If you spend time around transgender people, you may notice, on badges and buttons, on sewn patches, or even as a tattoo, the sigil “T4T,” or “t4t.” The characters stand for “trans for trans,” and the usage began as shorthand on dating sites. These days, it’s not only an erotic preference but a statement about solidarity, about membership. Imogen Binnie’s “Nevada” might be, in that extended, contentious sense, the first t4t novel.
Published in 2013 by the trans-focussed (and now defunct) Topside Press, and just reissued by the mainstream trade publisher Farrar, Straus & Giroux, “Nevada” is hardly the first novel about trans characters, or the first by a trans author for the queer community—Leslie Feinberg got there in 1993, with “Stone Butch Blues.” Still, “Nevada” seemed to be the first book-length realist novel about trans women, in American English, with an ISBN on it, that was not only written by one of us but written for us. In particular, it’s about the groups we create in the age of the Internet, encouraging one another in our new freedoms and in our self-destructive fallacies. And, in sixty brief chapters, it strenuously resists the stance my friends call “Trans 101”: it will not, as Binnie says in a new afterword, seek “validation from cis people.” The novel is defiant, terse, not quite cynical, sometimes flip (where Feinberg is bluntly earnest), addressed to people who think they know. It is, if you like, punk rock.
And Binnie knows punk rock. When the novel appeared, she was mainly known as a columnist for the punk zine Maximumrocknroll. Being trans, Binnie wrote there in 2013, “has taught me not to trust anybody”; she prefers “assuming that everybody fucking sucks and doesn’t know how to treat trans women as human beings.” But the same column also took note of serendipity. “For once in my goddamn life,” she reports, “the punker in the non-punk environment I was bumping into turned out to be a trans woman too!” Of course they teamed up: “being in a band with another trans woman is the best.”
“Nevada” is Binnie’s attempt to create, metaphorically, that band. Her twenty-nine-year-old protagonist, Maria Griffiths, addresses other trans women in popular blog posts on the early-two-thousands Internet (we see one of her posts), telling us about ourselves, and showing us, through her own life, where we get ourselves wrong. But “Nevada” is also a story of failure: Maria can’t get her offline life together. She plans to break up with her better-adjusted, cisgender girlfriend, Steph, but Steph breaks up with her first. Maria slacks off in her dead-end job at a prestigious used bookstore (modelled on the Strand) until she’s fired. Then she steals Steph’s car, and drives to Nevada in an attempt, for once in her life, to find out what she wants and what she likes, rather than what she rejects and loathes.
Maria stops at a charmless Nevada hamlet built around a Walmart and meets a young shrinking violet of a Walmart employee named James. She concludes that James must be trans, like her, but not yet aware of it—that he’s what we call an egg. She wants to help James hatch, and invites him to join her on a trip to Reno. James finds Maria fascinating, then compelling, then alienating and bossy, so he ditches her.
That’s pretty much the plot. Binnie’s deadpan, offhand narration makes clear how little the plot is the point. Instead, “Nevada” introduces its readers to a trans woman’s consciousness from the inside, telling us things we might have expressed in blog posts or e-mails or song lyrics but would not yet have seen in prose fiction—certainly not in realist prose fiction about adults.
And the novel begins with depressingly bad sex. Maria “acts like she’s into it,” faking pleasure to satisfy Steph. “You’d think it would be impossible to fake it, with junk like Maria’s got, but you can,” Binnie writes. “Maria knows some stuff about faking it.” Maria, we learn, takes hormones but has not had surgery. More important, we learn that Maria’s partner is choking her, not just literally, in sex play, but emotionally. (“She’s choking me” are the first words in the book.) “The moment her pants come off, she stops being in her body.” That’s how sex feels when you don’t think your body is yours. (Ask me how I know.) Maria can’t be her true self while Steph is around. But maybe she can’t be her true self anyway. What even is a true self? Can you still be trans if you don’t have an answer?
“Nevada” can’t stop asking. It treats the injections, the pills, and so on with a knowing frown and a shrug. Authenticity, not uplift, is the point; it isn’t a book about collective struggles for civil rights, although it is a book about people who have white privilege and still can’t take those rights for granted. You don’t need a fire alarm going off if you can already see that your kitchen’s in flames. You might, though, need safe ways to leave the house. And Maria has always needed to leave the house.
Maria grew up (flashbacks tell us) in rural Pennsylvania and spent a lot of her teen years stoned; as planned, she got through college, then moved to New York City. Once she started living as a woman, she had no idea where to go next, having spent her youth absorbed by rejection, resistance, and flight. Before coming out, “being present in her body meant feeling things like: My gender is wrong, and My body feels weird, and My mind feels like it’s being ground into the concrete by how bad I need to fix that.” After coming out, she faced the question she later asks James: “What do you want?” (James’s reply: “Not all this.”)
“Nevada” is a book about leaving, about rejecting, about saying no: no to the standard Trans 101 narrative, in which, before transition, we’re all suicidal and, after transition, we’re all happily indistinguishable from cisgender people, unless we become doomed sex workers; no to the expectations that books about trans people written for cis people usually meet. And no to the lives that Maria and James have been living. Nobody in “Nevada” finds true love, no cis character has an on-page epiphany thanks to a trans friend, and nobody dies. Binnie’s tight third-person narration sticks closely to the figure that each chapter follows: mostly Maria, later James, and, for one chapter, Steph. That arrangement lets readers stay with each character as she, or he, pushes away what the wider, respectable world of employment and romance expects.
“Nevada” says no—wryly, elegantly, entertainingly—to other literary tropes, too. It’s a road novel where no one, emotionally or existentially, gets anywhere. It’s a caper about a big drug score where nobody gets caught, nobody gets rich, and nobody makes a smooth getaway. It’s a breakup story where neither partner cares very much about the romance that ends. It’s also a trans novel where no one transitions. “Because the mysterious in-between phase is the most salaciously interesting thing to people who don’t have to go through with it, I decided to cut it out,” Binnie explains in her afterword. “Nevada” understands how, no matter what we do after we come out, we will probably feel that we got something wrong.
Every location does symbolic work. Maria hates her bookstore job not just because she hates her routine and bosses hassle her but because none of the books there can tell the story of her life. While Maria, who loves bicycling, takes to the road, James spends as much time as he can in sealed spaces, getting high: he likes “hotboxing,” filling a closed place with pot smoke—Maria’s car, for example, or his bathroom. Here’s Maria’s X-ray of where he lives:
All the characters in “Nevada” are trying to explain who they are, or trying to avoid someone else’s explanation. No wonder the novel is so insistently quotable. “That stereotype about transsexuals being all wild and criminal and bold and outside the norm and, like, engendering in the townsfolk the courage to break free from the smothering constraints of conformity? That stereotype is about drag queens. Maria is transsexual and she is so meek she might disappear.” (How many trans girls drew stars in the margins of their Topside editions right there?) Hanging out with Kieran, a popular, educated trans guy, Maria “can’t help but figure out that, while gender is a construct, so is a traffic light, and if you ignore either of them, you get hit by cars. Which, also, are constructs.” Even the numbly inarticulate James records thoughts that trans readers might have had. He looks at Maria and thinks, No thanks: “you were inevitably unhappy with your life because you’re trans, right? Meaning transition doesn’t work.” Steph thinks quotably, too. “Kinks are arrows giving you directions,” she reflects. “If you want someone to slap you and call you a stupid little girl, that probably says something about your relationship to ever having been a little girl.”
Mostly, though, the apothegms are Maria’s. Like many writers who want to sound hip, or punk, Maria eschews highfalutin words and complex sentences: her insights come off raw, even authentically clumsy. In fact, trans identity itself, in “Nevada,” means being raw, or clumsy, and experiencing things belatedly: puberty, for example, or crying all the time. “Maria is really good at being trans,” she knows, but she’s bad at basic self-care: “being trans interrupts normal human development,” so that “you end up getting stuck at the tween stage, the Nickelodeon stage, the I can take care of myself but I suck at it stage.” (Stars in the margins, again.) Coming out as trans “is rejecting the poisonous, normative idea that there is a Too Old for Catharsis. Or, really, a Too Old for Anything.”