A “Real” Author: How Meeting Adam Silvera, Bill Konigsberg, and Angie Thomas Helped Me Find My Voice
by Zack Smedley
To me, one of the central themes of Pride month is the idea that we all lift each other up…empowering each others’ voices so we can all accept ourselves for who we are. That said, I wanted to share stories of a few authors who have lifted me up—and, in doing so, helped me find my voice throughout my road to publication.
Adam Silvera
The month is September 2017. I’m standing in a library in Washington D.C., with about thirty other young adults my age. Sitting up front, signing books at a table, is an author I’ve recently discovered: Adam Silvera. A few months prior, I—fresh out of college—began querying agents with my new YA LGBT project. Amid my search for comp titles, I stumbled on Adam’s novel History Is All You Left Me, which I read in one sitting.
Now, here I am at a signing of his. (I almost flaked…I figured I’d meet Adam, and he’d basically just sign my book and say hi. Okay, neat…time to do the 50-mile trip back home.) But, I ultimately figure it’s a good idea to see what a signing is like, since my summer querying has—astoundingly—just led to me signing with an agent.
I get up front, Adam says hi, and I spout off a few things about how I loved HISTORY, and am currently on sub with publishers, blah blah. I figure he’ll just say “neat” and move on. Instead, he stops what he’s doing and asks me what my book is about. I screw it up and dodge the question out of sheer embarrassment (I’m an awkward bean), so I just tell him this: “I wrote what is probably the loudest bi book out there.” I then tell him how Angie Thomas’s The Hate U Give—which I read during my revisions phase—inspired me to get off my butt and press forward with this loud, unapologetic story of my own.
At this point, Adam gives me a big high-five and says, “YES! Go, Nathan!” Then he signs my copy of They Both Die At The End: “Zack! Best of luck with the YA! More Bi Books (And movies!)”
Driving home that night, I kick myself for almost missing out on such a wonderful interaction. I mean…this author…this REAL AUTHOR…took the time to encourage me! And cheer me on! What a guy, right??
And right then, I made a little promise to myself: If I ever become a real author, I’m going to act like THAT.
Bill Konigsberg
The month is November 2018, and I’m so stressed that I haven’t slept well for weeks. The good news here—the wonderful news—is that in the past year, my agent and I secured a publishing deal for my little project, Deposing Nathan, which is about six months out from hitting shelves. Yet, everything feels like it’s imploding. Task after task is coming up as the book enters production, and while my agent and pub team are wonderful, they can only answer so many questions. I’ve never done this before.
Amid all this, I’ve begun contacting other YA LGBT authors to ask if they’d like to maybe read a copy of my book. Amid the handful of authors kind enough to say ‘yes’ is Bill Konigsberg. This is a bit surreal for me…Bill’s Openly/Honestly duology is among some of the first (not to mention best) YA LGBT books I ever read.
In the ensuing weeks, not only does Bill read my book, but he sends me praise for it, and even offers feedback. What’s more, he encourages me to send him any questions I have about the hectic process of being a first-time author.
Throughout the next year, I hit several major publishing road bumps—the kind that send me into a full-blown panic. Not only does Bill help by answering questions that I send him, but his answers are loaded with advice. He sets aside time for me. More than once.
And as I revel in this unending support from him, I get that same feeling as when I was driving home from Adam Silvera’s event: I can’t believe this author—this REAL author—is giving me the time of day. ME!
Yeah, sure, I have a publishing deal in place, but I’m HARDLY in the same circle as Bill or Adam. They’re both well-known, multi-book, really real authors. Meanwhile, I’m the lowest you can possibly get while still technically being on the same pole: on my way to being published, but with no blurbs, no reviews, no readership, no anything. A random guy with a whopping 35 followers on Twitter. A colossal nobody.
But Bill set aside time. And every time he did so, it sent me back to that same thought I had when I met Adam: If I ever become a real author, I’m going to act like THAT.
Angie Thomas
The month is June 2019, and I’m genuinely about to pass out. That’s not a euphemism—I have terrible crowd anxiety, and I’m currently in a building with twenty thousand other people. It’s ALA 2019, and I’m at my first publishing conference ever.
It’s been one month since Deposing Nathan hit bookshelves, and while it’s been cool, it’s mostly been…uneventful? Nothing in my life has changed, other than I’ve gotten snapchats of friends and family posing with copies of my book. I’m a published author now, but I’m not a real author like the folks here. Hell, I’ll be grateful if anyone even comes to my signing tomorrow.
But right now, I’m in the longest line at ALA, which is for none other than Angie Thomas. I’m holding my copy of The Hate U Give, the one that inspired me to press forward in trying to get Deposing Nathan published. I gradually make my way up front, counting down the number of people left…and, finally, I’m up.
I approach the throne.
“Hi!” says ANGIE FRICKIN THOMAS.
I start word-vomiting something like this: “Your book inspired me to try to get my book published, and I somehow did it, and tomorrow afternoon, I’ll be doing a signing at this same table. So thank you times a million.”
Her publicist captures photos of the moment I say all this.
Angie says, “Are you SERIOUS? Congratulations!”
Part of me is so reluctant to say anything—it feels like I’m making it about me, like, “hey great book; anyway, GUESS WHAT I DID.” So I quickly add, “I swear I’m not trying to sell it to you or anything.”
“Why not?” Angie says, still smiling, then cups her hands around her mouth and turns to the line behind me. “HEY EVERYONE! HE’S AN AUTHOR AND YOU SHOULD ALL BUY HIS BOOK!”
The folks closest to the front start a round of applause, and my tiny, overwhelmed self starts tearing up. Angie says, “oh, don’t cry!” and congratulates me again. I—in total shock at this point—stutter a million “thank yous”, get my phone back, and shuffle away to make room for the next person. As I do, the folks in line start chatting me up: “What’s your book about? Tell us about it!”
I’d love to say I start working the crowd, but honestly, I’m in total shock at this point and don’t get much out. I mention my signing tomorrow, and a few folks say they’ll be there. Then I excuse myself, find the nearest bathroom, and sob my fucking eyes out.
Here’s the thing: for all those years, I’d been saying to myself, “when I’m a real author…” Even being published hadn’t convinced me that I was. It was hearing Angie Thomas—Angie Thomas—say that I was. It turned around in my head again and again, Hey everyone! He’s an author!
He’s an author!
He’s an author!
All this time, all these years, and this was it. This was the moment I went from “guy who wrote a word doc that someone printed out and bound in carboard” to “guy who belongs here.”
As if that wasn’t overwhelmingly kind enough, when I get back to my car, I find that Angie posted & replied to my tweet about our experience:
BUY HIS BOOK! Haha! So great to meet you https://t.co/7ABw41q0he
— Angie Thomas (@angiecthomas) June 22, 2019
I mean, Jesus Christ. All these people—Adam, Bill, Angie, and so many others—and all I wanted to say was, WHY ARE YOU HELPING ME?
But instead, I turned all those warm feelings and self-promises from over the years and Angie’s words—HE’S AN AUTHOR—into a new little personal creed: You’re an author. So act like one. So act like THEM.
So, I did.
When I sat down the next day for my first ever signing, not only were there people there…it was a whole line. And I tried to treat everyone in it like Adam and Angie treated me. When aspiring authors asked me for a signature, I wrote that I couldn’t wait to read their book someday. When I got blurb requests or DM’s in the ensuing months, I thought about how Bill set aside time to respond to me. And then I went to set aside time for others.
Holding the elevator for each other…that’s what it’s about, I think. That’s what Pride month is about, and that’s what kindness and support and love are all about. Cliched though it is, kindness creates more kindness. Because these authors have forever inspired me to embody that behavior—they taught me how to support and validate others by showing me what it feels like to be supported and validated. When someone shows you that it’s okay to be you, I believe the next step is to pass that on to others. So that’s what I’ve tried to do.
And to the multitude of folks who have since thanked me for being kind, or for taking the time to respond to you, I appreciate it. But it’s not me you should be thanking. Thank people like Adam, Bill, and Angie. I know I’ll spend the rest of my days doing so.
—
Zack Smedley was born in 1995, in an endearing Southern Maryland county almost no one has heard of. He earned a degree in Chemical Engineering from UMBC in 2017, and he currently works within the field.
As a member of the LGBT community, his goal is to give a voice to marginalized young adults through gritty, morally complex narratives. He spends his free time building furniture, baking, modifying electronic systems, and managing his obsession with Aaron Sorkin. You can find him on twitter at @zack_smedley.
How (Not) to Meet Your Heroes
by Jasper Sanchez
I’m not the kind of guy you want to bring as a plus one to a book signing. Trust me on this. I spent the entire time I was in waiting to see Alison Bechdel working up the courage to say something eloquent about how her portrayal of butch identity in Fun Home meant so much to me as a baby queer trying to puzzle out the intricacies of my own sexuality and gender identities only to get to the front of the line, freeze, and stutter, simply, “Thanks.” Or, there was the time I saw Michael Chabon, where I started prepping a heartfelt soliloquy on how I’d never seen such casual representations of queerness as I’d seen in his books, and instead flummoxed him by handing over my battered copy of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay—which had already been signed by my grandfather. And then there’s the night I met Casey McQuiston.
I wasn’t anyone’s plus one, for once. All my Seattle friends were either working or inexplicably uninterested in attending a reading by the bestselling author of the summer blockbuster hit Red, White & Royal Blue, which I hadn’t shut up about in months. But that was fine with me. I was having the best week of my life—more on that later—and I wasn’t going to let my pesky anxiety disorder get in the way.
The day started off with a pleasant surprise. When I logged onto Twitter, I saw that Courtney Gould, my agent sibling and author of the 2021 queer paranormal debut of your dreams The Dead and the Dark—go add it on Goodreads, I’ll wait—had tweeted about seeing Casey McQuiston that night. I confirmed it was the same reading and replied with an embarrassing number of exclamation points. We made tentative plans to meet up that night, and I swore to myself I was going to be chill.
I was over two hours early. The epitome of chill, I know. I’d been burned before by showing up to signings at Elliott Bay too late to get into the reading room, but even I knew two hours was overkill. So I camped out in the coffee shop with my stereotypical gay iced coffee and tried to get in some words for NaNoWriMo. Except the coffee was just making me more anxious, and the lack of a concrete plan with Courtney left me wondering how early was too early to message her. How soon was too soon to say, “heyyy so I’m already here because I’m compulsively early to everything,” without admitting just how unfashionably early I meant?
I overshot it, actually. By the time I sent the message, Courtney and her friends were already in the line I hadn’t seen forming. At the front of the line, to be exact, because c’mon. Casey freakin’ McQuiston. Had I seriously thought I was going to be the only one frothing with queer bookish joy?
Of course, I had another reason, too.
I first exchanged emails with Courtney two months prior, when I received my offer of representation from the fabulous superhero-of-an-agent Claire Friedman. We hadn’t kept in touch, but she congratulated me when I accepted Claire’s offer, and I congratulated her when her deal was announced. But, despite the glacial pace of publishing, a lot had happened in those two months.
After introductions were made, Courtney asked how my revisions were going. I demurred, saying we were a little bit past that. Eyes wide, she asked if that meant my manuscript was out on submission. At which point I admitted I’d accepted an offer on The (Un)Popular Vote from Katherine Tegen Books three days ago.
Here’s what you need to know about The (Un)Popular Vote: It’s a YA gay political romance with a trans protagonist, and when I first heard about RWRB in early 2019, before I’d read it or started querying, my stomach flopped. Because how many gay political romances does the market really need? Once I read RWRB, I realized I didn’t care. Because RWRB was this breathtaking, heartbreaking kind of funny-beautiful-vital and absolutely perfect. It wasn’t too similar to my book, as I’d initially feared, but it was close enough that I broke an ironclad pitching rule. Despite its bestseller status, I used RWRB as a comp title. My agent kept it as a comp title when we went on sub, too. So what you really need to know here is this: While my book and Casey’s don’t occupy precisely the same space in the market, RWRB’s success made me believe there might be a place for my a-little-too-sincere-to-be-satire queer Americana book, too.
Telling a group of writers that you just got a book deal is the best kind of overwhelming. I mean, everything about getting the deal and telling your friends is overwhelming. But so far my conversations had happened on the phone, online, or in the break room at work. I hadn’t had a chance to celebrate yet. Then there I was, in a bookstore, waiting for a reading, surrounded by strangers congratulating me for this thing hadn’t yet—still hasn’t—sunk in. That, in a year and a half, my book could be in that very bookstore. I could be the one gearing up for a reading. I could take this queer bookish joy blooming in the air and bottle up a bit to keep just for myself.
It’s hard to stay anxious when you can’t stop smiling.
It was easy. Easy to catch up with Courtney on how her revisions were going, easy to chat with Lily Meade about when it’s acceptable to put Star Trek references in your book (answer: always), easy to settle into the front row of the basement reading room and bond with strangers over books and politics and assorted geekery.
It was easy, and Casey McQuiston was tipsy on bookstore wine. She was just as witty in person as you’d expect from her writing. She read the Cake Scene and answered questions on everything from her dream fancasts to her taste in fanfiction. I didn’t have to worry if I was laughing too loud or smiling too much because everyone else was too. It was easy to get out of my head and just be there, in that room, in that moment.
The only downside to sitting in the front row at a reading is that you end up at the back of the line for the signing. Except it’s not much of a downside when you’re emotionally tipsy from the reading and gushing about it with other fans. We had plenty to talk about between Casey, our lives, our writing—
And then my anxiety flooded back, along with memories of those awkward encounters with Alison Bechdel and Michael Chabon and a few others I’m too embarrassed to recount, because what the hell was I going to say to Casey I-used-her-as-a-comp-title McQuiston? Like, most importantly, should I tell her I used her as a comp title? For my book? That just sold? Three days ago???
The consensus was “yes,” “of course you should, Jasper,” “why wouldn’t you?”
It was a legitimate question. Why wouldn’t I? Why did I have a history of making a fool of myself in front of queer writers? Anxiety was the obvious answer; I have the diagnosis to prove it and everything. I can even admit that it’s intimidating to speak to creators whose work means something to me. I’ve never been very good at being vulnerable. It’s hard enough being vulnerable alone with a book; it’s another thing entirely to admit to that book’s author how it felt like they could see those parts of me I don’t let anyone else see. But I’ve always had another reason. I’ve wanted to be an author since I learned the word. I wanted to be the kind of writer whose books could make you feel something in spite of yourself. So, when I found myself face-to-face with an author whose books broke me open, how was I supposed to say I wanted to learn how to do that, too? As intimate as it felt to admit how much a book taught me about myself, it always seemed more dangerous to confess how much it taught me about the kind of writer I wanted to be.
Because maybe I could have representation. Maybe I could see patchwork pieces of my identity on the page. But my name on the cover? My queer, trans books on the shelves, with my heart inked on every page? That was too much to ask. Too much to hope for, let alone explain in a fifteen-second meet-and-greet with an author.
But everything about that November night already felt impossible. What did I have to lose?
By the time I reached the front of the line, I was shaking. Literally. Nerves and adrenaline and how many people I was even allowed to tell about the deal before it was announced, anyway? I walked up to Casey’s table and worked up a smile. I handed over my too-crisp paperback, hoping it wasn’t totally obvious I’d only bought it for the signing since I read it as an ebook. The seconds ticked by—the ones I couldn’t fill with Alison Bechdel, where Michael Chabon made a funny face at my grandfather’s signature—and I thought about the kind of writer I wanted to be.
I asked, “Can you keep a secret?” Casey said yes. And I told her about the deal. I could barely get to the point—that I’d used RWRB as a comp, that she’d been a part of my publishing journey, that I was thankful. I was still shaking and probably stuttering and keenly aware of the bookstore staff hurrying me along. Honestly? I don’t remember what she said. It’s as blurry as the live photos on my phone. But I remember the feeling.
That maybe I could have this. Maybe there was space in the bookstore for more than one gay political romance. Maybe I could make friends with other queer authors. Maybe it was possible to carve a place for myself in the queer book community, as both a reader and an author.
—
Jasper Sanchez is a queer transmasculine author who writes glittery gay stories about characters who care a little too much.
Born and raised among idyllic California wine country vistas, he developed a fierce love-hate relationship with his suburban small town and an enduring passion for chiles rellenos. He earned his MA in Cinema and Media Studies from UCLA and his BA in Cultural Anthropology from the University of Pennsylvania. While neither degree prepared him for the hellscape of late capitalism, they did teach him about the power of stories, the worlds they build, and their potential to effect change in the real world.
He lives in Seattle, WA, with his cat, who might be more opinionated than he is. When he’s not writing, he can be found wandering museums, scouring the city for the best espresso, and annotating lists of his favorite Star Trek episodes.
Jasper is represented by Claire Friedman at InkWell Management. His short fiction has appeared in Mithila Review, Foglifter, and Plenitude. The (Un)Popular Vote (HarperCollins/Tegen 2021) is his debut novel.
Kick, Push, Coast, Indeed
by Cam Montgomery
I like to joke about the ways in which the stories I write, or other author faves write, are written for me. Literally, about me.
This past year I was given the opportunity to really put that to the test. Anthology Queen, Saundra Mitchell, approached me about writing a contemporary story for her next antho, OUT NOW: QUEER WE GO AGAIN. It’s a collection of contemporary queer stories written by queer authors.
Needless to say, I was mad stoked to be asked. We’re talking, full-body sweats, jumping-around, text-your-best-friend stoked.
Surprisingly, I ended up needing two deadline extensions because I didn’t know how to get the story out. I tried a few different story ideas but, like mangey cats, none of them wanted to be told or controlled. (Sorry to those stories and cats.)
I tried different points of view, different tenses and ended up settling on the least likely of them to make my life easier.
I ended up telling a story about a non-binary skater who struggles with their identity and, nearly as important, an all-consuming crush on the prettiest girl whom they have only corresponded with through soft, questioning glances from a distance.
The day before I banged this story out, start to finish, in one sitting, I had a personal break-through with my older brother.
My brother is five years my senior. He got married and joined the military when I was thirteen. He left as this skateboarding rap star in training. He came back someone I had to relearn. He’s 36 now and I, 31.
There’s been sometime between 13-year-old Candygirl, as she was once known, and 31-year-old Cam. And in those long but entirely too swift years, Candygirl became Candy became cANdiE became Candice became Cam. Forever evolving, like a gay Pokémon. And my older brother missed all of it, through no fault of his own, nor mine.
I also learned who I was in those eighteen years.
Things like gender assigned at birth and the gender binary and queer as a sexual orientation versus bisexual versus pansexual. I was introduced to a lot of things while he was away building and raising a family to which I am very attached. My best friend Freddy is his six-year-old daughter. I’m happy for my brother. Proud of him. The dude is a freaking rocket scientist. Seriously. A literal rocket scientist.
But in the military, the Marines in particular, there’s not a whole lot of LGBTQ+ education. There’s not a whole lot of respect for queer people. The whole “don’t ask, don’t tell” thing comes to mind.
So my brother became who he is, a really good guy, but ignorant to a lot of progressive, liberal ways of thinking. It’s a thing I’d like to think I remedied when I came to Washington 3 years ago and moved in with him and his family.
I’m loud about my beliefs and it’s a lot for anyone to witness, I know. But the day I sat down to write my OUT NOW story, “Kick. Push. Coast.” I had a conversation with my sister-in-law about an enby I was crushing on hard, and my brother sat down with us at his kitchen table and jumped in on the conversation. He asked to see a photo of her and I corrected him. He made the change without question, glanced at me every time he used “they” and “them,” I assume, to make sure he was using them correctly. And told me he thought we’d make a cool couple because we both had that “angry at the government” aesthetic. And it’s true. They’re very angry at the government. I am, too. Angry Queer Power Couple for sure.
But it was that five-minute conversation that bolstered me to sit down and write a story that, at the time, I didn’t realize, had become about me. It was like pulling teeth at first. I had maybe a paragraph or two of the story but when I started writing, it flowed. I wrote a second-point-of-view story about a skateboarder trying to land a complicated trick. While also trying not to stare at this girl in a sundress that they think runs the entire world. And all of that gets wrapped up in the sliding, winding, twisting curve that is gender identity and sexual orientation.
When I finished the story, I sent it off to Saundra immediately. They came back with… a lot of nice words.
Never in my life have I experienced such joy in the creation of a story. In the completion of a story. And it still shocks me that it was simultaneously the most difficult and the smoothest piece I’ve ever written.
The story is nestled within a collection of true heavy hitters, talent that leaps off the page and pulls no punches as it settles in the hearts and hands of readers. I sincerely hope others pick up this collection. If I’ve learned anything from writing, it’s that we as authors are made vulnerable for a time an that’s just part of the job description. And it extends further back than just the writing process. It’s the part that comes before that, too.
The life part. The living and the planning and how much of that does or does not go into whatever thing you’re drafting at the time.
So much of me is in that short story. More of me is in those 1500 words than any 80k word novel I’ve ever written.
When we got our author ARCs for the anthology, I immediately drove one of my two allotted copies over to my brother’s house. He wasn’t home when I got there but my sister-in-law was. She asked me if I wanted to stay. To wait for him. Said he’d be home in an hour and I think she knew I was gonna turn tail and run because she offered to make me dinner if I was willing to wait for a half hour while she got things together.
I absolutely do not ever pass up my sissy’s cooking. It’s a rule I’ve set for myself.
But I left. Left his copy right there on their bookshelf, got in my car and drove home to my apartment, wherein, ya girl spent three hours in turmoil, wondering if I should text my SiL and ask her to hide the book so I could come pick it back up. She would have done it for me, too.
Turns out I didn’t have much to worry about. Got a text from him that night: “Omg… love u… this is u, I told u. your industry. proud of u, sis…”
Kick, push, coast, indeed.
—
Candice “Cam” Montgomery (non-binary she/her/Dad) is an LA transplant now living in the woods of Seattle, where she writes Young Adult novels. Her debut novel, HOME AND AWAY can be found online and in stores now, and her sophomore novel, BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY was released October of 2019. Now, she finds herself the editor of an anthology. ALL SIGNS POINT TO YES (ed with cara davis-araux and Adrianne Russel-White) is to be published by Inkyard Press in winter of 2022!
By day, Cam writes about Black teens across all their intersections. By night, she tends bar at a tiny place nestled inside one of Washington’s greenest trees. Cam is an avid Studio Ghibli fan and will make you watch at least one episode of Sailor Moon before she’ll call you “friend.”
Cam is represented by Jim McCarthy of Dystel, Goderich & Bourret.
The Joy of Knowing Yourself
by Maggie Tokuda-Hall
I wrote The Mermaid, The Witch, and The Sea for one kid in particular.
Her name is Clare. I met her when she was nine, and I worked in a bookstore. For the first two years I knew her, her parents would bring her into the bookstore where I worked, and would do most of the talking for her. She has a mess of unruly, bright red hair (she is AWARE she looks like the girl from Brave) and was also painfully shy.
But then one day a flip I hadn’t touched switched. She came bounding into the bookstore, found me at the info desk and asked, breathless: “DO YOU LIKE POKEMON?”
Which. Sadly, reader, I do not. I am too old. Miraculously, this didn’t put Clare off. She told me about Pokemon anyway, and I was thrilled that she finally trusted me enough to talk to me. To show the breadth of her seemingly limitless enthusiasm. For Pokemon, of course, but for books as well. And it became apparent that she wasn’t just the voracious reader her parents had introduced me to— she was a brilliant one. With fascinating insights into world building and structure that only a kid who lives part time in their imagination could have.
Eventually, her parents hired me to be her creative writing tutor, during which time we discussed books even MORE and blessedly uninterrupted by the customer service bell. And it became apparent during that time that something was missing from the books Clare was reading, something she missed, a part of her own identity that was rarely reflected in the stories she so passionately loved.
Queerness.
See, this was almost ten years ago, the demands for diverse representation in kids’ books was there, but hadn’t gained the necessary support it has now. We Need Diverse Books didn’t exist yet. And while there was a smattering of queer books in the YA section—Malinda Lo being of particular importance to Clare— there weren’t nearly enough to keep Clare’s pages turning.
And so like an arrogant twenty something I sat down to write one for her. It had to have all the things she loved best— high stakes, magic, rules, murder, and mystery. But most of all it had to center around a big queer romance. With pining and kissing and a sense of romantic destiny, just like all the hetero books got to have.
It came in fits and starts and I didn’t know what I was doing, and it’s safe to say that each and every single word I put to the page in my first attempt to build Clare a story is gone now, deleted and forgotten. My discipline in writing it was patchy at best, and so many years passed as I drifted in and out of this world. Clare went to high school. Then to college.
And as I wrote this purposefully queer story for Clare, a funny thing started to happen. I realized I wasn’t just writing to her queerness, but to my own as well. I’d hooked up with girls, in high school and in college, and also after college, and also while I was writing this book, and had somehow convinced myself that each of those (myriad) events were aberrations, special cases. That they didn’t apply to my identity, which I assumed was straight.
Reader, I was not. I am not. I’m very much a cheerful and slutty bisexual, and it took writing an entire novel for someone else’s queerness for me to realize it. Not that I was slutty. I was already well aware of that.
I could see in retrospect the reasons I didn’t allow myself to name it before— internalized homophobia, of course, but also a fear that I wasn’t queer ENOUGH to claim the identity. I went to an all women’s college, and so naturally there was plenty of sapphic hooking up. That is one of the chief benefits of attending an all women’s college. But there was also an attitude among my peers that bisexuals were just tourists in queer identity, and that those people were toxic. And I didn’t want to be toxic. I just wanted to be slutty. So I pushed that part of me aside, for many years.
But just as any step taken to stand closer to your true self does, naming my queerness allowed me to better know myself, better pursue my own happiness. By knowing herself, from such an early age, and seeking out the representation that she deserved, Clare allowed me the freedom to find myself, too. And what a joy it is, to know yourself.
Having a teenager pull the curtain back on your identity is kind of, in my opinion, the whole point of young adult as a genre. Coming of age does not stop at eighteen.
This week, I drove across the Bay Bridge with a single copy of The Mermaid, The Witch, and The Sea resting on my passenger seat. My author copies arrived late thanks to the pandemic, and so that’s how it came to be that nearly a decade too late, and almost a month after my book ventured into the world I finally got to deliver a copy to its single, most important reader.
I laid the book on her porch, rang the bell and waited on the sidewalk with my face mask on. When she saw it, she hugged the book to her chest, and I felt something like peace wash over me. The book was in the right hands, now. Its job was done.
I didn’t cry when I saw her holding it, but I did as I drove back to my home in Oakland. The person that I was when I first imagined The Mermaid, The Witch, and The Sea is gone now. And that’s good. Because now, as I live and when I write, I get to take my queerness with me. And that’s the great gift Clare has given me.
—
Maggie Tokuda-Hall has an MFA in creative writing from USF, and a strong cake-decorating game. She is the author of the 2017 Parent’s Choice Gold Medal winning picture book, Also an Octopus, illustrated by Benji Davies. The Mermaid, the Witch, and the Sea is her debut young adult novel, which is due out on May 5th, 2020 from Candlewick Press. She lives in Oakland, California with her husband, son, and dog. Her dog is objectively perfect, thank you for asking.
Lupe
by Aida Salazar
I grew up watching impromptu drag shows in my living room. Many of my (very Mexican and straight) mother’s friends were men. They happened to be gay. Her best friend, Lupe, was like family. He and Mami knew each other from back in the pueblo when they were little and played dolls together. They both managed to find each other as immigrants in Southeast Los Angeles where they picked up right where they left off. Perhaps they were so close because Lupe’s strict Catholic family had disowned him and had even sent him to prison in Mexico for being gay but Mami never treated him differently because of who he loved. Mami grew closer to him in the US because her siblings were far away while Lupe only lived two blocks down. Whenever Mami would deliver a baby (and she had four more in the US), Lupe would come and cook for us and watch us so Mami could rest. He would also cut our hair, and scold us when we were out of line but also, he would shower us with so much love and adoration. Papi understood how close they were and never questioned their relationship. Lupe was family. That’s why it was not uncommon for Mami to have Lupe and his friends over for dinner, for enjoying music that blared from the old tape player, and for drinking rum and coke. They brought so much joy and freedom into our home and laughter, endless amounts of laughter. The drag shows were electrifying performances. Lupe and his friends had an instant audience with Mami, her seven children and sometimes Papi when he wasn’t working the night shift. They would emerge from Mami’s bedroom dressed in her clothes and makeup, singing and dancing and lighting up the room. They lip synced to Mexican pop songs and American ones as well though most of the men hardly spoke English. Through drag, they melted down any notion of rigidity around gender. I sat there happily among my siblings, cheering and paying witness to their brilliance, their magic, their freedom. Those were among the most grace-filled moments of my childhood.
At about six or seven years old, I wanted to be like my only brother. I wanted to wear my hair short like him, I wanted to wear jersey’s like him, I wanted to play football like him and be like just one of the guys. Mami did not bat an eye. She let me be who I wanted to be. The problem was not my immediate family per se, it was my extended Catholic family and friends at school who mocked me for being a “tomboy.” When I was in fifth grade, I gave in to their expectations and began to grow my hair longer and wear dresses again. I buried not only my gender expression but also my feelings of bisexuality down deep. The freedom that I experienced in my home was not as accepted on the outside. I learned then and as I grew that the world was actually cruel to folks whose genders or gender expressions were fluid or who were queer in any way and that some of our scariest opponents were Catholics and Christians in my own Latinx community.
When I wrote THE MOON WITHIN, the character Mar was inspired, in part, by my own experience as a child but also because of my study of Mesoamerican history. I noticed something interesting – the Mexica pantheon was filled with dual spirited deities and the principal deity, Ometeotl, was actually neither male or female but both, divine duality. Furthermore, I learned that people who were gender expansive or queer were often viewed through a sacred lens and often presided over spiritual ceremonies because they were a reflection of the creator. Also, through writer and scholar, David Bowles, I came to learn that there was a sweet name for gender expansive folks – xochihuah. It means those who bear flowers. For the Mexica, the flower symbolizes beauty and blossoming but also it symbolizes poetry. I like to think that a xochihuah is a person who carries poetry. How beautiful a concept but then how tragic we no longer have this knowledge and no longer practice it in our day to day lives. I wanted my intensely homophobic and transphobic community to remember these sacred understandings. Our indigenous religious practices had been stolen and erased through the brutality of colonization and the enforcement of Catholicism. These ancestral ways are proof that queer and gender expansive folks were once central to a spiritual practice in the Americas. In THE MOON WITHIN, I wanted to provide for us a model for how we could honor our gender expansive and queer loved ones through ceremony and spirituality instead of enacting the bigotry and hatred that Lupe experienced and that made me bury my own identity.
After THE MOON WITHIN was published, I could not share it with my queer friends and family who only spoke Spanish because it hadn’t been translated. One day, while at my mother’s house, her new friend Charlie, who happens to be a very talented drag queen, was visiting for breakfast. Charlie asked me, “Tell me the story of your book since I can’t read it for myself.” We sat there for over an hour as I tried my best to deliver the book scene by scene in Spanish. He was riveted. The only time he stopped me was to ask questions about our indigenous ancestry and how it all worked exactly. Though so much of our history has been lost, I did my best to offer him what I knew as I continued to share my story. It was amazing to witness how the story, coupled with this new information, spread a smile across his face. At first, he was filled with recognition, then illumination and ultimately, it turned to pride. “Ay, this is such a marvelous story! You don’t know how much I needed it.” Charlie reached to hug me and when I released, I saw the tears streaming down his cheeks. “Thank you,” he whispered. Then I started crying and Mami started crying and we folded into the biggest hug.
Though I wrote THE MOON WITHIN for children, I also wrote it in many ways to heal myself from the damaging narratives that have stripped us from understanding the spiritual power of menstruation and gender expansiveness. I wrote it to help others feel what I once felt as a child watching a drag show dismantle our binary notions of gender and be filled with the grace of freedom.
THE MOON WITHIN is now out in paperback. It was released in Spanish on June 2, 2020. You can purchase all editions at www.BooklandiaBox.com.
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Aida Salazar is an award-winning author and arts activist whose writings for adults and children explore issues of identity and social justice. She is the author of the middle grade verse novels, THE MOON WITHIN (International Latino Book Award Winner), THE LAND OF THE CRANES (Fall, 2020), and the bio picture book JOVITA WORE PANTS: THE STORY OF A REVOLUTIONARY FIGHTER (Spring, 2021). All published by Scholastic. She is slated to co-edit with Yamile Saied Méndez, CALLING THE MOON: A middle grade anthology on menstruation by writers of color (Candlewick Press 2022). She is a founding member of Las Musas – a Latinx kidlit debut author collective. Her story, BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON, was adapted into a ballet production by the Sonoma Conservatory of Dance and is the first Xicana-themed ballet in history. She lives with her family of artists in a teal house in Oakland, CA.
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Escrito por Aida Salazar
Crecí viendo shows de drag improvisados en la sala de mi casa. Muchos de los amigos de mi madre (que a propósito es muy mexicana y heterosexual) eran hombres. Todos ellos eran gay. Su mejor amigo, Lupe, era como familia para nosotros. Él y Mami se conocían desde que vivían en el pueblo cuando eran pequeños y jugaban a las muñecas juntos. Ambos lograron encontrarse como inmigrantes en el sureste de Los Ángeles, donde retomaron su amistad justo donde lo dejaron. Tal vez eran tan unidos porque la estricta familia católica de Lupe lo había repudiado e incluso lo había mandado a la cárcel en México por ser gay, pero Mami nunca lo trató de manera diferente por quien el amaba. Mami se acercó a él en los EE. UU. Porque sus hermanos estaban muy lejos, mientras que Lupe solo vivía a dos cuadras. Cada vez que Mami daba a luz a un bebé (y tuvo cuatro más en los EE. UU.), Lupe venía a cocinar para nosotros y nos vigilaba para que Mami pudiera descansar. También nos cortaba el cabello y nos regañaba cuando estábamos fuera de lugar, pero también nos bañaba con tanto amor y adoración. Papi entendió lo cerca que estaban y nunca cuestionó su relación. Lupe era familia. Es por eso que no era raro que Mami invitara a Lupe y sus amigos a cenar, a disfrutar de la música que sonaba en el viejo tocadiscos y a beber ron y coca cola. Trajeron tanta alegría y libertad a nuestro hogar y risas, cantidades interminables de risas. Los shows de drag fueron actuaciones electrizantes. Lupe y sus amigos tenían una audiencia instantánea con Mami, sus siete hijos y, a veces, con Papi cuando no estaba trabajando en el turno de noche. Salían de la habitación de Mami vestidos con su ropa y maquillaje, cantando y bailando e iluminando la habitación. Cantaban canciones pop mexicanas y también estadounidenses, aunque la mayoría de los hombres apenas hablaban inglés. A través de su show, derritieron cualquier noción de rigidez en torno al género. Yo me sentaba allí felizmente entre mis hermanos, viéndolos y dando testimonio de su brillantez, su magia, su libertad. Esos fueron algunos de los momentos más llenos de gracia de mi infancia.
A los seis o siete años, quería ser como mi único hermano. Quería usar mi cabello corto como él, quería usar camisetas como él, quería jugar al fútbol como él y ser como uno de los muchachos. Mami no pestañeó. Ella me dejó ser quien quería ser. El problema no era mi familia inmediata tanto como mi familia católica extendida y mis amigos en la escuela que se burlaban de mí por ser una “marimacha”. Cuando estaba en quinto grado, cedí a sus expectativas y comencé a dejarme crecer el cabello y a volver a vestirme con faldas. Enterré no solo mi expresión de género sino también mis sentimientos de bisexualidad en el fondo. La libertad que experimenté en mi hogar no fue tan aceptada en el exterior. Entonces aprendí y, a medida que crecía, que el mundo era realmente cruel con las personas cuyos géneros o expresiones de género eran fluidas o que eran queer y que algunos de nuestros oponentes más temibles eran católicos y cristianos en mi propia comunidad latina.
Cuando escribí THE MOON WITHIN, el personaje de Mar se inspiró, en parte, en mi propia experiencia cuando era niña, pero también por mi estudio de la historia mesoamericana. Noté algo interesante: el panteón mexica estaba lleno de deidades de doble espíritu y la deidad principal, Ometeotl, en realidad no era ni masculina ni femenina, sino ambas, dualidad divina. Además, aprendí que las personas que eran expansivas en el género o queer a menudo eran vistas a través de una lente sagrada y a menudo presidían ceremonias espirituales porque eran un reflejo del creador. Además, a través del escritor y erudito, David Bowles, llegué a aprender que había un dulce nombre para la gente expansiva de género: xochihuah. Significa aquellos que llevan flores. Para los mexicas, la flor simboliza la belleza y el florecimiento, pero también simboliza la poesía. Me gusta pensar que un xochihuah es una persona que lleva poesía. Qué concepto tan hermoso, pero qué trágico que ya no tenemos este conocimiento y ya no lo practicamos en nuestra vida cotidiana. Quería que mi comunidad intensamente homofóbica y transfóbica recordara estos entendimientos sagrados. Nuestras prácticas religiosas indígenas habían sido robadas y borradas a través de la brutalidad de la colonización y la aplicación del catolicismo. Estas formas ancestrales son prueba de que las personas queer y de género expansivo alguna vez fueron centrales para una práctica espiritual en las Américas. En THE MOON WITHIN, quería proporcionarnos un modelo de cómo podríamos honrar a nuestros seres queridos trans y queer a través de la ceremonia y la espiritualidad en lugar de representar la intolerancia y el odio que Lupe experimentó y que me hizo enterrar mi propia identidad.
Después de que se publicó THE MOON WITHIN, no pude compartirlo con mis amigos y familiares queer que solo hablaban español porque no había sido traducido. Un día, mientras estaba en la casa de mi madre, su nuevo amigo Charlie, que resulta ser una drag queen muy talentoso, estaba de visita para el desayuno. Charlie me preguntó: “Cuéntame la historia de tu libro, ya que no puedo leerlo por mí mismo”. Nos sentamos allí durante más de una hora mientras hacía todo lo posible para relatar el libro escena por escena en español. Estaba clavado. La única vez que me detuvo fue para hacer preguntas sobre nuestra ascendencia indígena y cómo funcionaba todo exactamente. Aunque gran parte de nuestra historia se ha perdido, hice todo lo posible para ofrecerle lo que sabía mientras continuaba compartiendo mi historia. Fue sorprendente ver cómo la historia, junto con esta nueva información, extendió una sonrisa sobre su rostro. Al principio, se llenó de reconocimiento, luego de iluminación y, finalmente, se convirtió en orgullo. “¡Ay, esta es una historia tan maravillosa! No sabes cuánto lo necesitaba “. Charlie extendió los brazos para abrazarme y cuando lo solté, vi las lágrimas corriendo por sus mejillas. “Gracias”, susurró. Entonces comencé a llorar y Mami comenzó a llorar y nos envolvimos en un abrazo grandísimo.
Aunque escribí THE MOON WITHIN para niños, también lo escribí en parte mayor para curarme de las narrativas dañinas que nos han negado la habilidad de comprender el poder espiritual de la menstruación y la expansión del género. Lo escribí para ayudar a otros a sentir lo que una vez sentí cuando era niña al ver un espectáculo de drag desmantelar nuestras nociones binarias de género y estar llenos de la gracia de la libertad.
THE MOON WITHIN ahora está la venta. Se lanzará en español LA LUNA DENTRO DE MI el 2 de junio de 2020 y se celebrará con un evento de lanzamiento de libros en línea el 4 de junio. Puede comprar todas las ediciones e inscribirse para asistir al lanzamiento del libro en https://booklandiabox.com/pages/events