On the 2023 U.S. release of Red Hands
Hunt them down!
Heedless, headstrong, and headlong love. Who knew it would doom her country, too? Intelligent, stylish Iordana wasn’t interested in communist strategies while she enjoyed spectacular privilege–unimaginable to the 20 million souls living under the iron fist of a dictatorship ruled by a murderous family she chose to marry into.
But as a member of the elite Nomenclatura during Romania's cool 1960s, she had to have her Valentin. Just as she rose in the Ceausescu clan over her parents’ objections, so she fell when the murderous dictator and his criminal partner were taken down.
“Death to the Dracu grandson” rang through the subways. An angry world chased her and her son in an effort to wipe the name Ceausescu off the face of the earth. They hunted her from Bucharest to Israel to Canada to closer than you think. She escaped to the other side of the world, only to find herself branded an illegal alien in a quiet suburb on the coast of Maine.
Where to go? Where to hide? How will he even register for school? A tiny town in America will have to do for now.
On The Boston Castrato, 2017
One of the inspirations for my writing The Boston Castrato is a recovered memory. Cleaning out my basement, I ran into a battered report card from the Ledgemere Country Day School in Cape Elizabeth, Maine. "After a very rocky start, Colin's behavior has improved and is now more in line with the norm."
About this rocky start. On the first day of school, I slipped out of class, climbed to the attic, popped through the skylight, and crawled up on the roof for a good look around. At home, my climbing pursuits had been encouraged, as my father was a B-17 pilot. But in kindergarten, I was most surprised to learn this was not the case. As punishment for giving everyone a big scare, I was forced to sit for a week at the PINK table, where all bad boys were marooned. Yes, I learned my lesson, but perhaps just not the one intended. This was my first experience with cultural castration, in this case by gender color-shaming. In one fell swoop, all the girls in the class were insulted, too.
I feel connected with outsiders, people dismissed for their culture, the color of their skin, their sexual orientation, the cut of their clothes, their dreams. I even feel drawn to smokers now, exiled and marginalized, forced to do their dirty business in the rain. Once they were people. They were stylish people! Then they were people who smoked. Now, ominously, they are Smokers. Once we've given you a label–and yes, we're all guilty of this–we've got you.
My novel Museum of Human Beings was about Jean Baptiste Charbonneau, the expedition papoose of the Lewis & Clark Voyage of Discovery who we decided would remain a baby forever. On coins, in school, on paintings, in song. How easy. We didn't even use his name. We labeled him the Papoose, which is really what he was riding in.
We use labels to make sense of the Universe, but in doing so we create nonsense.
There is a growing awareness of the tension between self-definition (by sex, by attraction, by ethnicity, by race, by age) and cosmic definition. These handles become elusive under scrutiny. Gender is not in your genitals, and sexual orientation is not in your anatomical sex organs. Raffi gives up conventional manhood by going through the most obvious transformation for the promise of celebrity. The Boston Castrato illustrates how corrosive labels can be, and how castrating, in that they make a person feel powerless. There are so many other ways your power can be taken from you, some of our choosing, some by birth, and some by circumstance.
At a dinner party, a friend (who died last year of multiple sclerosis but always kept her own naughty sense of humor, even in paraplegia) rabbit punched me with, Must everything be a joke to you? in her usual Teutonic clip. I'm experimenti