This April brought me two new joys. I turned sixty, and I made my debut in Sinister Wisdom, the oldest lesbian literary journal in the U.S.
me with Sinister Wisdom 132
photo by Ben Thiel
When I was in my thirties and forties, I never imagined that I’d be happy about turning sixty. In fact, I barely thought about it. The big six-O seemed remote–a faraway, uncharted island that had nothing to do with me.
Now that I’m making my home on that island, I’m gaining a fresh appreciation of my favorite passage from Hamlet: “There are more things in heaven and earth … than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
Or as my late mother always said, “You just never know.”
You can have the liveliest imagination, and still be consistently surprised and amazed. (And, yes, shocked and dismayed. We’ve all been blindsided by crap things like cancer and COVID and ChatGPT.)
But what is it like when reality exceeds your wildest dreams? When parts of your 60-year-old life outstrip the most lavish daydreams of your younger self?
Writing and Sinister Wisdom
I fantasized about getting published in Sinister Wisdom ever since I first encountered the journal in grad school during the early 1990s. I probably first saw Sinister Wisdom mentioned in conjunction with Adrienne Rich, one of its earliest editors, or with Common Lives/Lesbian Lives, an offshoot journal that I worked on as part of an Iowa City lesbian collective.
Both Adrienne Rich and the CL/LL collective played huge roles in my coming out. You can read about CL/LL‘s role in the Fall 2024 issue of Sinister Wisdom. What’s important here is that working with the collective–and reading and teaching Rich– led me to see Sinister Wisdom as the pinnacle of the lesbian literary world. I likewise saw being a lesbian as the pinnacle of my identity.
To publish in Sinister Wisdom would mean that I had arrived both as a writer and as a lesbian.
But instead of writing short pieces that I could submit to Sinister Wisdom, I wrote a lesbian mystery novel. As I revised, my beloved partner of eight years started coming out as a trans guy named Ben.
I mostly forgot about wanting to publish in Sinister Wisdom. And, more important, as Ben transitioned and as I wrestled with my own identity, I saw that I needed to let go of the illusion of “arriving.”
I began making an uneasy peace with the inevitability of change and uncertainty. Whether I called myself a lesbian or a queer woman or some other yet-to-be created label, I knew I needed to accept the fact that identities and people evolve, that there is always more growing to do.
Over time, I loosened my hold on my identity as a lesbian. Although it still meant a lot to me, I understood that I had invested a label with way too much power.
What exactly did it come to mean, my identity as a lesbian?
I confronted that question a couple years ago, when Sierra Earle, one of my students at Mount Mercy University, interned at Sinister Wisdom. (Talk about something I never imagined happening!) Sierra told me that Sinister Wisdom was planning a tribute issue for CL/LL. I told them that I worked on the journal during its final years, and after they recovered from their jaw drop, they told me I should submit something. I explained that I couldn’t because, technically speaking, I was no longer a lesbian. They assured me that Sinister Wisdom defined ‘lesbian’ very loosely and that I should contact the editor, Julia Enszer, about whether the journal would consider a submission from me.
A student giving me publishing advice: that’s another delight I never saw coming! And, a mere two years out of college, Sierra has published her first chapbook, The Trim of Wind’s Dress! (I’ve always had faith in my students’ abilities to publish, but I never imagined one of them doing it so quickly.)
Back to Sierra’s advice about Sinister Wisdom: Not only did Julie encourage my submission, but a few months later, she connected me with poet Allison Blevins, a lesbian married to a trans man. Allison was going to edit a special issue of Sinister Wisdom featuring queer women like us!
Let’s further unpack some of this delight–this queer joy–that my younger self couldn’t have envisioned.
First of all, queer joy was not a phrase–and not much of a thing–that existed back in “my day.” In college, I was thrilled with the lesbian visibility in St. Mary’s production of The Children’s Hour. (For those unfamiliar with Lillian Hellman’s play, the lesbian characters do not enjoy a happy ending.)
Second, I hadn’t anticipated the ways in which getting published in Sinister Wisdom would expand my literary community. With the CL/LL tribute issue–which will end up being published after the issue Allison edited–I connected with many former collective members. And because of Allison’s issue, I connected with other women writers who are partnered with trans guys. (Shout outs to Kimberly Dark and Suzanne DeWitt Hall!) I even got to meet Allison face to face when she did a reading at her alma mater, Cornell College in Mount Vernon, Iowa.
Allison Blevins and me
I can’t wait to teach her magnificent collection, Cataloging Pain, which juxtaposes her MS diagnosis with her partner’s transition. I’ve already taught some of Julie Enszer’s poems from her collection Avowed, and I’ve encountered so much more fine lesbian writing, including the poetry of Alix Olson, which I really wish I’d discovered earlier.
I’m thrilled to be included in this literary community. When Ben was coming out as a trans guy during the early part of this century, I never dreamed that there would be a lesbian publication that would include me, that would try to embrace the complexity of my identity.
Shout-out to the inclusivity of Sinister Wisdom and to editor Julie Enszer for the risks she’s taken to foster it! (In her notes to the most recent issue, Allison’s issue, 132, Julie acknowledges the heat she took for publishing a prior issue, 128, on trans-feminisms.)
And 132 itself, in which I make my Sinister Wisdom debut? It has created a cascade of unexpected queer joy.
Let’s start with the title of the piece I published in it: “How Can A Woman Who Is With a Trans Man Call Herself a Lesbian?” I encountered that question a lot when Ben first started transitioning. Back then, it caused me a lot of angst, and I never imagined that it would one day fuel my writing and serve as a source of empowerment.
And I sure never dreamed that the title of something I’d written would be chosen as the title of a special issue of Sinister Wisdom.
Nor did I imagine how seen I would feel during the issue’s Zoom launch when Julie explained why she and Allison selected the title of my piece as the issue’s title. Julie said that the phraseology captures both a bit of the outrage that’s a part of the lesbian community and the inner pain and turmoil some people feel when their partners transition.
Although these two instances of emotion are fraught and complex, both/and is always a source of queer joy!
And so is a Sinister Wisdom launch video! In the one below, I read with all the writers I’ve mentioned above. Give us a look and listen, and order a copy of the journal.
For me, the launch also included another unanticipated queer joy–this one bittersweet.
Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine being included in a journal along with Minnie Bruce Pratt.
Pratt was a role model for me. Her writing offered me much-needed company when Ben was coming out as trans. Even now, despite efforts like Allison’s and Julie’s, it’s hard to find writing by queer women who are partnered with trans guys. Back in the early part of the 2000’s, Pratt’s 1995 S/HE was the only such book I could find.
S/HE–which Sinister Wisdom will soon reissue!–is a lyrical tribute to Pratt’s “lesbian husband,” Leslie Feinberg, the late transgender activist and author who also happens to be one of Ben’s heroes. Near the end of S/HE, Minnie Bruce addresses Leslie: “Perhaps twenty years ago I could not have loved you through all the complications of sex and gender, from woman to man to in-between. But if not, I would have been foolish, to lose you for the sake of such a little difference, the wavering line between light and shade.”
That lovely image–gender as a “wavering line between light and shade”–has provided me with years of reflection and inspiration. Intellectual and spiritual sustenance.
Not surprisingly, I was over the moon about reading my work in the same video as Minnie Bruce. But sadly, she passed away at age of 76, a few months before the Zoom launch.
Leslie Feinberg and Minnie Bruce Pratt
from Pratt’s FB page
It’s painful, losing role models and queer elders. During the launch, it was poignant hearing Allison, who is much younger than me, read an excerpt from Minnie Bruce’s work-in-progress: a sequel to S/HE called Marrying Leslie. But the moment was also a beautiful display of queer intergenerational solidarity. A strong source of queer joy.
Marriage and Ben
My strongest source of joy stems from my husband, Ben. He also provides the clearest example of how my younger self didn’t dream big enough. Not when it came to marriage and love.
Like all children, I entertained some wildly unrealistic dreams. I wanted to run in the Olympics and win a gold medal. So I sought the heaviest snow boots possible, and during recess, I would tromp through the largest drifts, telling myself that I was training.
My vision of marriage was more humble. But given my small-town conservative Catholic upbringing, it was radical. I imagined living with my best friend in a house filled with books.
Reader, that youthful, nerdy dream has been my delightful reality for about thirty years.
house filled with books and cats
But what I didn’t imagine (what maybe no child or teen can imagine) is the way in which my best friend–my beloved, my person, my one–nourishes and grows my sense of self. My capacity for love and wonder and gratitude.
Consider this moment. Ben and I are lounging on our living room couch. He has our two cats, Bubbles and Squeaks, on his lap, and I’m making my way through a can of Easy Eddy and a bowl of kettle chips. We’re savoring a companionable silence, broken occasionally when we swap phones to share funny posts or news about Caitlin Clark, Kate Martin, or Megan Gustafson.
(That such an “ordinary” moment could be saturated with joy is also something my younger self never dreamed of.)
I decided to stop scrolling and finish reading “my” issue of Sinister Wisdom. First, I indulged my ego by rereading the nice things Allison said about me in her introduction.
I lingered over this sentence: “Vermillion’s piece assures me that I’m not alone.”
Then, pointing to the sentence, I showed it to Ben.
“That’s what you’ve always dreamed of,” he said, “for your writing to help other people feel less alone.”
I nodded, too overwhelmed to say anything. One of my longest held and most cherished dreams had come true. I had achieved the most important goal I’d ever had for my writing–and maybe for my life–to help others feel less alone, to provide them with company.
Then it hit me. I was far luckier to have a partner who remembers my youthful dreams, who helps me recognize when the most meaningful parts of them become reality. I was lucky to have a partner who encourages me to connect my past and present selves, who enables me to feel accomplished and whole. Who encourages me to feel, period.
That, I never dreamed of. I hadn’t even known it was possible.
And to be graced with the knowledge that my experience has far exceeded my wildest dreams: I hadn’t imagined that either. I never dreamed of feeling such gratitude.
I don’t know what to do with it besides record it and savor it. Attempt to share it.
Reader, if parts of your life have exceeded your wildest dreams, please share your story. With me and with as many others as you can. If you don’t yet have such a story, please know that you may have unimaginable joy coming your way.
me turning 60 with Ben
cake and photo courtesy of my sister, Kathy McCarthy