Throughout my life, reading has always been something that comes in and out in quick spurts — I find a novel I am entranced by, read through it as I’m going through tunnel vision, and then I don’t pick up another book (outside of an academic context) for several more weeks. That said, I’m now in yet another one of those spurts of reading. I finally picked up a long non-fiction piece that has been collecting dust on my desk for some time now, The Imperial Presidency by Arthur Schlessinger, purely in an effort to slow myself down.
As my therapist likes to put it, I’m spinning my wheels at the moment. That’s to say, I feel horrifically restless as I’m inching closer to graduation within the next five weeks. In lots of ways, it feels like being a plane in the sky, but not moving — I don’t feel exactly grounded for what comes next, but I would like to land sooner rather than later. My restlessness takes form in not being able to hold a single thought — not focusing in any class, which does not help the floating feeling. I’ve found that, though I struggle to keep it consistent, books have always been a means for me to have something tangible to come back to everyday.
My friends like to call me an old man, partly because I dress like one, but also because I prefer things in paper form. Audiobooks and ebooks, even for assignments, are for whatever reason impossible for me to keep my attention on. A chunk of paper in my hands, though, with one story, gives me something both literally and figuratively to hold onto. It’s a nice break from the inevitable doomscrolling that everyone does, especially when the news cycle is so turbulent that it’s stressful to even consider.
I think there’s a common misconception, that to be a reader, you have to read the popular titles, the classics, know the references and always have a book on you at all times. For me, at least, it’s that misconception that inadvertently keeps me from picking up a book after having not read one in some time. The truth is, though, being a reader just means you enjoy reading. Its definition is subjective, here — I’ve read both 400-page non-fiction political pieces, while also re-reading the same fictional queer romance books over and over again. It’s sort of like when people judge others for rewearing outfits: it’s ridiculous. We rewatch shows and movies over and over again, say, The Office or Criminal Minds because they’re good stories. Why not do that with books, too? It doesn’t take you any less of a reader, I don’t think, to occasionally do a re-read. As is with any other form of media, taking a second look can also bring out things you didn’t notive the first time.
So, if I feel tired of doomscrolling, I’ll read a chapter of the book I have. If it still doesn’t catch my interest, I admittedly do end up on my phone again. But there are moments too that do capture me, and proceed to hold my attention for the next several chapters. My friend Madeline has (what I think is) a general common tactic — reading just one minute per day. An entire 60 seconds — if it keeps you interested, great. If it doesn’t, you tried.
Stories are simply something I love. Fiction or non-fiction, a good story is a good story — the run-up, the climax and the resolution of a high school English class has the potential to be just as exciting as the story of a world war, to me. Stories outside of reading, too, of course. Storytelling podcasts have a near-exclusive grip on me, and the occasional long, catch-up conversation with someone is just as good. As a generally restless person and an overthinker, stories give me a spot to channel myself — no matter how unrelated to me they might be.
My big (non-biological, entirely found by accident, and stayed purposefully) brother is a prime example of a storyteller that can alwyas catch my attention. The stories they told me when we’d first met were in large part about their childhood, and how they’d gotten to that current moment. Those stories were ones that I saw myself in — though they grew up half the country away, with a wholly different family and background, they were trans too. They, like me, experienced the trenches of transphobia from relatives early on. They, like me, love the cold and love long walks. They, unlike me, though, hated school their whole life. They, unlike me, have always been far more laid-back and are rarely concerned about what others think. And just for good measure, they were good at school sports — volleyball, in particular — and I am one of the least physically coordinated people I know. We talk about this often, how vastly different we are, and yet through every story we’ve told each other, we’re each other’s closest companions.
Stories are a means of getting to know something: another person, another history, another perspective and another experience. Whatever it may be, that’s why I love them. Stories are empathetic.
This all said, autobiographies are arguably my favorite genre of writing. I remember reading Chasten Buttigieg’s autobiography (Husband of former presidential candidate and Secretary of Transportation, Pete Buttigieg) when I was around fourteen, and seeing myself throughout it. He describes his own turbulent journey as a young adult reconciling with his sexuality as a Midwesterner from a rural place, as the child of what could potentially be labelled “old-fashioned” parents, and so on. He spends his time recounting his rocky time in a state college, finding his way in and out, being homeless, even if for just a moment, and, funnily enough, a person who wanted to study theatre. Ironically, I realize now that I’ll be walking in very similar steps — getting a degree in the humanities at a university in Chicago.
Of course, then, I read his husband’s — again, Pete Buttigieg — autobiography as well. His story was perplexingly different from that of Chasten’s, apart from the fact that they were both midwestern boys. He was an incredible student from his days in high school, and astoundingly put together at his age. He was accepted to Harvard as an undergraduate, became a Rhodes Scholar, and truly had the golden resume. Unlike Chasten, it wasn’t until he was well into adulthood that he came out as gay. Something about this struck me — even with the thousands of stories that exist, it still seems difficult to find stories of queer millennials, Gen X, and older people. It was as comforting a read as Chasten’s work, though — something about the variability in their lives felt, to me, like it was evidence toward the ability for queer people to exist peacefully. To grow up in however many different ways, to pursue different careers, hold different ambitions, and still be able to find a place where they are loved.
I suppose then it’s not just the physical book in my hands that grounds me, but the stories that are printed in them — it’s easy to see myself on at least one page, a sentence there and again. It’s easy then to see another perspective — another human person’s life experience. It is lovely.
About the Author
Theo Tran is a high school senior from Denver, Colorado. He is a first-generation Vietnamese American, and identifies as both transgender and gay. Theo is deeply passionate about history and the social sciences, which has fueled his participation in grassroots organizing at the local level. Theo joined Matthew’s Place after designing stage lights for his school’s production of The Laramie Project, where like so many, he resonated profoundly with Matthew’s story and the foundation’s mission: to erase hate. He plans to become a teacher in the future, and has experience in political organizing. You can reach out to Theo at tkpr.tran@gmail.com for any questions, comments, or just to have a chat!