I was thrilled to learn, some months ago, of The Call-Out's publication. I had the privilege of reading it first in serialized form, on an email list,I was thrilled to learn, some months ago, of The Call-Out's publication. I had the privilege of reading it first in serialized form, on an email list, as it was being drafted over the course of 2018 to 2019. While it was fascinating to interact with the writer and watch the artistic process and narrative unfold, it is only more satisfying to re-read it and experience it as a complete work of literature.
It's hard to know which aspect of The Call-Out to gush about first. Of course, there is my general unceasing glee at trans lit being a thing at all. Almost a decade since first reading Plett's A Safe Girl to Love, I still haven't quite gotten used to the fact that we get to have stories written by us, about us, and for us, with an inimitable specificity. The conference, with its readings and picnics! The fucked up accountability processes! The stoned gamers, flirtatious weirdos, and special-interest intellectuals! These are trans women like those I know and love and can't stand.
Not only is it authentic, it's also genuinely very good. The Call-Out has all the elements of a great tragedy. There's an ensemble of vivid characters, each with their fatal flaw, and an arc toward an inevitable fall (mirrored by the arc of the year). The "omniscient" narrator delivers us the dramatic irony via the conceit of an internet call-out post, within which the central call-out (or call-outs) of the narrative are nested. (Hypocrisy and cynicism in the pursuit of justice within an unjust world seem to me to be major themes.)
Then there's the poetic form, which one might expect to feel dated. My previous experiences reading narratives in verse have mostly been in English textbooks, and were mostly written by Poe or some such 19th century cis straight white man of the canon; perfectly enjoyable pieces, but far removed from contemporary life, and in their narrowness of identity, perfectly inadequate to representing the full breadth of human experiences. So it is additionally gratifying that Cat Fitzpatrick lays claim to this format for telling her story about messy trans women, and our messy apartments, messy non-monogamous relationships, messy internet feuds, messy theory, messy praxis – as if to say that we, in all our messiness, are also worthy subjects of "high art."
But apart from its perhaps incidental political achievements, the book is, simply put, delightful to read. At many points, even on the second read, I laughed out loud, or felt compelled to turn to my partner to read them a particularly clever passage aloud. (Me: "the contents of the local thrift store / have been requisitioned, then dumped on the floor." Them: "I think I know that apartment.)
I think this is what impresses me most about this ambitious novel: that it all actually works. The subjects, the rhyme scheme, the satire, the tragedy, the humor – all have been ingeniously woven together, so that my strongest reaction is one of awe. I eagerly await whatever Cat Fitzpatrick does next, but in the meantime, I will be pestering all of my friends and loved ones to read The Call-Out....more
Bigger Thomas might be the best written antihero I've ever read, and Native Son might be the most literary antiracist and communist manifesto I've eveBigger Thomas might be the best written antihero I've ever read, and Native Son might be the most literary antiracist and communist manifesto I've ever read. Sensationalist, gruesome, misogynist to the point of multiple "women in fridges" (or furnaces, as the case may be) — and undeniably powerful art. The prose can be shockingly blunt, or flowery and figurative, but it's always deftly employed to deeply communicate the psychological and social toll of oppression. In its depiction of absurd murder being tried by the even more absurd Law, I couldn't help but think of Kafka, Lee, and Camus, and wonder how much their writing influenced one another. But I've never read anything quite like this....more
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