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— How to Write an Autobiographical Novel - Alexander Chee
John knocks on the door.
“Girl!” he says through the door.
“Aren’t you ready yet?” He is already finished, dressed in a sweater and black miniskirt, his black banged wig tied up with a pink bow.
He has highlighted his cheekbones with rouge, which I forgo.
He is wearing high heels; I have on combat boots.
I decided to wear sensible shoes, but John wears fuck-me pumps, the heels three inches high.
This is my first time.
It is Halloween tonight in the Castro and we are both trying to pass, to be “real,” only we are imitating very different women.
==What kind of girl am I?
With the wig in place, I understand that it is possible I am not just in drag as a girl, but as a white girl.
Or as someone trying to pass as a white girl.
“Come in!” I yell back.
John appears over my shoulder in the mirror, a cheerleader gone wrong, the girl who sits on the back of the rebel’s motorcycle.
His brows rise all the way up.
“Jesus Mother of God,” he says.
“Girl, you’re beautiful.
I don’t believe it.” “Believe it,” I say, looking into his eyes.
I tilt my head back and carefully toss my hair over my right shoulder in the way I have seen my younger sister do.
I realize I know one more thing about her than I did before—what it feels like to do this and why you would.
It’s like your own little thunderclap.== “Scared of you,” John says.
“You’re flawless.” “So are you,” I say.
==“Where’s Fred?” Fred is my newest boyfriend, and I have been unsure if I should do this with him, but here we are.
“Are you okay?” Fred asks, as if something has gone wrong in the bathroom.
“Oh, my God, you are beautiful.” He steps into the doorway, dazed.
He still looks like himself, a skinny white boy with big ears and long eyelashes, his dark hair all of an inch long.
He hasn’t gotten dressed yet.
He is really spellbound, though, in a way he hasn’t been before this.
I have never had this effect on a man, never transfixed him so thoroughly, and I wonder what I might be able to make him do now that I could not before.
“Honey,” he says, his voice full of wonder.
He walks closer, slowly, his head hung, looking up at me.
I feel my smile rise from somewhere old in me, maybe older than me; I know this scene, I have seen this scene a thousand times and never thought I would be in it.
This is the scene where the beautiful girl receives her man’s adoration, and I am that girl.
In this moment, the confusion of my whole life has receded.
No one will ask me if I am white or Asian.
No one will ask me if I am a man or a woman.
No one will ask me why I love men.
For a moment, I want Fred to stay a man all night.
There is nothing brave in this: any man and woman can walk together, in love and unharassed in this country, in this world—and for a moment, I just want to be his overly made-up girlfriend all night.
I want him to be my quiet, strong man.
I want to hold his hand all night and have it be only that; not political, not dangerous, just that.
I want the ancient reassurances legislated for by centuries by mobs.
He puts his arms around me and I tip my head back.
“Wow,” he says.
“Even up close.” “Ever kissed a girl?” I ask.
“No,” he says, and laughs.
“Now’s your chance,” I say, and he leans in, kissing me slowly through his smile.==