of kinship and love that has existed for almost the entirety of my life as a mid-90s millennial.
All that brings us back to the topic of this essay: the fact that in this world, my writing and art are, and will likely always be worth less than, my average-sized boobs. My boobs, my ass, my lips, my hips, my thighs, my hair, and my curves – anything that can be objectified, sexualized, fetishized, and/or used for selfish gain in white, cis, hetero, ableist, patriarchal society. Moreover, and without a doubt, if I was white, or even just held a handful of more Eurocentric features in my arsenal, this would not be the case – at least not to this extreme.
In 2021 the LGBTQ community was happy to see the first on-screen gay couple making headway in the Marvel movie titled, Eternals. Contrary to popular belief, this is not the first time a gay character has been introduced into the marvel universe. At the end of Avengers Endgame, there was a support group meeting after the snap or blip, and that included a man talking about his partner and how they’ve been dealing with the loss. They have put out statements apologizing for their lack of diversity in the past, and I think they are going to do a better job at it in the coming future.
That being said, the character, Phastos played by Brian Tyree Henry, had very little screen time compared to other characters and even less with his partner. It is still a major milestone for the LGBTQ community to have its first openly gay superhero, but I was expecting there to be more of a focus on his character. Instead, it almost felt like Marvel wanted to put all their eggs in one basket, so to speak, as far as diversity goes, and thus was unable to give enough screen time to all the new superheroes.
I regrettably have to agree with the scathing critique reviews. Eternals had one too many cast members and couldn’t put the focus on each of them the way they deserved. However, I do not agree with some statements made that Marvel “tried too hard to be inclusive.” I felt that people may not be used to the level of representation in Eternals, which clouded some of the judgment from the critiques. Still, there was a lot to unpack in a short amount of time, in regards to the storyline, which is where I think the movie fell short. I felt that if the movie were cut in two, then more attention and representation could have been made, and the plotline could have had a chance to grow as well as character arcs and storylines.
What I thought was well done about Phasto’s partner Ben was his benefit to the plotline. Similar to Dan, who was the token heterosexual love interest, Ben was Phasto’s connection to the human world, but differently from Dan, Ben changed Phasto’s mind about humans. In a flashback, we are taken to a scene in Hiroshima where an atomic bomb has destroyed the city, an invention Phasto’s technology helped build. Phastos after this no longer believes in humanity and thinks of the humans as, “Not worth saving,” but Ben changes that, and Phastos builds a family with him. This inciting action allows the team to recruit Phastos in saving the human race and Earth. I would say that is an important piece of the plot, which is why I wish I saw more of Phastos and his family. Witnessing that change in him from the love he had with Ben could’ve been an integral part of his character arc that was grossly overlooked. One could even argue that it is due to Marvel not wanting to give too much attention to his love interest. They did however include a kiss scene so Marvel gets points for that.
I thought Phastos’ character, although underdeveloped like the others, was still an interesting character that was way more than his label. Marvel made sure not to play into any stereotypes, and even with his short screen time, he battled complex moral beliefs surrounding family and was beloved by the other members of the team. Phasto’s was the team’s brain and even at times brawn. He used his amazing mind to build technology that was ultimately the reason Earth was saved, making him a pretty important character by the end.
I am impressed with the inclusivity Marvel has begun to show in their upcoming movies. My hope is that this is not the end but just the very beginning of a long line of superheroes who not only defend everyone equally but represent them as such.
Hello, mere mortals. The aliens (save one: me) have retreated to their spaceships for the day. Now is the time they have designated for me to educate the humans. Today’s lesson? How to write the worst tweets EVER and sabotage your chances of getting an agent or publishing deal for the rest of your sad, mortal life!
Very exciting stuff.
And yes, we know all of this was already in the title. Repeating stuff incessantly for innocent people on the internet is all a part of the process. You’ll see. You’ll all see.
Here’s the thing, though — the whole point of having a Twitter isn’t to post cute updates regarding your writing or even photos of your laptop/coffee setup. No, no…
The idea is to team up with other authors, so you destroy your respective publishing careers — together.
I should take a quick moment to mention that many agents are wonderful, and I deeply respect their work. However, since I know most types of publishing aren’t for me, and emerging daily as THE CHAOS on Twitter works far better for my general creative vibe than actually attempting to behave myself…
Well, my Twitter aesthetic is essentially “unhinged alien,” and I am of the conviction that you, miscellaneous mortal, should join me in furthering THE CHAOS. All the info you need to destroy your career nearly, if not exactly, as badly as I already have is directly below.
Cue The Fame and buckle up, kiddos.
DO swear plenty. If you can’t alarm a pirate or even just upset a Karen with your language choices, you’re doing it wrong. STEP IT UP. In fact, consider meshing a few cuss words together to create new, exciting ways to swear! That is our job as writers, after all.
DON’T worry about how you’ve cussed too much in one sentence. You haven’t. It’s impossible, especially considering how there’s no such thing as swearing too much! So yes — carry on, and keep up the god awful work.
DO be as chaotic as you possibly can, paying no heed to what stage of your career you’re presently in. It’s never too early or too late to sabotage your future. Come on, my dear mortals — the time is now!
DON’T hesitate, overthink it, or wonder if this is even the right time to burn it all to the ground. I promise you it is. It’s always the right time to burn everything to the ground. NO MORE EXCUSES!
DO post the worst memes you’ve ever seen in your life. Not the most offensive (please, for the love of god — not the most offensive, never the most offensive) — merely the worst memes in the “professional” sense. Sparkly, nihilistic possums are a terrific start. Either way, your memes should be so appalling that anyone who sees them ends up having to quit the internet for the rest of the day.
DON’T convince yourself you’re above memes. We promise you you’re not. No one is. Ever. If you’re here reading this article, we promise you this applies to you as well. Up your garbage rating with trash memes, or just quit the internet altogether. IF YOU’RE NOT ESTABLISHING YOURSELF AS A TWITTER-RENOWNED MEMELORD AMONG ALL THREE OF THE PEOPLE WHO SOMETIMES LIKE YOUR TWEETS, THEN WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU EVEN DOING?! Get it together, you mere m o r t a l.
DO share every single thought that enters your head. Every. Single. One. People want to know all about how your thumb fell asleep, the vivid details of the gray sweatpants you’re wearing, your in-depth analysis regarding the flavor of your vitamin gummies, and even how things are going with that ghoul who dwells strangely in the middle of your kitchen floor. Your fifteen followers REALLY want to know whether you’ve learned to sleep through the strange OoOoOoOoooo noises coming from your microwave at night. Don’t deprive them of these fundamental truths.
DON’T wonder if anything you’re sharing with the world is too ridiculous, excessive, or unnecessary. We promise you it’s not. The more you question it, the more that means you should probably just suck it up and post the damn thing. Come on, you coward.
DO keep people updated on the sorry state of your Sims. You were a bear, your Sims were there — can I make it any more obvious? You feel obsessed, haven’t you heard— how you love to destroy their woOoOoOrld?
DON’T hold back. Never worry you’re taking things too far. I promise you you’re not. This is quite literally why Twitter exists — so you can post your Sims’ totally depraved genealogy and humble brag about that little graveyard you’ve created by the hot tub in the backyard. You should be really proud of yourself, mortal. Not everyone has the moral gray area necessary to make their puppets dance for them.
DO post TONS of selfies, videos, and other fabulous stuff with absurd flair and very random captions. Don’t double post — QUADRUPLE POST instead! No settling. Do all of this on a daily basis — hourly even. Keep in mind that this manner of torturing people should come naturally to you. Forcing it won’t work. It never does. However, when in doubt, consider using multi-paragraph, super dramatic monologues from demons in video games to caption your deeply fabulous selfies.
DON’T worry about coming off too vain or like you don’t have a life (especially since you don’t). Society is crumbling. None of this stuff even matters anymore — imagining it ever really did. In fact, see about doubling or tripling up on those selfies by using one of those little frame apps that allows you to place them side-by-side so you can post double or triple the amount you would otherwise. My favorite app for being a vain piece of lovely, glorious, overstated garbage? No Crop. And if you’re an Apple user who can’t find it, that’s because Apple sucks, and all your followers already know you’re a poser who is posting from Apple instead of Android. Get with the times, mortal.
DO tweet when you’re super hyped up. Hell, gather all the things that get your adrenaline pumping and your brain moving extra squiggly. Then, consume them all — 10x over. Eventually, you’ll be ready to tweet ALL THE THINGS.
DON’T wait until you simmer down. That adrenaline is your new bff — at least for the next few hours. Serve yourself up on that internet platter free, absurd, extraterrestrial, and impenitent. Life is short and sucks anyways. You might as well have a little bit of extra fun with it.
Now, it’s time to make people question every single last thing about their existence (and yours) after experiencing your lovely, career-imploding tweets. The internet can be used for a lot of truly lovely things, but in order to obliterate your writing career with style and grace, becoming entirely unhinged on Twitter is your best option.
I believe in you — well, as much as I can believe in any mere mortal. Get out there and do your worst, my darling nightmare children.
It is 2 am. My eyes are tired and dragging themselves to shut down, but I push them to stay open for a few more minutes. I promise myself this will be the last reel I will see. Fifteen minutes later, I am still scrolling relentlessly through Bo Burnham’s “Jeff Bezos,” ‘Touch it,’ and many other songs whose video I know as soon as the first beat drops.
I think to myself, why am I even doing this? But I ignore the thought and continue to scroll. Finally, my eyes give up. They stop following my instructions and shut themselves down until it’s the following day. It’s 8 am when I wake up and first reach out to my phone. I open Twitter to get in the ‘latest’ scoops of the day.
Every day, I make a resolution – No social media today! But, a few minutes later, I am reading a post about how a cute baby sleeps with its pet dog. And now I am trapped in the same loop yet again. At this point, it is a mere reflex rather than a conscious decision.
Today, I thought to myself, why do I still go back to it every day. I don’t actively have any pleasure from scrolling aimlessly through the screen and getting nothing in return. It is just exhausting and draining to see the same things repetitively.
One recurring emotion that comes back every time is a sense of hollowness, a persistent feeling each time I am on social media. And, I despise that feeling with all my heart. I don’t want to feel the way I do. But, well, as you know already, I cannot stop myself either.
As I see it, everyone puts so much effort into doing something that seems frivolous. What is it that these people are chasing, though, I ask myself? Maybe I am inadequate in understanding.
When I see a similar dance routine, I am not interested in the steps anymore. The beats and the lyrics fall; it’s just another constant noise bursting in my ears. Instead, my eyes look at the aesthetics and see the beautiful room behind, the closet, curtains, everything put together with care. I tell myself, maybe, you need an aesthetically pleasing room to create these. I turn around and see my books scattered on my table—the not-so-Instagramable color of the room, and all I can produce is a sigh of discontent.
By then, the video is over, and the next one is up. This time I notice how beautiful the people in it are. Their features are picture-perfect, and they are the easiest to notice. I don’t know if it’s reality, but I hope it is.
My double chin pops up instinctively as I casually open my camera. I close it right away; unable to see myself this way, I plan to move on to another platform. Maybe, read something on Quora or Twitter.
As I get into it, there are so many thoughts that pop up. Some are witty, some funny. Chuckling at them and dropping a few likes, I move ahead. Someone has posted an outright offensive statement; as I scroll through the comments, I see people cheering for it. I wonder, do they know the opinion is problematic, or are they as insensitive as they seem to be. I rethink my thought process, question myself if that’s right or not. A sense of confusion kicks in. I am too tired to face an existential crisis.
I come across a powerful quote. The creator has worked on this and thought this through, I note. I reassure their effort and like it to let them know that I appreciate it. While I pass through many such posts and comment sections under my explore page, I realize I also have the same opinions. I sincerely want to counterattack statements that make no sense. But then I don’t find the use of doing so.
As this keeps happening, I think to myself, “Am I just too scared to put this up? Or, Am I not ready to face backlash for things I stand by? Am I just making myself believe that I am disinterested?” It overwhelms me. I close the app and put it down.
I keep the phone away. But, many thoughts that popped up a while ago race in my mind. I cannot switch them off. I think, am I not good-looking enough? Is it just my insecurity dismissing the efforts someone makes on social media? Is this why I hate these social media?
You are too harsh on this medium; it has given good too, I tell myself. I think of the many writing opportunities then came my way through it. I think about that one creator who always makes me laugh. I am reminded of the page that gives quick history scoops/info in a minute. I ask myself, how would that be possible if social media was not there?
I smile widely now. Shaking my head, I reassure myself. I wouldn’t have found my best friend if not for these apps.
Then again, there is a question. Do I love social media or hate them?
This feels like a lot for me to process. I distract myself. You ask me how? I open a different app!
Many Newsie, Wicked, and Hamilton lovers were heartbroken when Broadway closed its doors for the foreseeable future, but now there appears to be a light at the end of the tunnel. We lost a great deal of things due to this everlasting nightmare starting back in 2020. This pandemic affected us: going out to the movies, going out with friends, traditional college life, and Broadway. But if you’re one of the many people affected by this devastating loss of song and dance, you’ll be happy to know it’s coming back to the stage.
Dancers are relearning steps, and leads are dusting off their mics, but tensions are high as some people debate whether or not it’s time to go back to Broadway.
One of the arguments for returning to the spotlight is the countless students, actors, and crew members that Broadway left out of work. A stage manager, Emily Burstyne, from City College of New York, stated this about how she felt after graduation, “Graduating with any degree in Theatre always seemed a little daunting, so graduating with a degree in Theatre when Theatre wasn’t thriving was more worrisome than not, to say the least.”
It’s completely understandable the feelings of doubt and fear these college students felt during that time. Having to relearn everything they were taught through other methods such as zoom was not easy. For me, having a major in something smoothly transferable to online learning was still an adjustment. However, some people tried to stay on the positive side of things as Emily believed that it encouraged people to get creative. It required herself and others to redefine what theater was. She also stated that, “For me as a stage manager, it was a little different in the sense that I couldn’t really do zoom theater to the best of my abilities because most things stage managers practice aren’t performed in a zoom setting. So it did give me a chance to focus on other techniques….”
These “other techniques” Emily refers to were used by not just students but actual Broadway actors, stage managers, and directors as well. A lot of Broadway’s finest took to online performances to keep their spirits strong. These online performances gave as many employment opportunities as possible for the out of work casts and crew. As many have seen on the popular app TikTok, the cast of Hamilton did a performance of their most popular songs on zoom with mics, cameras, poor connection, and all. This was all great and a new way to experience the music, but for most, it was nothing like the real thing, and it still did not provide work for the many crew members responsible for moving props and building sets.
Now that there is hope that everything will go back to normal, people and students alike are excited about the magic only Broadway can bring and the jobs it will provide. But for the people still skeptical about its return, Broadway will be enforcing strict guidelines for its guests.
Some of these changes are as stated on the broadway.org website. All attendees must be vaccinated and able to carry proof of vaccination. Attendees 12-18 years old must also carry ID and proof of vaccination. Children under twelve years old are required to be accompanied by an adult and must carry, “Negative COVID-19 PCR test performed by a medical provider within 72 hours of the performance start time. The test results must clearly show the date and time of the test; OR a negative COVID-19 rapid antigen test taken within 6 hours of the performance start time. The test results must clearly show the date and time of the test.”
One of the shows that have kickstarted rehearsal is The Six, a Broadway musical about Henry VII’s six wives; the show was canceled just 17 months after its grand opening. Some other shows that should be reopening soon, if not already, are Waitress, Hamilton, Ain’t Too Proud, Wicked, Aladdin, and a few more. The warmth of the stage lights and the unforgettable feeling of your jukebox days are just one ticket away once more, but it wouldn’t be Broadway without a few bumps in the road.
With talks now high around the new COVID strain and whether the vaccine will protect against it, there’s more cause for concern even with the strict guidelines. Broadway has been enticing theatergoers by bringing some infamous leading actors and actresses back to the stage, but is it going to be enough? And is it the right decision?
I know I am personally excited to see some semblance of life before COVID returns to our lives. I take peace in knowing so many people are no longer looking for work and that the once empty halls are busy again. My only hope is that people stay safe and abide by the guidelines.
That being said, one thing is for sure Broadway is coming back because no matter what, the show must go on.
I encountered Margaret Atwood for the first time like many do: in a classroom. In my Gender & Bodies class, we read and dissected The Handmaid’s Tale. I found myself immersed in June’s story; indignant at the ideas centered around the patriarchy, gender discrimination, and reproduction; and wondering where I might find myself in Gilead.
The semester I took Gender & Bodies was well over a year before I came out to the world (and myself) as nonbinary, and my reading of the text has grown more complicated since. Still, this past summer I sat down with my partner to binge-watch the Hulu adaptation. Despite differences between the text and the show, I still came to the same conclusion: Atwood had written an insightful narrative about the perils of a society going to extraordinary lengths to tie biology and gender.
So, imagine my dismay this week when a tweet from Atwood made its way to my feed, captioned “Why can’t we say ‘woman’ anymore?” The article shared in the tweet, by the same title as Atwood’s caption, laments the use of inclusive language such as “person with a vagina,” and posits that “woman” is being erased from the societal lexicon.
The linked article, published by the Toronto Star and written by a columnist named Rosie DiManno, hides behind a paywall. However, for the purposes of this column and because I believe that everyone should be able to read background on things before casting a judgement, you can view screenshots of the story here
and here.
In her opinion piece, DiManno pits inclusivity against womanhood and the feminist movement, stating that removing the word “woman” from conversations about abortion, birth control, menstruation, and pregnancy reduces womanhood to “purely anatomical parts.”
Shouldn’t conversations about these issues include everyone affected by them?
I am not a woman. Language such as “person with a uterus” includes me and others like me in conversations that pertain to our bodies regardless of gender identity. The argument that society is forcing women out of these conversations is a fallacy in itself: No one is banning the word “woman.” No one seeking inclusive language is asking women to stop being proud to be women, nor are they asking women to stop advocating for reproductive rights, better health care, and equal treatment.
Rather, medical publications, human rights organizations, and others are choosing more precise – and, quite frankly, accurate – language when talking about things that have to do with biology – such as the possibility of menstruation, pregnancy, etc. – rather than gender. We just want to be included; to be considered in these discussions. And it really should not be hard to do.
There is a deep, dark sense of irony in Atwood sharing and then doubling down on the transphobic views discussed in the opinion piece, which emphasize that gender equals biology and there’s no room in language for anything else. Has she read her own work?
DiManno claims to not be discussing of gender identity – her words read, “Surely we’re well past that.” But, in that same sentence, DiManno acknowledges that the argument she makes “ends up aligning uncomfortably with reactionaries and regressives…” To that point, I’m just going to paraphrase one of my favorite fictional characters. If I’m in a park, and there’s a loose bear in it, I’m not going in that park. I think those mulling over their controversial opinions should take the same approach, and really dig deep on who you’re aligning with.
Seeing as DiManno later cites and defends J.K. Rowling in her article, it’s clear that she is perfectly happy hanging out with whichever transphobic bear happens to be in the park.
Which brings me back to Margaret Atwood. Obviously, I’m disappointed that an author I’ve loved shared transphobic content and then doubled down in support of it. Already, other commenters are taking up arms to defend Atwood from “cancel culture” and the mob effect. To those who might have stumbled onto this column with these concerns, no worries. There will be no “cancelling” of Margaret Atwood, a woman with two million Twitter followers, and more accolades than I have dollars in my bank account. This isn’t about that.
Rather, this is about the harm done to the trans community when high-profile individuals amplify transphobic messages that serve as dog whistles for anti-trans legislation, harassment, and interpersonal harm. This opinion piece could have gone in silence (had anyone ever heard of Rosie DiManno before this?), but Atwood chose to give it light. At the time of this writing, her tweet featuring the article has been interacted with over fifteen thousand times. A dog whistle blown through a megaphone.
Footnote:
You can read more details about the institutional and interpersonal dangers of passive transphobia in David Oliver’s piece for the USA Today.
*** All quotations in this article are pulled from the Oxford World’s Classics 1992 edition of Vita Nuova, translated by Mark Musa.
The first time I ever read Vita Nuova, I came away from it with two major thoughts:
1) Dante is SUCH a solid writer.
2) This dude’s Venus was TOTALLY in Leo.
Additional readings only served to confirm this suspicion. But first, let’s take it from the top.
Vita Nuova, first published in 1294, is a vastly dramatic, enamored, and yearnful poetry-prose collection Dante Alighieri wrote about Beatrice — the woman he considered the love of his life, and later made transcendent in Divine Comedy. While there are, of course, arguments to be made regarding the prominence of Dante’s Leo Venus in Divine Comedy, they pale in comparison to certain instances present in his lesser known, but still renowned, L O V E collection.
For those of you unfamiliar with the intricacies of the Zodiac, a person whose Venus is in Leo generally has a fiery, intense, and extremely overdramatic approach to romance. Phenomenally, and when it comes to Dante, this description of Venus in Leo is an understatement.
Listen — the levels of chaotic bisexual energy radiating off this man are already absurd. Throw in a Leo Venus, and it’s over for us all. Relatedly, someone PLEASE find Dante’s spirit some bisexual lighting or something. Virgil knows he needs it.
Here — let me put my money where my mouth is. Below are five instances in Vita Nuova where there is no denying that Dante’s Venus in Leo (with very necessary modern-day translations that I, for some reason, felt deeply compelled to write).
And no, I won’t be checking Dante’s birth chart for confirmation. I’m a Leo sun and Leo rising, plus my Venus is in Virgo AND in my first house. Stated otherwise, I’m fabulous and cannot stand to be wrong.
#1. “She appeared dressed in the most noble of colours, a subdued and decorous crimson, girded and adorned in a style suitable to her years. At that moment, and what I say is true, the vital spirit, the one that dwells in the most secret chamber of the heart, began to tremble so violently that even the least pulses of my body were strangely affected; and trembling, it spoke these words: ‘Here is a god stronger than I, who shall come to rule over me.’”
Modern-day translation: Dante finds Beatrice very, VERY hot. The hotness levels are so high that the mere visual of her in that super fabulous dress will likely be the death of him.
Dante finds Beatrice so hot, in fact, that he decides to worship her from afar. Sometimes, when he’s alone, he fantasizes about what it might be like to impress her with the vast range of Pokémon he has listed in his Pokédex, or how hard he goes with Kirby anytime he plays Super Smash Bros. Melee.
In other words, Beatrice is to Dante what Britney Spears is to me.
#2. “While walking down a street, she turned her eyes to where I was standing faint-hearted and, with that indescribable graciousness that today is rewarded in the eternal life, she greeted me so miraculously that I felt I was experiencing the very summit of bliss. It was precisely the ninth hour of that day (three o’clock in the afternoon), when her sweet greeting reached me. And since that was the first time her words had entered my ears, I was so overcome with ecstasy that I departed from everyone as if intoxicated.”
Modern-day translation: Beatrice says hello to some random poetry dude who, unbeknownst to her, has a MASSIVE crush on her. Fortunately for her, random poetry dude is the type of guy who writes sad screamo lyrics in his favorite Kirby notebook rather than harassing strangers he wants to sleep with on Twitter.
Anyhow, said dude absolutely FLIPS upon being acknowledged by Total Hot Girl Beatrice, mentally plans their entire wedding, and jots down potential names for their future children in the back of his journal…
Fine, fine, fine. I’ll admit it:
Maybe, just maybe, Dante had some major Cancer placements, too.
#3. “After that vision my natural spirit began to slacken in its working for I had become wholly absorbed in the thought of this most gracious lady. It was but a short time before I became so weak and so frail that many of my friends were concerned about my appearance; others, fully of envy, were striving to learn about me that which above all I wished to keep secret. Then I, becoming aware of the maliciousness of their questions, by Love’s will, which commanded me according to the counsel of reason, would answer by saying that it was Love that had governed me so. I said that it was Love because on my face so many of his signs were clearly marked that they were impossible to conceal. And when people would ask, ‘For whom has Love so undone you?’ I, smiling, would look at them and say nothing.”
Modern-day translation: All Dante does is watch Nicholas Sparks movies, drink Soylent, and sob over how in love he is. In other words, the dude is lovesick, and refuses to hang out with his bros while he broods and writes sappy sonnets for a woman who’ll probably never read them.
Dante’s friends aren’t even surprised when he doesn’t show up for their annual Super Smash Bros. Melee tournament. He’s so in love with some ~mysterious person~ that he pushes Kirby to the wayside. His bros even have him on record saying, “The world’s second most chaotic fluffball will simply have to wait!”
Unfortunately, and as Dante will soon discover for himself, Kirby waits for no one.
#4. “As he said these words, his image faded in my mind, and suddenly Love became so great a part of me that, as if transformed in my appearance, I rode on that day very pensive and accompanied by many sighs.”
Modern-day translation: Total Hot Girl Beatrice is SUCH a babe that Dante has no choice but to befriend Love. Yes, you heard that correctly: Dante befriends Love.
Love and Dante have powerful conversations indicative of potential poly bisexual energy. Later, when Love peaces out for the day, Dante flips his hair and sighs, so everyone knows he’s pensive, broody, and troubled. Add him on Twitter: @AngstLordDante666. You’ll know you found the right account when the pinned tweet reads “love hurts </3,” and below it is a bunch of @FrogAndToadBot retweets.
And yes, that is Kirby in his profile picture.
#5. “Whenever and wherever she appeared, in anticipation of her marvellous greeting, I held no man my enemy, and there burned within me a flame that consumed all past offences; and during this time if anyone had asked me about anything, my answer, with face free of all pride, could only have been ‘Love’. And when she was about to greet me, one of Love’s spirits, annihilating all the spirits of the senses, would drive out the feeble spirits of sight, saying to them, ‘Go and pay homage to your mistress’; and he would take their place. And whoever might have wished to know what Love is, could have done so by looking at my trembling eyes. And when this most gracious one’s salutation greeted me, Love was no medium capable of my unbearable bliss, but rather, as if possessed with an excess of sweetness, he became such that my body, which was completely under his rule, often moved like a heavy inanimate object. Now it is most evident that in her salutation lay my blessed happiness, which many times exceeded and overflowed my brim.”
Modern-day translation: This is the groundwork that eventually led to Dante writing Divine Comedy. Completed only a year before his death, his epic and most famous poem serves to eternalize the late Beatrice. However, we’re not at that point in Dante’s life just yet. Here, he’s still young, foolish, and drinking White Claw out of a coffee mug because he believes it’s sophisticated.
Here’s the thing —
Dante is not simply infatuated. He’s an utterly fabulous poet whose Venus is quite clearly in Leo. You know as well as I do that it’s undeniable. In fact, that’s why Dante does stuff like pound energy drinks, write emo love poems, squeal anytime Beatrice likes one of his memes on the ‘gram, and pray he’ll someday be worthy of sliding into her DMs — because he’s a Kirby-loving poet whose Venus is in Leo.
There is absolutely no other explanation.
Sometimes — with his Venus in Leo and what not — Dante finds himself so lost in love that he has no choice but to ask himself,
What would Kirby do?
Sadly, he never finds any answers. That starship has long since sailed.
I vividly remember the day I managed to bring you home. Naturally, I was intrigued by you. But, I was skeptical of borrowing you from the school library. The library had so many versions of you that had been passed through hundreds of hearts over the years. But, I didn’t want someone else’s version of you. I didn’t want to have rusty pages with yellow undertones. The thought of me sharing my experience with others was not something that made me happy. I wanted a new one, solely mine. I felt this was necessary for us to have a relationship, just you and me.
Then finally, I saved up enough and placed an order. The saving process was easy, yet hard. I used to get an allowance for different purposes, mostly for stationary purchases, sometimes for ice creams outside the school. I saved some of this money, and when it was enough, the next moment, the order was placed.
Every 10 minutes, I would check my phone and track where you’ve reached. I just couldn’t wait. Then, one night, you arrived. You came with the amazon delivery agent, in a greyish cover. The first thing I did was open you and stared at your cover. The smile of Anne on the cover made me so sad. I knew that the smile and the bright reds and blacks on the cover would soon fade into the pale emotions of grief. This wasn’t a surprise to me. I knew I was on a journey whose climax I already knew. After seeing your cover, I could not go ahead. I pushed you aside to the nightstand because there was a plan.
A well-thought-out one. For me to read you, there should be complete silence so that I can just get to know you more and more. You might be wondering, how do I know so much before wandering through your pages? Because I chose you. In my entire life, you were the first choice I was allowed to make. Now, I’m a little proud that my first choice was you, The diary of a Young Girl.
Yes, I owe my reading love to Anne Frank, just like so many of us out there.
But, what I didn’t know was, I had signed up for an overwhelming emotional ride for the next few nights.
Some days I would smile and fantasize about the beauty of relationships. The way Anne went on exploring her teenage and her sexual being. The stigma around sexuality and the punch down everyone received when they chose to explore themselves as a sexual being made me question if I chose to do something remotely like that.
And, some days, I would cry myself to sleep. The relationship of Anne with her mom always comforted me. The days when she thought her mom did not love enough, I had never felt so touched by emotion before. I was in a love-hate relationship with my mother those years. I was always guilt-driven that I am condemning a relationship, that everyone around me felt divine. But, you helped me come out of that guilt. You helped me understand it’s just a phase. But what I am sad about is, Anne could never come out of that phase; she could never reconcile with her mom.
While I look back now, the teenage years were a time of loneliness, where I couldn’t find myself. Even if I could, I simply couldn’t accept myself for what I was. I did not match the ideal expectations of a good girl. Why am I not passing the moral parameters of others? What makes me, if not what these people tell me? When these questions couldn’t be put to rest, Anne stepped in, shared her story through you, with me, and shouted in my ears, ‘That’s who you are, and you’re not alone!”
But, unfortunately, I have never managed to go back to you again, until recently, I opened you to put this letter together. The memories I have shared with you in your diary have often been too much for me to handle. It was not easy for me to accept myself without layers of filters. The thought of me being myself, and seeing them again, was the scariest for me to do.
Now, when I went back. I opened you again, some tears overflowed. I couldn’t stop seeing me in you while I went through the hardest times. But, this time, the cry was not of pity but of joy. The joy that I’ve moved on and evolved. The thought that I’ve worked hard and come up to where I am today gives me calm. More than the calmness, I’m proud. Proud of myself that I pushed through it all. Today, I don’t look down upon it but embrace it, for, without that day, I would not have been here whatsoever.
Anne, I would just like to thank you for two things in my life. Thank you for being my friend in the times when I was at my lowest. You taught me that words could make the best of friends. From you, I have made many friends on my way here, fictional and real. And, thank you for letting your voice reach me. The power of your words has helped me weave waves of happiness and pushed me to believe.
It is wonderful that some of the best days of my life haven’t happened yet.
