reccurrenstrangeness

[reccurrenstrangeness]

The Oxford Learner Dictionary’s definition of strange is “the fact of being unusual or surprising,” being “unfamiliar” and hard to comprehend. While this is a good place to start, it fails to encompass everything that can be considered as strange. Queerness, for example, would fit under this definition. Strangeness is all about being unique, and not like everything else. What this definition fails to account for is that strange things occur everyday. Not everything is perfectly aligned, like we destined it to be. Things often slip out of their places in nature. Since there is strangeness everywhere, I invite my readers to ruminate on this question: How is anything strange when everything can be strange? 

I picked this image as my first post because it reminds me of this project. I took this at a Barnes and Nobles in my hometown. I thought that it was ironic that I found this at a bookstore when books are known to be portals to another dimension through immersion in the reading experience.

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Water is a life sustaining force in multiple ways. We need it to eat, to clean ourselves, to manufacture the products we rely on, and even provide entertainment through chlorinated pools. Why do we poison our water, our life source, simply for entertainment? 

The river in “Pagans” was akin to another member in the trio of friends. Its toxic waters provided a home for the three adolescents as they figured out love, friendship, and faced the looming threat of their own adulthood. The river has been poisoned by humans, but they were still able to love something full of toxicity. Strange, that we can love something that we have ruined. How do we love when we are responsible for something’s demise?

This is a picture from my bath bomb phase. The blue powder dissolved in water to create a swirling effect that I loved to watch. I poisoned the water around me just to entertain myself. The water was no longer life-sustaining, rather I altered it so ingestion would be toxic. Why did I love something that I created to be toxic? I wasn’t able to see the implications of toxicity and environmental trauma my actions could cause. 

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Being dirty is typically frowned upon. Spoiling crisp clothing with particles of dirt and mud turning it an ugly shade of brown. Children are allowed to be dirty, but must quickly be thrown in the shower. If an adult wallowed in mud, coating themselves with a symbol of our planet, others would think to themselves “How strange.”

Remaking the definition of strangeness in order to include queerness gives dirty a whole new connotation. I am queer, thus I am dirty. I am like Ennis and Jack, rolling in the dirt on Brokeback Mountain. I hide my queerness through layers of acting natural, like I belong to the sphere of heteronormativity. Hiding like I haven’t dreamed of kissing my best friend when I was only in middle school. I leave my queerness behind in the mountains only to settle in Texas with my wife and my child because I am not strange. I am not queer. I am not dirty. I am furiously trying to scrub the dirt off of my skin screaming OUT OUT DAMNED SPOT.

This picture occurred last summer, when I was working at a plant nursery. It was raining the day before, so I got coated in the mud like it was a second skin. I came home to my mother who told me she wouldn’t see me until I got cleaned up. I secretly loved the feeling of the dirt caked on my skin. It grounded me, made me feel one with nature. I furiously scrubbed my skin until it turned red. Isn’t it strange? How I hurt myself just to please others?

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The Chicago Botanical Garden is gorgeous in the summertime. It’s full of flowers blooming in every direction, twisting around manmade structures. What makes us different from these flowers? Why do we recognize that a fountain is different from a flower? What decides what is natural and what is not?

Alex Johnson in his essay “How to Queer Ecology: One Goose at a Time” asks us to question the divide between humans and nature.What makes us so sure we are different from a parking lot? What separates the national park from the cars that rest in the asphalt graveyard? It’s strange how we define natural, when in reality that parking lot was made from materials found in nature. We contain nature using our man made structures. It almost reminds me of queerness. Humans attempt to restrain queerness by placing boundaries, like laws, with punishments for expressing something that is natural. The asphalt graveyard is where cars come to rest, but also where the spirits of queer people killed at the hands our architecture are forced to remain. The asphalt hides their bodies under the shadows.. Gone, but not forgotten. Never forgotten. Their rage travels up the weeds that poke between cracks in the dark material. They are not dead. We are not dead. 

I took this picture almost 6 years ago to date, before I learned what a succulent was. Now, I’m the vice-president of UW Madison’s Succulent Club. And I am so undeniably queer. I am one with my environment because I am one with myself. I am natural. My queerness is what makes me natural. Strange how we try to discredit naturality.

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Hearts are fickle things. I don’t mean in the typical way through heartbreak. I mean in the literal heart. The beating that keeps up alive, that helps us breathe. Strange that we put so much trust in an organ that is smaller than the size of our fist. Any mishap could mean death. How can you love something that’s broken, that brings harm to those you love?

Grover asks similar questions when she is faced with Perry’s leg. She asks herself how she can locate the world in a leg that has returned to an oderless matter (Grover, p. 23). Learning to love something that is a representation of death is difficult. Yet, we still try to find the good in the broken. Isn’t it strange that we love what shouldn’t be loved? That we attempt to find love in the unlovable? Perry’s leg is a physical representation of disease that rots his body from the inside out. Remaking the definition of strange allows us to love him, despite the knowledge that his untimely death will come soon. 

My mother’s heart nearly rotted her from the inside out. A slight gap in her ventricle nearly cost my mother. How can I love the beating heart that keeps her alive when it tried to kill her? The paradox is ironic. What keeps her alive nearly killed her. You only get one heart no matter if it's broken or not. She’s too young for heart disease, at least that’s what the experts said. That’s all she heard. “Strange.”

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Betta fish are a unique type of fish. Living in small ponds in Thailand has caused them to develop the labyrinth organs, which allow them to breathe air. After intense evolution, betta fish were finally able to live comfortably. That is, until humans came and bred them for color and longer fins. Now they struggle to swim with the weight of their genetically engineered displays of color.

This blurring of naturality and human impact reminds me of [Safe]. Haynes unmakes the definition of the title, but also redefines what is natural and unnatural. Carol is forced to develop her own safety mechanisms that allow her to still breathe despite her chemical sensitivity. Her “I love you” in the final sequence is such. We identified it as strange or out of place because it is not truly her. Just like the betta fish developing organs, Carol developed a sense of love in order to survive. Just like the fins of a betta fish, her environment genetically modified her to make her no longer immune to the toxins of our environment. She is forced to live in her own glorified version of a fish tank, a pawn to push the ideology of a man who doesn’t have her best interest in mind. Still trapped no matter where she goes. 

This is an image of my own pride and joy, Floyd. I must say, he is certainly a strange one. He lays down on his side on the bottom of his tank, gets scared at the slightest bit of movement, and at times can’t even eat food because he doesn’t know how to fit it in his mouth. He is so very weird, yet I love and adore him. I always admire his gorgeous fins, but I know they come at the cost of genetic manipulation and his own suffering. I can’t give him a pain free life even if I wanted to. All I can do is give him the best quality of life I can. He comes up to gulp for air. I come to the realization that he is not untouched by humans.

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Queer people are forced to fit into the boxes of our heteronormative society in order to survive. To be out is to risk being killed or harassed. Being one's true self isn’t completely acceptable. Many people are forced into this image of a closet with the door looking behind them. Never to escape. 

Pushing queer people into boxes is highlighted in Bendorf’s poem “The Manliest Mattress.” He sleeps on a mattress until the mattress is no longer comfortable, rather it is a wooden box. Hiding one's true identity is comfortable for the first two nights, but ultimately starts becoming uncomfortable as queer people realize this is not where they belong. It is uncomfortable, and the bed is ultimately not a bed at all. Weird, how we try to force people into our expectations. They are forced into boxes of genders and sexuality. Forcing queerness, a fluid and undefinable force, into boxes eliminates what makes queerness so strange in the lens of heterosexuality. 

This dress did not fit me. It was two years old, and my body went through multiple changes in this time. I tried so hard to make it look like it fit, but behind me the zipper wasn’t open. Heterosexuality didn’t fit me either. Like this dress, it squeezed and suffocated me until I was no longer myself. Strange how not only I tried to force myself into this dress, but also into heterosexuality. I squeezed myself into different boxes and clothes to keep up this appearance, but I ultimately threw the lock off my closet door. 

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Transience. Transgender. Two words with the same prefix, yet two completely different things. Transience centers around fleeting moments, while transgender is a permanent state of mind. Strange, isn’t it? How are two similar words completely different, yet so similar in their phonemes?

Agnus tackles this difference in his collection of short stories. In “Rock Jenny,” the titular character goes from wanting to be a mountain to wanting to be the moon. Her stages are transient, but her transition remains steady. Her presence in the life of Earth is transient as well, but her impact through the crater was long lasting. Her strangeness was ultimately the key to her legacy lasting onward through the crater, now filled with new life. She is transgender, but not transient.

My partner is trans, but not transient. He is a force to be reckoned with and he is more of a man than some cisgender men I have met. He wants to be a lawyer one day to help those in need and protect the innocent. I am certain that as he continues to grow, he will leave even more of an impact. He has left a huge impact on me, after all. His love has been my mountain, my Jenny, these past three years. He is transgender, but not transient.

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There comes a point in everyone’s life where something goes wrong. Something is marked as “strange” about their body. An imperfection that needs to be fixed. For me, it was my knee. At only 14 years old I was told part of my femur broke off. “How strange,” my doctor said. “You’re too young.” When I was 19, it disattached again. I needed intensive surgery for the second time. This image above is the doctor marking “YES.” This knee was broken. And so was I.

Gumbs asks in her section about being vulnerable if her wounds are the only way to know her (Gumbs, p. 62). Imperfections in our skin are strange, they are a signal that we are not like the others. Our wounds and imperfections are the easiest way to tell us apart. If I died, I would be able to be recognized by my disfigured femur. Strange, isn’t it? For a society so based upon uniformity, we certainly do place emphasis on what makes us all different post mortem. 

I have always been self-conscious of the hideous scarring that surrounds my knee. It’s been a convenient way to be known, only by my scars. A fun story to tell to those, an even bigger party trick when I reveal I’ve lost feeling in it. Several months on crutches and over two years in physical therapy led to a party trick. Funny how I hide the open wound that still exists in the corners of my mind behind a surprise. Strange that I rely on my imperfections to define me. Rather than focusing on how different I am, I could remake the definition of strange. It would reveal my unique experience is not quite so strange. It is unique, but I am not alone. I am not alone, because I am always here.

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What is a name? We’re given them at birth, but do they really mean anything? It’s strange how so many people can have the same name, but ultimately be completely different. Names are a way of being known. People are told to “make a name for yourself.” Why would you need to make a name for yourself when you are given one at birth?

Perhaps the best thing is to remain unknown, undiscovered. Just like Gumbs theorizes. It is dangerous to be known. Being known can lead to the strangely unexpected. It can either create, or destroy. The giant sea mammal that Gumbs talks about in her listen chapter is a great example. After Hydrodamalis gigas was discovered, within 27 years it was extinct after being hunted for sport (Gumbs, p. 16). By giving it a name, humans ultimately led to its destruction. I thought naming something was a way of acknowledging its existence. It’s weird how acknowledgment can lead to destruction. 

My name is Jacqueline, but my name is also Jac. I am two different people, yet I am also one. I am both Jacqueline and Jac, but neither of them are me. My name changes who I am, yet I don’t change at all. Jacqueline is who everyone knows, the intelligent but quiet girl. Jac is known by my friends and family, loud and not afraid of anything. They are both me, but both not me. Strange, isn’t it? That two versions of me exist at once, but I switch between them. Gumbs remakes the definition of strange through the process of naming, but I am already used to the strange cycle of personalities I adapt to. I named this blog Jac because I am allowing myself to be vulnerable here, something that I find difficult to do in an academic setting.

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Do we always place labels on things because we are scared of strangeness? We are so afraid of ourselves and of the unknown that we dissect our own dead in the name of knowledge. Strange, that we take apart the dead to learn about the living. 

When discussing Audrey Lorde’s essay on eroticism, Sarah said something that really stuck with me. Taking the guard rails off of taxonomy allows us to finally access the well of energy that lay within us. Segmenting and separating women from their eroticism only harms women rather than empowering them. Dissecting humans into our body parts does the same thing: it separates our souls from the body we inhabit. Once we get freed from taxonomy, will we be able to feel secure in our bodies? Knowing that our bodies are our own grants us freedom, allowing us to feel the energy flow through our veins. Taxonomy grants us knowledge, but it hinders us from uniting with our flesh. Ironic, isn’t it?

This is an image of my friend’s anatomy class. There’s a model of a woman with half a face and a jacket covering her anatomically correct upper half. Her leg sticks out, exposed to the muscles. We dehumanize ourselves in the name of science. Why is she, as a woman, exposed for all to see? Why can we see her inner workings without anything representing consent? By breaking women into parts, we get trapped from ourselves and our femininity., unable to access the wells of energy that are within.

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If I had the power to redefine “strange” in the dictionary, I would change it to have two different definitions. One being “a series of events that occur around us, while not common they are also not unfamiliar” and the other being “the sense of queerness, of not fitting into a binary.” I named this blog recurrent strangeness to emphasis how these strange events around us are actually more common than we think. These definitions of strange were created based on my own introspections both of my own life and what we have learned throughout the readings. If we queer the unfamiliar, will it make it familiar? Will queerness allow us to be more in touch with ourselves and our environment that we inhabit? All of these incredible authors made me remake my own definition of strange and opened my eyes to the wonderful and intense theory involved in queer ecology. 

Relating this project to my own life was an emotional experience. Being able to connect the lessons from class to my own life has been a journey I’ve tried to take across this entire semester. Putting it into words was a really fun, but also freeing experience. Most notably, Undrowned has left the biggest impression on me. I’m planning on keeping it and its lessons close to my heart forever. This is why I picked a quote from this magnificent book for my final picture. Thanks to the readings and lessons I’ve learned in ENG533, even when I feel alone I will never be alone, because someone will always be with me. Myself. I now feel so at home in my own body and in my environment. Thank you so much Professor Ensor for a semester so amazing I can’t express it with words.This has been my favorite class I’ve ever taken. I’m really grateful for the chance to learn from you and the others in both of my classes I have you for.

Works Cited

Angus, C. (2021). A Natural History of Transition. Metonymy Press. 

Bass, R. (2006). The Lives of Rocks. Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.

Bendrof, O. (2015). The Spectral Wilderness. The Kent State University Press. 

Grover, J.Z. (1997).  North Enough: AIDS and Other Clear-Cuts. Graywolf Press. 

Gumbs, A.P. (2020). Undrowned: Black Feminist Lessons from Marine Mammals. AK Press. 

Lorde, A. (1997). Uses of the Erotic. Out & Out Books. 

Johnson, A. (n.d). How to Queer Ecology: One Goose at a Time. Orion Magazine. Retrieved from https://orionmagazine.org/article/how-to-queer-ecology-once-goose-at-a-time/

Proulx, A. (1997, October 13). Brokeback Mountain. The New Yorker.

Vachon, C. (Producer) & Haynes, T. (Director). (1995). [Safe]. [Motion picture]. United States: Sony Pictures Classic.