The Radical Element

by The Radical Element- 12 Stories of Daredevils, Debutantes

  Sawyer hadn’t just painted the almond trees.

  He’d painted the dark trunk of her magnolia.

  But not all of it.

  “I wanted to paint enough of it so it’d be okay out here, when it gets hot,” Sawyer said. “But not so much that it didn’t look like your tree anymore.”

  On the widest stretches of bark, and up into the boughs, he’d painted patches of white, just where the sun would hit hardest. Where the heat might weaken or split the bark. If she took a few steps one way, the white broke into ribbons. A few steps the other way, and the patches almost vanished, like a trick of the light, the moon’s glow on the boughs.

  “I know sometimes you’ve gotta wear colors that aren’t yours,” Sawyer said. “But if you wear too much of somebody else’s colors, there’s none of you left.”

  Graciela looked at him. The way he licked his lower lip seemed more like a nervous gesture than a sign he wanted to kiss her. But she wanted to know in what measures he was recklessness and fear, hesitation and certainty, and where he’d gotten his faith that he was worth more than what other people decided. She wanted to know what all those things tasted like on his tongue.

  “Wait here,” she said.

  Graciela snuck back inside, stealing cascarones from the dark kitchen. She and her mother and aunts had made so many, no one would miss a few.

  She brought them outside and asked Sawyer to help her get them up into the magnolia tree. She did not ask if his leg would stop him, and when she did not ask this, his face lit up like stars. It made her wonder about all the things he had been denied because someone else assumed he could not do them.

  They climbed the boughs, handing the delicate eggs back and forth.

  Tomorrow, at the moment of the Easter full moon, her family would be out here. Laughing. Celebrating the ring Miguel had slid onto Dolores’s fourth finger. Breaking cascarones over one another’s heads until they were all covered in glitter.

  There were so many things to wish for.

  Children for her brother and Dolores, and the health to run after them even if Miguel needed a crutch to do it.

  Years for their mother and father to watch over the orchard they’d built, and to see their children make their own homes.

  Safe nights for sons and daughters whose lives were shades of brown more beautiful than they knew.

  Full breaths for boys who walked with crutches, or limps, or with the fear of anyone else deciding who they were.

  For this boy climbing the magnolia with her to know his eyes were the brown-gold of the water in her father’s irrigation ditches, and that to her this was a color more beautiful than any blue.

  There were so many wishes she wanted more than to erase the girl her mother and father had made her.

  Graciela and Sawyer settled in the magnolia’s boughs, the almost-full moon above them. They broke cascarones over each other, the grain of glitter on their skin and between their lips.

  They gave themselves to el Sábado Santo, this in-between night, letting the wind carry the glass glitter to anyone who needed the shimmer and hope of wishes yet to be made.

  In the imagination of many Americans, Golden Age Hollywood was a time of elegant gowns, cigar-smoking tuxedoed men, and starlets posing in soft focus. But Hollywood was a place of as much racism, homophobia, transphobia, and ableism as the real world in which the studio lots existed.

  Though not all Latinas of the silver screen guarded their identities as closely as Graciela, some of the most successful Latina actors of the Golden Age gave themselves stage names rather than using the birth names that signaled their heritage.

  When it came to representation of LGBTQ identity, portrayals were overwhelmingly reduced to stereotype and sensationalism, played for laughs or shock value. Like depictions of characters of color, depictions of queer and transgender characters mark some of the most offensive and damaging moments in Hollywood history.

  Sawyer could expect his disability to be the subject of jokes that would go unchecked on a Hollywood lot, if he was hired at all. Ableism was no less rampant in the 1920s, even after hundreds of thousands of men had returned from World War I with physical injuries or psychological damage that resulted in long-term disabilities. Veterans like Miguel faced a society that ridiculed them and turned them away from jobs, even as Hollywood profited off portraying their experiences.

  This story is my wish to give Graciela, a daughter of Mexican-American farmers, and Sawyer, a transgender boy living with a disability, the space that history would have tried to deny them. And it’s a wish to give them room for their own magic, from the sparkle of a Hollywood set to the glitter inside a cascarón.

  Many thank-yous to Kayla Whaley, Tehlor Kay Mejia, Mackenzi Lee, and the transgender boy I’m lucky to call my husband, for their notes that enriched and deepened this story.

  I chose to write magical realism not only because it’s where my stories most often live, but because it’s an important part of the history and heritage I come from as a Latina woman. In the midst of oppression, seeing the magical even through the tragic, the unjust, the heartbreaking, is a way of survival, for people, for communities, for cultures. Our spirits depend on not overlooking that which might be dismissed or ignored. I write magical realism not only because I’m a queer Latina woman, but because the world is more brutal than so many are willing to see, and more beautiful than they imagine.

  We have the same first name. We are almost of an age. We hail from the same county. We have a lot in common, Carrie Buck and I. More than anyone might think.

  It isn’t obvious at first. She doesn’t look a bit like me. She carries herself with purpose and dignity. Her black hair is cropped short, while my brown hair falls over my shoulders. Her dress is plain and worn, while mine is soft and new. She is called feebleminded, while I’m considered difficult. But we are alike.

  And no one can know.

  “The sole effect of the operation is to prevent procreation by rendering the patient sterile. In short, it is a eugenical measure and nothing more.” The attorney’s voice fills the chamber, and I gently rock back and forth to the cadence of his words.

  It’s relatively empty up in the visitors’ gallery. Perhaps because of the weather: after a hot spell, the April weather has turned and the afternoon is looking dreadful. Perhaps because this case is too sensitive for most. After all, sterilization procedures are hardly subjects for proper conversation. Mother would have apoplexy if she saw me here. The only talk we’ve had of reproduction was when she told me she expected me to find a husband back home and start a family.

  “It would be better for all, Carrie,” she told me on that occasion and countless others, “if you would keep your head down. This is what the world expects of us, not your grandiose ideas of education and a career. Stick to a boy who will tolerate you and the pretense of a normal life.”

  But I don’t want the pretense of a normal life. I want an education. I want a career. And she can’t stop me. For all that she tried and tried, she can’t stop me.

  I’m here.

  When I arrived in Washington, Aunt Elizabeth asked me why I wanted to pursue a career in law when only a handful of law schools even accept women. There are a thousand reasons, and I can name them all. The world’s expectations were not made to fit me. The laws and structure calm me. In the practice of law, no one minds an inquisitive and obsessive mind. But as I listen to Carrie Buck’s attorney argue against a doctor who called his client a genetic threat to society, I cling to the most important reason of all: it matters. What these attorneys and judges do, the cases they argue and decide, the cause they serve, it matters.

  And I want to be a part of it.

  “Excuse me?”

  The young man sitting in front of me turns, and it’s only then that I realize I’ve spoken out loud.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .” My cheeks grow warm. Someone shushes us, and I wish I could melt into these seats, but they’re stiff and unyielding.


  The boy in front of me smiles. “It’s your first time?”

  Two rows ahead, an elderly man turns to both of us with a scowl so ferocious, even Mother would be impressed.

  I nod, quite unwilling to say anything more.

  The boy’s smile widens to a grin, and I’m terrified he’ll continue speaking, but he merely winks at me and returns his focus to the court proceedings down below. The elderly man continues to stare. I shift and try to avoid his glance. I bounce my foot against the seat in front of me, but it does nothing to distract me.

  My heartbeat picks up and my skin crawls. I’m used to stares and scrutiny — I got enough of that back home — but if he stares long enough, he’ll see I’m different. Different, different, cold, uncaring.

  I can’t —

  I rock back and forth until I settle into the familiar sense of repetition, and I remember how to breathe again. In front of the court, the plaintiff’s attorney continues to talk. His voice drones on, warm and assured, pleasant even. It reminds me of Grandfather, who believed in Aunt Elizabeth’s dreams and who believed in mine. That helps, too.

  I focus on the attorney’s arguments. The Fourteenth Amendment and bodily integrity, and the state’s intention “to rid itself of those citizens deemed undesirable according to its standards.”

  We have a lot in common, Carrie Buck and I.

  The oral arguments take hours, and I drink in every single moment. The elderly man up and left after Attorney Whitehead’s statements, but the young man in front of me is still there. When the Court rises, we do, too, and he turns to me. He holds a legal pad scribbled full of notes. Is he a law student? He appears to be a year or two older than I am, which makes it both possible and enviable, and I cannot deny a stab of impatience.

  He catches me staring and moves forward. Before I can stop myself, I take a step back, bumping into the seat behind me. He doesn’t move forward again, but he doesn’t turn away either.

  “I wish to apologize for imposing upon you earlier. It was horribly impolite, and I promise you my manners are usually better than this . . . although my father might disagree.” He scratches his temple. In demeanor, he is all too like my younger brother, caught in a wrongdoing. But in appearance, he is nothing at all like our family. His suit is tailored and speaks of society.

  He bows slightly. His dark hair flops around his eyes. “Alexander Holmes, at your service, Miss . . .”

  A flutter of panic teases me.

  “Allen. Carrie Allen.” I wonder if I should curtsy or reach out my hand to him. Aunt Elizabeth has been educating me on the rules of etiquette, but I’m not yet comfortable enough with them to know how to respond to this — to a boy who talks to a girl without an introduction. I don’t know how to deal with it when someone doesn’t follow the rules.

  And Alexander Holmes doesn’t. His bright smile is back, uncharacteristically bold for these dark and dignified surroundings. He smiles freely. “Delighted to know you, Miss Allen.”

  He walks around the row of seats and waits for me at the end of my row. “May I walk you out? It’s not often I have the pleasure of meeting other legalese enthusiasts.” He colors slightly. “And certainly no one like you.”

  I’ve never heard anyone say that like it’s a good thing. “You are quite unlike anyone I’ve met in Washington so far,” I tell him.

  He offers me his arm, but I keep my hands close to my sides and squeeze past him into the aisle. I am uncomfortable being touched. He seems unfazed.

  “You’re from out of town?” He does not wait for my answer but instead falls into step with me. “Then what brings you to these arguments? Or, more specifically, to this hearing?”

  I reach for the closest truth. “Fortunate timing.”

  “For both of us, then.” He holds the door open for me, and we walk out of the hallway, into the rotunda, where we pass underneath the magnificent dome. Aides and lawyers are walking around and talking, and it’s as if we’re leaving behind the sanctity of a church for the overwhelming chaos of politics. Voices everywhere, and I cannot drown them out.

  I shrug into my coat and curl my fingers around the small, round pebble in my pocket. It’s cool and comforting, but the energy I took from the quiet courtroom is already draining from me and I shrink toward the walls.

  Alexander Holmes glances at me, and his brown eyes crinkle. “Come, I’ll show you a quieter route. It’s overwhelming, isn’t it? Don’t worry — you’ll fit in soon enough.”

  I want to believe him. At home, I could not walk around town without eyes on me, without stares and whispers. Cold, uncaring Carrie. She thinks she’s better than us. Her poor mother, she’s at wit’s end. Best to send the girl away.

  I hoped I would be able to breathe here. To get lost amid history. To become who I want to be.

  I just don’t know if I will be enough.

  After dreaming of it for so long, observing this Court case both fills me up and wears me down. I’m bone tired and my mind won’t stop going over every single detail of the case and of the entire past week — not just what I saw, but how I acted. Did I say the right thing? Did I say it at the right time? Did I act normal enough? Were people staring? Did I draw attention to myself? I may be able to shrug into a guise, but I’ve never learned to fit in; it’s always been pretense.

  I’m curled up in a large leather chair in Aunt Elizabeth’s office reading about the history of law when the door opens and closes.

  “Come with me to tea this afternoon,” Aunt Elizabeth says. She stops in front of my chair. She wears a deep-green day dress and holds her coat in one hand. She looks resplendent, and I am momentarily disoriented. Today is Saturday. We didn’t make any plans for today. Today is Saturday. We didn’t make any plans for today.

  She continues, “It’ll be a chance to meet an old friend of mine, with whom, I believe, you may have a lot in common.”

  I close my book with more force than I usually would, to try to snap myself out of the repetition. But my hands tremble.

  “Today is — We didn’t make any plans —” I breathe in sharply. I don’t want to betray the panic building inside me, but my voice quivers. I escaped small-town expectations when Aunt Elizabeth invited me here, and she accepts my oddities with more grace than most everyone back home. She supports my right to choose my own path. She allows me to carve out my own space. But I know it is sufferance. Mother made that very clear. We live in a world that measures people according to standards of desirability and undesirability. And I am undesirable.

  “Carrie, I know you have your heart set on a legal career, and in this day and age, it’s not just about knowing the law; it’s about knowing the right people. Grace Hays Riley is the dean of the Washington College of Law. An introduction to her will be an asset to you once you apply there for your baccalaureate.”

  “Yes, Aunt Elizabeth,” I say. “Except . . .” Today is Saturday. We didn’t make any plans for today. I wring my hands so tightly, my knuckles crack, but it doesn’t help.

  “Carrie?”

  I can’t find the right words. The chair becomes uncomfortable and Aunt Elizabeth is too close and my head hurts and we didn’t make any plans for today.

  “Carrie, look at me.” Aunt Elizabeth crouches down in front of me. Mother would have forced me to meet her eye, but to my shock, Aunt Elizabeth places her hand on the chair’s armrest, careful not to touch me, and she allows me to stare at the fabric of her dress instead.

  “We didn’t make any plans for today, did we?”

  I shake my head, the words threatening to stumble out of my mouth again.

  Aunt Elizabeth shifts. “Are you tired?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you rather stay in?”

  I nod.

  After a moment, she nods, too, and her dress billows around her. “On the condition that we do go out next weekend. You can’t only divide your time between the Court and our house. People will . . .” She sighs.

  “People will talk,” I fini
sh for her. “They always do.”

  Mother would tell me to mind them.

  “They ought to know better,” Aunt Elizabeth murmurs, and I feel a rush of gratitude toward her, not just for accepting my no, but for directing her anger at other people instead.

  “Do we have an agreement, Carrie?”

  I sit back in the chair. My shoulders ache. I don’t want it to be this hard. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She pulls up another chair and folds her coat over the backrest. She sits down next to me, and I glance up just in time to see her smooth a frown. “Will you tell me about the arguments? I do not know a great deal about this particular Supreme Court case, but I trust you can fill me in on the right details.”

  I don’t tell her about Alexander. I call him Alexander in my mind. I don’t tell her, because I don’t know what he means yet. He was kind to me, but it may just be good manners. Etiquette.

  Still.

  It’s not etiquette when Alexander appears on Sunday after church and asks me out for a walk. Aunt Elizabeth frowns at me, a deeper frown than yesterday, tinged not with the disapproval I expect but with questions she doesn’t ask.

  Alexander and I walk in silence at first. He leads me toward the National Mall, where my eyes stray toward the Washington Monument and then toward the Capitol. I cannot look away. The buildings — their meanings — they transcend us.

  “Have you been here before?” Alexander asks.

  Aunt Elizabeth showed me around extensively when I first got here, but back then, the sound of construction on the Arlington Memorial Bridge drove out all sense of peace. Today the Potomac is quiet; the ships and dredging work have ground to a halt.

  “How did you find me?” I counter instead. It’s not an answer, but I want to know.

  Alexander leads me past the newly dedicated Lincoln Memorial. Its gleaming white columns remind me of the Capitol Building. It makes me wonder if this memorial will still stand fierce and tall in a century and a half and beyond.

  “I try to keep abreast of everything that happens in this city’s society,” he says. And again he reminds me of my brother, who also makes up the most outrageous lies, and who has more charm than sense.