Five books about non-binary identity that aren’t ‘Orlando’

Virginia Woolf’s personal views were beset with antisemitism and classism — gender diverse people deserve a better literary hero.

Last month, the theme for Met Gala 2020 was announced. To widespread bemusement, it was revealed that Anna Wintour’s invitees would strut the red carpet in ensembles inspired by “time” (we can already imagine stylists desperately brainstorming outfit ideas that put a couture spin on clocks). In order to pin this abstract concept onto something more concrete, and give celebs something to go on, the Met’s Costume Institute indicated that Virginia Woolf’s Orlando was a major point of inspiration.

For those unaware, the 1928 publication is essentially a love letter to Woolf’s favourite friend-with-benefits Vita Sackville-West (beats sexting, right?). Imagining Sackville-West as a time-travelling, gender-fluid English nobleman called “Orlando” the novel traces a journey across different cultures and centuries. Running from the Renaissance to the 1920s and blazing a trail from England to the Constantinople of the Ottoman Empire, by way of a nomadic Romany community, it’s a forward-thinking piece of literature that remains influential to this day.

In theory, there’s a lot to like about Orlando. In practice, however, a contemporary reader is unlikely to overlook the racism that recurs throughout, particularly in its depiction of Constantinople. Woolf’s personal views, and the Modernist movement itself, were also beset with antisemitism and classism — making her an unlikely muse for 2020. So why is Orlando still considered a cult classic? 

Likely, it’s to do with its centrality to the nascent trans literary canon. As it stands, the forces contributing to trans people’s social marginalisation and persecution have largely prevented them from making their experiences heard within the field of literature. This is definitely changing — writers like Juliet Jacques and Juno Roche and theorists like Susan Stryker and Andrea Long Chu immediately spring to mind here — but trans, non-binary voices remain underrepresented. Given that Orlando’s protagonist moves between different gender roles, reading the novel provides parallels with the gender fluid experience and ultimately helps represent non-binary identities in some way. 

However, if you look hard enough, you can see that there are works besides Orlando that can provide this representation in literature. Often written by gender diverse people themselves, we’ve compiled a list of reads that will be a lot more helpful to non-binary people and their allies than anything Woolf ever cooked up. 

Leslie Fenberg’s Stone Butch Blues is, without a doubt, one of the most important pieces of writing on queer identity to have ever been published in the west. The author’s experiences as a transmasculine, non-binary person guide the memoir, which charts the beginnings of the civil rights and LGBT rights struggles. It’s a painful read, the kind that sits with you heavily for months, as its author recounts sexual assault at the hands of the police, rampant homophobia and transphobia and instances of gut-wrenching heartbreak. Yet it’s also an important piece of work to engage with and reflect upon — particularly in its author’s rejection of binary identities and the discrimination they face from the lesbian and trans communities because of it. 

A recent long-list for the Man Booker, Akwaeke Emezi’s Freshwater is informed by their experiences as an ogbanje, which they define in an essay for The Cut as; “an Igbo spirit that’s born into a human body, a kind of malevolent trickster.” The novel explores the difficulty of being in-between; living in a body that bridges the intersections of the mortal and spirit worlds. Alongside experiences with depression, drug and alcohol abuse and self-harm, Emezi also details struggles with dysphoria as someone that exists between the poles of “male” and “female”. It’s a vital read for anyone hoping to inform themselves beyond constraining, Christian perspectives on gender and looking to gain greater insight into fluidity in both gender and sexuality.

Maggie Nelson had established herself as a writer with cult favourites like Bluets and The Red Parts before taking the leap towards writing about her “queer life” with The Argonauts. The novel charts her evolving relationship with partner Harry Dodge, an American, non-binary artist as the two undergo a mutual experience of bodily “transition” through pregnancy and gender-affirming surgeries, respectively. With its profound meditations on love, in all its forms, it’s a book that gives a shape to the kind of emotional intensity we often struggle to put into words. Yet, rooted in the queer perspective, it’s primarily a useful tool to anyone looking to better support a non-binary loved one or partner, particularly one that is transitioning medically. 

It’s no secret that Travis Alabanza is one of the foremost young voices in British theatre today. Burgerz, a play about a transphobic attack that went unchallenged by a sea of onlookers, initially debuted at Hackney Showroom before its word-of-mouth popularity led to a sold-out Edinburgh Fringe run, a UK-wide tour and performances across Europe. Whilst Alabanza is best seen live, there’s also a lyricism to their work that beams out from the written page. If anyone hasn’t had the chance to see them perform, it’s worth picking up the printed play script for Burgerz. Within, you can find ample food for thought on how to become a better ally to trans women and transfeminine people of colour alongside musings on the non-binary experience which are still overlooked in mainstream discussions of trans identity. 

To come full-circle, Andrea Lawlor’s Paul Takes the Form of Mortal Girl is a reimagining of Orlando; removing its racist overtones and plunging the protagonist Paul into the queer underground of the ‘90s. A more literal exploration of gender fluidity, it shows Paul shift between both his gay milieu and lesbian-feminist countercultural spheres in order to better understand himself. Unpacking the minutiae of queer cultural codes and norms, upon finishing the book you’ll realise that there’s barely a cis-heterosexual character within it. Yet, as much as it’s a joyful celebration of queerness and fluidity, it also engages in a serious critique of the gender essentialism and transphobia which rages on in gay and lesbian communities to this day. 

Words
Megan Wallace
Cover image
Tilda Swinton in "Orlando" (1992, dir. Sally Potter)