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Lucy Sante: "I Heard Her Call My Name"

 When I notice my thinning hair, I'm sort of startled. I imagine that a different "hairdryer technique" might erase the problem. I look at photos from my thirties--and there seems to be a watershed moment, a moment when I switch from "normal" hair to middle-aged hair. I didn't sign on for this.


Lucy Sante grew up as "Luc." She suspected that she was really female. She felt uncomfortable during sex; she was dismayed when, in her thirties, her waist thickened from a size 29 to a 34 ("sometimes 36"). Once, she moved into an apartment where a red floral blouse had been discarded. She wore it a bit, in secret, and it became the main topic of her fantasies (possibly for years and years).

During COVID, in her sixties, Lucy began experimenting with FaceApp. She could program the app to show her an image of her face with any "gender wish" she had an interest in. This was an earthshaking moment; she thought, I'm not Luc. I'm Lucy. And she began a transition; she says it was like "having your egg crack," emerging from your egg.

A great memoir needs to show its subject at war with itself; in a way, the story doesn't matter. Celebrity memoirs--with potentially rich anecdotes--often fail. They fail because the celebrity can't portray herself as a character; she can't dig deep enough to locate the battles within her own heart. Lucy Sante has written a great memoir. She shines light on so many corners of this story. It's like she can't help but be riveting.

Sante makes mistakes. She buys an expensive wig because it comes with an assurance: "real human hair." This is a lie. Discovering that she must walk from the west end of Canal Street to the east end on a hot summer day (a day that won't allow a taxi option, because, duh, we're talking about Canal Street), Sante almost collapses within her poorly chosen dress. Also, Sante imagines that she might save her marriage through couples therapy, but she sabotages the experience, because she cannot stop sobbing through ten hours of counsel. (By contrast, her wife is utterly poised.) Sante imagines drafting a dramatic email to the entire student population at the school where she teaches, Bard. I have transitioned. A wise colleague says: "It's Bard. No student here will give a shit. No student will actually read your email."

There is something missing from this book. Sante alludes to her son, but tells us almost nothing about that relationship. I imagine this grew out of a wish to protect her son--but some kind of explanation is required. I can't believe the editor made this miscalculation. Also, the dissolution of the marriage is somewhat vague. Another set of editorial eyes would have been helpful.

Still: What a showstopper. This book deserves its acclaim.
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