Erik Fuhrer is the author of 6 books of poetry, most recently Eye Apocalypse (Spuyten Duyvil, 2021). Their recent work is inspired by the work of Sarah Michelle Gellar. Their poetry collection, Gellar Studies, is forthcoming in 2023, and their memoir, My Buffed Up Life, which features Buffy the Vampire Slayer as a fictional interlocutor, is forthcoming in 2024, both with Spuyten Duyvil Press. In January 2023, their first play will be released with Free Lines Press. Find them at www.erik-fuhrer.com.

the cost of healing

erik fuhrer

It was late spring, 2021, and I was walking back to my car on The University of Notre Dame’s campus after teaching my Gender Justice and the Environment course. I was newly shaved with a colorful triad of scarves around my neck and my black and white blazer that I bought for its Blanche Devereaux chicness. I heard a loud giggle as a bike road past me. I followed its trill with my eyes and watched the bike stop. The rider straddled the bike, pointed directly at me, and continued laughing, loudly and affectedly. It was clear he wanted me to notice. I still remember the way he looked– white, reddish hair and beard, no helmet, a loose red t-shirt. The duration of his laughter felt long, as if stretching from The Bible into my ear. It was the type of incident that would receive a dismissive tweet in response to its telling: “pictures or it never happened.” Yet, at that moment, documentation was the last thing on my mind. I just wanted to get the hell off campus. Despite the man’s distance, which increased as I walked away from him, my hands tightly pulling my scarves down, so they didn’t blow in the wind, so as to look more “normal,” I felt as if his pointer finger had sunken into me. Made a mark on my body.

When I was young, teachers would constantly play this completely bonkers and psychedelic Looney Tunes anti-drug PSA. “This is your brain on drugs” was the main refrain. In Surviving Sex Trafficking, Angela Williams has brain scans done to show what her brain looks like on trauma. Trauma is a bruise is a brain cell is the way I will always jump whenever anyone walks in the room, the way I always fear I am being followed. The way I often feel like my body is not my own during both the moonlight and the eye of day. It prints itself on our bodies but is not always traceable except through our witness. Our voice. Christine Blasey Ford’s testimony. The refrain of Tori Amos’ “Gold Dust” —“I was here, I was here” beats before reminding “we held gold dust in our hands.” It’s a haunting. Sarah Mclaughlin’s voice pianoing in my head, “I will remember you.” I wanted most people in my life to forget me, to release me. I sometimes could hardly remember myself.

I confided to a family member once that I was raped when younger, and she asked for proof. Even though it had been 24. 25. 26. 27 years ago. All those years darkly butterfly with truth. My body is the proof. I carry the same skin around with me. And that too is a haunting. But I am in control of my ghosts now. I am here. I am here.

At the University of Notre Dame, I often felt like I had to hide the wilds of myself. Talk of social norms that were “necessary for the functioning of society” came up often at The University, mostly with conservative white men who couldn't seem to understand that their “natural laws” didn't allow for my existence, or that of many others. I was told once by a fellow Ph.D. student on campus that he wished he and I could be having a beautiful conversation but that he couldn't do so with me, or with most people aligned with contemporary social movements such as Black Lives Matters, because we were all unintelligible. I bet he had epic dialogues with his reflection in the mirror. He could only really have conversations with his own seemingly gorgeous tongue. I’ll take a rain check on that, please. I’ll get my tongue elsewhere, thank you.

It took until I taught that gender studies class at The University for me to finally feel comfortable coming out as non-binary. I didn’t use my pronouns yet with students, but I started to use them privately, with family and friends. This incident with the bicyclist was further proof to me that I was not in the right place. That I would forever feel marked there. So in August 2021, I proposed a move to Los Angeles to my partner, Kim. She agreed, and by October, 2021, our house was sold, and we were in LA. In LA, I feel much more comfortable wearing what makes me feel beautiful. I bought my first purses here. Have worn mostly pink.

On May 1st, 2022, I sat outdoors at the Brentwood Blue Bottle in Los Angeles wearing oversized, bedazzled, red sunglasses, a colorful unicorn shirt, a colorful necktie scarf, and some rings. I was aimlessly tapping my multi-jeweled costume ring against the table as I typed out a poem when I heard a woman ask, “Do you know it’s Wes Anderson’s birthday today?” I looked up, smiled, and shook my head, “no. But that’s cool. I love him.” Whenever people mention Wes Anderson, I am always painfully aware of the fact that I’ve never seen Rushmore, and the shame was inevitably setting in when it was interrupted by an unbridled joy that followed the woman’s next sentence: “It’s fitting because you look like you have stepped out of one of his films.” It was quite possibly the most accurate thing something has ever said to me. I imagined myself as an amalgamation of Gwenyth Paltrow’s Margot Tennenbaum and Jeff Goldblum’s Alisdair Hennessy– fur coat, pink scarf, everything a size too big. A cartoon in human skin, the reverse of those Disney Instagram filters. Isn’t every Jason Schwartzman character in a Wes Anderson film just a beautiful Pinocchio all grown up? A real boy?

“My daughter would love the way you're dressed. Can I introduce you?” the woman offered. I was stunned. Someone would like to meet me? I have fans! Ok, so she was 4 —but that still counts!

The woman brought her daughter over. She pointed out the unicorns on my shirt, the pinks in my outfit, my rings. Her daughter didn’t love my unicorn shirt as much as my ring, which I gave her permission to touch. I felt seen in a way I hadn’t before that day.

Hypothetical:

“What line are you wearing?”

“The possible future wardrobe of a Wes Anderson film that will never be made.”

Which is to say, Wes Anderson, call me. Call me on my unicorn phone; it gets the best reception. I’ll be wearing a wool knit cap in the dead of the Los Angeles summer.

Which is to say, I am here, and this body is starting to belong to me.

Weeks later, my partner and I were on Rodeo Drive. I was dressed in an Italian rainbow cookie color scheme, with mostly pink toward the bottom. My shirt was a button-down with widget shapes, but more retro, pre-computer age in composition. I like to pretend I am part of Generation X often, though I missed it by five years, and I dress accordingly. “In my day…” I’ll say to a 25-year-old. It’s pretentious, yes, but my outfit wasn’t. If a cupcake went to a Nintendo Party, it might have taken my lead.

We entered Alexander McQueen and were greeted by a woman who told me she would be helping me during my visit.

A man then walked directly to me from the back of the store, expressed how much he loved my outfit, “so fun,” and clarified that they both would be helping me. I felt doted upon. Dispersed between their introductions to their designs, we chatted about the show Eerie Indiana, and what originally brought Kim and me from New York to Indiana. “Indiana? You? You made the right choice coming to LA for sure.” I nodded. I certainly felt less safe dressing this way in Indiana, especially on The University of Notre Dame’s campus. On the seventh day, God created man and woman, but not me.

I finally gravitated toward a long trench coat with a graffiti motif and heard one of the attendants moan, “yesssss.” They insisted I try it on. I knew that I was being reeled into a sale but felt beautiful as they held the coat open for me to slip my arms in and draped it onto my shoulders. “Yeah, you look amazing! Here don’t tie the belt, do this instead,” the attendant gently instructed as he looped the belt behind me, leaving the coat to expand around me. “This coat was made for you,” the other attendant exclaimed as she clasped her hands together in loving approval. I normally would have rolled my eyes, thinking she was only saying this to close a sale, but, instead, I smiled at her and nodded, “it is. It’s beautiful.” She wanted the sale, I’m sure, but I believe she also was truthful. Drape an oversized pink scarf on me and sign me up for the Rushmore sequel. Get Jeff Goldblum on line one.

Walking into Alexander McQueen made me feel, well, like a queen. I pause writing that term because I know there are gender-neutral alternatives. My particular favorite is “the spark of life.” You can’t start a fire without me; just ask The Boss. After all, I did feel like a thousand lighters had just clicked and flicked when I slipped that coat on my shoulders. But I didn’t feel like a flame. I felt like a goddess. See, sometimes I feel like a woman. And sometimes, I feel like the universe is galaxying through me. Sometimes I want to fill out a job application and check all the boxes. Sometimes I just want to leave everything blank but that ambiguous “other” box. Sometimes I want to write in, “cigarette, drag me, baby,” because I want to go dancing into the fucking dark with cinders at my heels. And that coat.

When a friend of mine asked if I would have bought that coat if I had the money, I didn’t hesitate: “yes.” He gave me a shocked look: “Erik, it was $4,000!” What is the price tag on joy? Surely, joy can be experienced for much less money, even free. I have known that type of joy, but this was also a joy. And I wanted it to last.

On the day of the 2022 Met Gala, social media was abuzz with criticism of those celebrating fashion that evening in light of the shocking news that Roe vs. Wade was on the precipice of being overturned. I recognize the deep sadness and fear that people were feeling that day and every day since and understand that my body will not be directly affected by this particular political decision. I do not have a body capable of pregnancy, but I do have a body capable of grief. And I don't mean that flippantly. I do not mean to devalue or dampen this suffering. In a world that also seeks to snuff my identity and the bodies and identities of those who don’t conform to binaries and norms, I empathize with everyone whose rights to their bodies are taken from them. We must fight, and we must fight fiercely.

I don’t remember what I did that day of the Met Gala. Of the news of the supreme court’s pending decision. Of the news of the actual decision. But I hope I was experiencing some type of joy. Grief can disappear us. I know that first-hand. It’s important to make space for grieving. Long-term grieving. To bake it into ourselves. Like a cake. I learned that from Joan Didion. But if we forget the candles, we burn out. What is the world without fire? Without glitter? Without the stars of us?

We are here. We are here. And we will never stop fucking shining.

My body has been another’s bread without my permission. Has been broken. Sometimes I walk around in a second skin. Borrowed skin. But that gets better as I go on. And putting that coat on made me feel amazing.

Tell me, what is the price tag on healing?