Skip to main content

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.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more