I’m not sure what I believe. That not much has changed is, all at once, off-putting and also pleasing. Like reinforcements. Even the bad bits, like the boy I used to call Boy. Whom I still care about and think about, particularly when there’s nobody else I’d rather sit next to on those strange afternoons when freak dread sends nameless pangs my way and all I want is a person to be my pillow so I might feel less random, spinning, negligible. A person who listens while I don’t finish my thoughts because maintaining completeness grows tiresome. A person so acquainted with my treasury of reluctance, with the lines of my body, that I forget I have one, and he forgets he has one, and limbs become logs to rest our heads on, and are we even people anymore? Or merely two souls whose condition is best described as “awaiting clearance.”
Or, perhaps, the only way to track change is to acknowledge these constants as a criterion that habituates me. I’ll always need those steps outside my parents’ home—some aspect or imprecise concept of them—where I can sit and watch the light dim as the evening breeze makes nice with the day’s complaints, and as I hear a small dog jingling before I see him trot past, and as my appetite builds because just inside, so amazingly close, are my parents cooking dinner. The sound of which has never changed. Utensils sliding in a drawer, the fridge opening and sealing closed, a knife’s thwack, the slight chime of glasses knocking against plates, the quick shuffle to make room at the table for something piping hot, and the loving “Careful!” that strikes curt.
The many overall movements of a home, required to sit down and eat, are, especially with family, somehow impersonal. Particular yet detached. Everything becomes concrete. The fork is a familiar fork. The clatter is mindless. Potatoes are matter-of-fact. There is love; it lives in the practical details. A family is more than it shows. That the future’s unspecified terms provide a few recognizable basics, and that I might find, somewhere in me, a tension—the good kind—for tapping into what springs me forward, is, I reason, the hope. The discord, the din, what stays the same, what reappears, what’s underneath, the misremembered and all there is to fathom. Growing up, for a long period that’s not worth mentioning here, I thought the expression was “Play it by year.” As in, take your time. A whole year. More. Whatever you need. There’s no rush.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my editor, Emily Bell, for her willingness and heart. For understanding this project’s roving, inconclusive zigzags even when I didn’t. Thank you to Maya Binyam for her thoughtful notes, often near-telepathic. Thank you to Jonathan Galassi, who wasted no time and asked me what I wanted to make real. Thank you to Rodrigo Corral. Thank you, FSG.
Luc Sante, thank you for getting this whole thing going. Dayna Tortorici, for suggesting this title was not someone else’s but in fact mine.
I am grateful to Gaylord Neely, Chris and Carla, and November in Provincetown. Thankfulness to Lena Dunham for counsel and reading early drafts. Kim Witherspoon for her strong, good sense and for inspiring in me new exciting wants. Hilton Als, for Christmas and for reminding me to keep those near who allow me to hear the voice in my head. Tavi Gevinson for the walks, the correspondence, the nook, the deep love and care you give to connecting.
Some minor changes were made to previously published essays, those edited by Doree Shafrir, Mark Lotto, Jessica Grose, and Haley Mlotek. Thank you for saying, Run with it.
Sarah Nicole Prickett: I’m so happy that we met. Isn’t it wonderful when we’re in different time zones? When we get four chances at 11:11? Thank you for being maddeningly good at finding, in your words, the stray gesture. Teddy Blanks, thank you for encouraging me to write about what’s off to the side. For going to the movies with me.
Collier Meyerson, Jenny Zhang, Doreen St. Felix, my sisters in daughterhood: You’ve been so impactful. Thank you for how you write and what you write about. For introducing me to your families. What a privilege. Katherine Bernard for re-centering me when this project needed it. Fiona Duncan for sending me into outer space.
Thank you Max Neely Cohen for book talk, ball talk, reassuring me through this process, and answering all my questions no matter what time of day.
Gratitude to Echo Hopkins, Tait Foster, India Nicholas, Rachel Levy, Bryn Little, Mark and Deirdre Silverman, Jackie Linton, Lucy Morris, Heben Nigatu, Ayesha Siddiqi, Amy Rose Spiegel, Ross Scarano, Ashley Ford, Jazmine Hughes, Sam Axelrod, Ian Blair, Dana Drori, Marcelo Gomes (Dear M., the conversations, so many that we’ve had, are in here), Katie Baker, Judnick Mayard, Arabelle Sicardi, Cord Jefferson, Akiva Gottlieb, Zo? Worth, Almitra Corey, Jesse Klein, Lauren Smythe, Vinson Cunningham, Monika Woods, and Brian Morton.
My family—from day one and as we grow—Dolores, Rana, Lisa, Mritiunjoy, Siraj, Kim, and Willis. I’d be spinning or stuck doing something I don’t love if it weren’t for you. You are my light.