Water the Plants, Read the Story

Pride Month Joy and Liberation

Prior to my recent trip to Portland, I had heard of Powell’s Bookstore, but never given it much thought. When I learned my hotel was just blocks from the flagship location of this iconic independent bookstore, I knew I had to visit.

I was completely unprepared for the joy of this experience. The place was huge, four floors of wonder encompassing an entire city block. Color coded rooms with more than 3,500 sections. I quickly realized I could spend the whole day there and not have enough time. Knowing I wouldn’t see it all, I wandered for a while and then picked the sections of high priority. Of course this meant poetry and all shelves queer.

There is something incredibly marvelous about finding your story on the shelf. Something healing and humbling, inspiring and inviting about opening a book to read pieces of you on the page. In a quiet aisle of the blue section, in front of a shelf marked “LGBTQ-Fiction & Poetry” I vividly remembered the first time I had such an experience.

Growing up, my dad took on a lot of odd jobs, especially when he was laid off from the factory. Some of these jobs were a one-time gig, like helping a guy build a pitching mound in his backyard. Others were ongoing, like taking care of a woman’s house every Christmas season when she went to visit family out of state. I tagged along, initially out of boredom and curiosity.

The to-do list stayed the same from year to year; shovel snow, bring in mail, and water plants. The house was small. The number of plants inside was unreal, occupying every single room. While my dad worked outside on the snow, I’d start my watering. Truthfully, I couldn’t have cared less about the plants, I loved looking at the books, which like green leaves and flower pots were everywhere.

The woman who owned the house was a librarian. I can’t remember not knowing her. I also can’t remember any conversation with her that lasted more than a few words. You can learn a lot though about someone by the books they keep. Every year the piles were taller and the shelves fuller. I noticed new additions. As a young child, I thought I wanted to be a librarian, like her, when I got older. How cool it must be to get paid to read and fill your house with books!

One particularly cold and snowy December, my dad and I headed over to the house. She had a snow blower now, so my dad didn’t have to the shovel the long driveway and sidewalks by hand. I was in high school and the job was more a chore than an adventure. Less interested in books, I just wanted to get all the plants watered and be done.

In the back bedroom, turned into an office, a shiny book on the shelf caught my attention. It seemed new. The binding and font looked familiar. Pulling it off the shelf, it appeared to be a Nancy Drew book, like the ones I had at home; gifts from my grandparents. Closer inspection showed something quite different.

It wasn’t a Nancy Drew mystery written by Carolyn Keene, but rather lesbian pulp fiction. In the 1990s Mabel Maney published a parody series. The first book called “The Case of the Not-So-Nice Nurse: A Nancy Clue and Cherry Aimless Mystery.”

Forgetting about the plants, I sat on the edge of a treadmill covered in newspapers and magazines to start reading. It only took a few pages to figure out the story. For a few moments, I felt joy. I felt like I had found a piece of me in a story that I didn’t know could be told. I felt affirmed and seen. Important enough to be included, read, and written about.

Hearing my dad at the door, I carefully put the book down and got back to watering. On the next visit, it wasn’t just my dad and I. When others saw the book, they laughed. Made jokes about Nancy Clue and women like her. I never let on, that I had read a few chapters and was pretty sure I was a whole lot like her.

For a brief second, I thought about asking if Powell’s had any Nancy Clue books in stock. But ultimately decided I wanted the memory more than the book. The joyful affirmation of finding me in the story as a teenager. The joyful adrenaline of sneaking a peak at those pages. The joyful realization that I wasn’t an anomaly; there were people like me. Maybe one day I’d find them. Or have the courage to speak with them when they were standing right in front of me.

Libraries and bookstores have always been a safe haven. A place as magical as Disneyworld or the castle on the playground. Those who tend to these spaces, mythical superheroes and tour guides. Guardians of galaxies. Sages and sorcerers of knowledge and creativity.

It’s really no wonder that politicians and preachers want to defund libraries, ban books, criminalize drag queen readings, replace the arts with bible studies, and pull down story boards to put up the Ten Commandments. They know the power of words and wisdom, the ways that teaching history shapes the arc of tomorrow, the joy that rises when young readers find themselves in the story.

They do not want queer stories, trans stories, pride stories, black stories, Juneteenth stories, indigenous stories, immigrant and migrant stories, Muslim stories, Jewish stories, disability stories, feminist and womanist stories, or any story that challenges the status quo or celebrates diversity, equity, and inclusion. They fear stories that speak to freedom because their agenda is oppression. They shred stories of resistance because unchecked authority is their goal.

But despite the ongoing and ever-increasing efforts to erase our stories, we are still here. Still living, writing, reading, and sharing our stories.

This June for Pride month, I remain committed to writing about queer joy and liberation. And also, to living it.

Liberation is a loud breaking of chains, it is also a quiet corner of a bookstore reading lesbian poetry without shame. Liberation is marching in the streets to protect our neighbors from harm, it is also napping under a tree in the park dreaming about Nancy Clue and Cherry Aimless.

Joy is showing up to water the plants. Liberation is staying to read the story.

What stories have you read?
What stories are you reading?

Have you ever had to search to find your story? Or hide to read it?
Have you ever been told your story was unworthy of a place on the shelf?

When is the last time you read a story very different than your own?

It was so hard to choose, but here’s my Powell’s purchase.

With Water and Wonder,
Rebecca & 10 Camels

If you’d like to know more of my Unraveling story, check out this conversation I had with Anne-Marie Zanzal on the Coming Out and Beyond Podcast. Watch here on Youtube. Listen on Apple Podcasts or Spotify.