Let's pretend its not the end of the world.

One more week to read Idlewild before our Sept 29 hang with writer James Frankie Thomas

I breathed through my first MRI last week and now have 10x more empathy for anyone who has casually mentioned going in for one. Isn’t that how it always goes? It’s no big deal until it’s your deal—your body, your family, your village, your country.

I brought my own eye mask, asked the techs to pipe some favorite jazz into the oversized headphones, and tried very hard to think about anything but my surroundings. Blindfolded, I couldn’t tell how close the apparatus was to my face. I heard muffled voices, the click of the “football helmet” around my head, and felt my body move on the table’s track. Why would anyone choose this? What in the world would possess one to strap into a tiny capsule bolted to a giant rocket and leave our atmosphere?

It sounded like a construction crew had gone to work inside my skull; the entire cast of Inside Out armed with hammers, drills, and deafening sound effects. I suddenly regretted asking for Artemis’ Arboresque—too much frequency—and longed for something downtempo to calm my heartbeat. Glasper? I focused on the rise and fall of my breath and tried to stay still.

I distracted myself by imagining standing in the sunlight of my new kitchen.

***

There’s a lot of talk of leaving right now. Friends casually, but worriedly, ask about my plans over coffee. They call and leave concerned messages. (Thank you.) Sometimes I deflect with a joke. Could an old Canadian friend adopt me? Marry? Wait, what gender would give me the most legal protection?! Should my second-gen Irish mother revisit her heritage?

The New Yorker recently published a visually stunning and emotionally gutting story of a mom and her trans kid choosing to emigrate. I’ll be honest, I couldn’t finish it. Then my friend Oliver Radclyffe wrote bravely of his own decision analysis: I don’t want to leave. I don’t want him to leave. We’re overdue for a coffee.

It’s wild how we’re all juggling the mundane with the existential.

***

One afternoon during the first year of the pandemic, I went for a long walk with a dear friend in Fort Greene Park. We met decades ago when I was a bright-eyed, ambitious, idealistic 16-year-old activist and she was the very cool, experienced twenty-something organizer. I was enamored and inspired; still am. Now, she’s a pillar of her (our) community, thousands here in NYC, and many more around the world, look up to her and seek her counsel. That afternoon on our walk, I asked how my friend manages to hold everyone else’s stress and fears. Do you ever think about leaving? Her answer to me was clear and confident: I’m not going anywhere. She explained to me that work is to stay, to be her people’s foundation, her community’s safe harbor. I felt my nervous system ease. I knew I had someone to anchor to, no matter what happens.

It’s so much worse now. And, yet.

***

I woke up this summer in the woods with a vision to buy a house in a small town where a few friends already live. My friends up there didn’t know each other before COVID inspired them to find places outside the city. It’s a coincidence they landed in the same spot, or maybe nothing is. Since then, the town has become a familiar refuge. I go there to write, to read, to cook, to make new friends, to small talk at the one coffee shop, to watch my kid run free. It’s a counterbalance to this Brooklyn life I also love.

I read recently that if you want a village, you have to be a villager. That morning, I realized mine was right in front of me.

I’ve spent my adult life in uber-expensive cities, embarrassed by my disordered relationship to money. I never, ever thought I could afford to own a roof. And now, eight weeks after that morning vision, I’m in contract on the first house I toured. Everything about this process feels like some Gilbertian Big Magic™️. I’m driving up tonight to meet with a roofer in the morning.

***

There is no right or wrong answer right now, or ever. Everyone has different circumstances, privileges, access to resources, and relationships to risk. And I am acutely aware that I’m framing this as a choice while our government is systematically, violently displacing too many.

I’m not ready to give up being here, being me, or the work of making this place safe for others.

xx Kyle

Being Alive Book Club (BABC)

Every month, the Being Alive Book Club reads a trans author. This month, we are reading James Frankie Thomas’ debut coming-of-queer novel, Idlewild.

RSVP to join me and James on Zoom Monday, Sept 29th to talk about his book—and maybe a little bit of musical theater. Can’t make the Zoom? Come talk about the book with us in the chat thread.

Kyle and James giving Brooklyn scaffolding, and helmet-hair, realness. Frequent BABC reader Kelley is now the proud owner of this signed copy!

Bookmarks

We (the BABC) read Oliver Radclyffe’s memoir, Frighten the Horses, earlier in the year. The book is now out in paperback and makes a great gift for friends and loved ones. My conversation with Oliver from May:

"Nothing that can happen now can compare to how awful it felt to be pre-transition." — Oliver Radclyffe

I’ve also got my eye on Max Delsohn’s short story collection, Crawl, which is set to publish on October 21st.

“Delsohn captures the pathos and humor of transmasculine life in this entrancing debut. . . . [He] displays enviable craft throughout the collection, evident in the skillfully composed arc of every story and the deftness and wit of individual lines. . . . This is a no-skips collection.”—Kirkus Reviews, starred review

Village Bulletin Board

A quick invitation to re-engage with electoral politics at any level that you are able. Often, voters take a step back after an intense Presidential cycle, but one way to combat current events is to make sure we have different voices sitting at important tables.

Beyond the NYC Mayoral race, I’m keeping an eye on my home state of Virginia, where Abigail Spanberger (a former classmate of mine at UVA) is running for Governor. I’ll write more about the race in the weeks to come.

One thing you can do right now is join me in phone banking with Knock for Democracy.

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