Janet Mock - Surpassing Certainty: What My Twenties Taught Me

Also by Janet Mock

Redefining Realness

An Imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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Copyright 2017 by Janet Mock

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First Atria Books hardcover edition June 2017

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Interior design by Amy Trombat

Author photograph Aaron Tredwell

Jacket design by Laywan Kwan

Jacket photograph by Mark Seliger

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

ISBN 978-1-5011-4579-7

ISBN 978-1-5011-4581-0 (ebook)

For the girls struggling, striving, and slaying in the shadows. With such little light, you sparkle. I am in awe of your brilliance.

And the speaking will get easier and easier. And you will find you have fallen in love with your own vision, which you may never have realized you had. And you will lose some friends and lovers, and realize you dont miss them. And new ones will find you and cherish you. And you will still flirt and paint your nails, dress up and party.... And at last youll know with surpassing certainty that only one thing is more frightening than speaking your truth. And that is not speaking.

AUDRE LORDE

INTRODUCTION

MY BACK WAS EXPOSED IN A SLINKY HALTER as I made my way through Hot Tropics nightclub, my go-to spot on Thursdays in Waikiki. It was a bit past one A.M., and the gyrating bodies on the dance floor obscured my view of someone I once knew. I recognized her face at once: wide, open, and flat, like she was pressed against a window peering in. I used to see that same face in high school, across the cafeteria. We never had a chance to say hello but we were once part of each others every day. Oahu was small, linking locals socially by just a few steps. It was suffocating.

When our eyes met, I felt the shudder of her knowing glare. She was unmoving. I rushed for a seat in a red leather booth nearby to evade her. This also offered me reprieve from a roster of underwhelming dance partners. My bare thighs slid together as I slinked onto the seat in strappy high-heeled sandals that helped me achieve my ideal video vixen aesthetic.

Clubs are companions for those alone and awake. They fulfilled my desire to be desired and satiated my itch for a mans body against mineclose, strong, and steady. I resigned myself to the possibility of spending the night alone, because my girlfriend Cassie, with whom I had arrived, could not peel herself away from a Brazilian guy with ravenous hands. Their bodies had settled into a cozy choreography, her lean thigh lifted to his hip, his hand supporting her as she curved her back in ecstasy. Their appetite for each other seemed to mean there would be no room for me in Cassies Lexus that night. Good for her , I thought, as I watched the guy pet her jet-black mane.

The drunk and jubilant revelers camouflaged me as I tried my best to recall the name of the woman from school. She was alone, tall, olive-skinned, and dark-eyed, leaning against the bar with crossed arms. She seemed unsatisfied by her own lack of prospects, which made me feel less alone. In a feminist utopia, wed dance together, make a gleeful exit, and seek satisfaction with stacks of Dennys buttermilk pancakes. Instead, she seemed to stand in judgment.

I had long grown familiar with this particular lookknowing, intense, and direct. She knows me , I warned myself. In my nineteen years, I hadnt yet gotten used to the fact that nearly everywhere I wentfrom this club on Kuhio Avenue to the Ward Center cinemas and the pebbled walkways of my campussomeone knew me or had at least heard about me. Privacy wasnt often granted to a girl like me who had spent years standing out by merely being . It was the price I paid for living my truth. She knew I knew that all itd take to shatter my fragile normality as another pretty girl in a club was a whisper. The last thing I wanted that night was for her to speak. I didnt want to be clocked , to be discovered, and excluded. Too many nights had ended with me upset by harsh truths that stripped me of my right to disclose and self-define on my own terms. The truth is a whip when wielded by a malicious mouth, lashing you into obedience and confinement, a stinging reminder that despite your best efforts, you are still captive to others.

I was so preoccupied by her menacing focus on me that I didnt notice the towering man with onyx skin approaching me. His full plum lips curved into a smile and made his black eyes even more narrow, like marbles in the clasped hands of a child. He looked like a model on a Sean John runway, with carved cheekbones, a square jaw, and feline eyes. His head was bald and glistening under the clubs neon lights. He wore his handsomeness confidently but not cockily, commanding me to focus on him as he stretched his hand out to me.

Can I have this dance? he asked.

His presence left me with no other option but to peel myself from my seat. He led me to the crowded dance floor, where he spun me around and away, only to pull me back in. His hands caressed my waist, then slid to the small of my bare back. He made me feel chosenthe reason I had traded the comfort of my couch for the club. Sure, I wanted to be social, but ultimately, I wanted someone to say, Yes, you. I want you.

During a break between songs, I excused myself to go to the restroom.

Can I get you a drink? he asked.

Ginger ale, please, I said, as I turned away with a smile.

My reflection betrayed me as I took myself in at the crowded restroom mirror. My edges were sweated out. My skin had surpassed dewy and become drenched. At least my body was snatched, I thought, despite an unceasing terror that I was just a burger away from chubbiness. I was young, and my body was resilient enough not to succumb to my late-night diet (Taco Bell Mexican pizzas, Jack in the Box egg rolls, and Zippys chili and chicken mixed plates). I patted my face with a toilet seat liner, powdered my forehead, and reapplied a coat of MACs Prrr lipglass before returning to the dance floor. He was standing with our drinks right where I had left him.

I just heard the craziest thing. He chuckled. You wont even believe it.

Try me. I smiled, wrapping my hand around the cool, wet glass of soda.

So this woman at the bar taps me on the shoulder, and Im thinking maybe I know her, he said. But I dont recognize her, and I just say, Whats up? And shes, like, I wasnt going to say anything, but I think its fair that you know. And I just nod, you know?

I furrowed my brow in response and ripped the maraschino cherry from its stem, crunching its sweetness between my teeth. I knew where this was going. I had feared this the moment I saw her.

And she goes, That girl youre dancing with isnt what she seems. And I just look at her, because I dont know what shes talking about. So she tells me that she went to school with you and you were a dude or some shit, he said, chuckling again. And she smiles this creepy smile, waiting for my reaction, and thats when I knew she was on some other shit. Can you believe that?