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The Road to Asylum

As dawn arrives, Marfil Estrella looks out the window of the bus that will take her from San Salvador, El Salvador to Guatemala City, Guatemala. Photos by Danielle Villasana.

Alice Driver | Longreads | June 2018 | 21 minutes (5,300 words)

DISPONIBLE EN ESPAÑOL

“I want to finish elementary school.” — Karla Avelar, 40, founder of the Comcavis Trans Association, which advocates for LGBTI rights in El Salvador

* * *

“Women, don’t be deceived,” boomed the weary, yellow-eyed preacher, his sombrero tipped forward with a drama fitting for his bus-ride sermon, one that would last all the way from San Salvador, the capital of El Salvador, to Guatemala City. As he made his way down the aisle of the bus, he stopped to touch women and girls on the head or the arm. “Don’t let men trick you,” he shouted, holding his bible up so high its well-worn pages brushed the roof of the bus. He didn’t touch Marfil Estrella Pérez Méndoza, 26, whose chosen name translates to Ivory Star. As she rested her round, hopeful face on the bus window, dark eyes peering out into the rainy grayness of early morning, the preacher passed by without laying a hand. “How do you say asylum in English?” she whispered.

Marfil Estrella was born in Cuscatlán, El Salvador, in a body that never felt like her own. She was assigned male at birth, and at 15, she came out as gay to her family. Their response was to disown her. “They told me that I brought shame on the family, that I should forget about them, and that I needed to leave,” explained Marfil Estrella. Like many members of the LGBTI community in El Salvador, her family forced her onto the street, and her schooling ended abruptly at ninth grade because she had no money to continue. She fled to San Salvador and slept in a park where she met other gay boys. “I saw a transsexual, and I said, ‘I want to be like her! I want to be like her!’” she recalled. She lived on the street, grew out her hair, and began to dress in women’s clothes, but she had no way to earn a living and consequently became very thin. Eventually she started to do sex work, one of the only options available to trans women in El Salvador to earn money. Read more…

Angrily Experiencing the Best Days of Our Lives

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Linda Kinstler | Longreads | June 2018 | 12 minutes (3,116 words)

No one heard the flames when they began to lick the roof of our cabin on Christmas Day. The smoke made no sound as it accumulated on the third floor, first in small whisps, then in thick clouds. In the living room downstairs, our small group was sprawled out on the couches watching the Soviet Christmas classic Evenings on a Farm Near Dikanka, the fairytale film based on a collection of stories by Nikolai Gogol. The stove fire was stuffed with wood, but its raging fire seemed contained. It was negative 26 degrees celsius outside of our mountain lodge, a bone-chilling winter day in the Carpathian foothills of southwestern Ukraine, but inside it was getting hot.

The warmth made us lethargic, so we didn’t notice when the cracks in the floorboards and doors started to glow. When my Russian failed me and the scenes in the movie became too hard to follow, I turned to my copy of Voroshilovgrad, a novel by the Ukrainian writer, activist, and musician Serhiy Zhadan, the bard of eastern Ukraine. The book had appeared in Ukrainian in 2010, and the English translation, by Isaac Stackhouse Wheeler and Reilly Costigan-Humes, had just come out. Set in Zhadan’s hometown of Luhansk — which was called Voroshilovgrad during Soviet times — the novel tells a very Ukrainian story, one of homecoming and heartbreak, of dashed hopes, of wars and borders, and the relentless return of the dead. Brothers killed in a fire somehow come back to life to play a soccer game; no one sticks around waiting for the future, only for the past. Read more…

The Daughter as Detective

AP Photo/Heribert Proepper

Alice Bolin | Dead Girls | HarperCollins | June 2018 | 27 minutes (7,414 words)

My parents met as library students at the University of Kentucky in 1979. From my intimate point of view, library school is a bit of an academic catchall, sometimes a plan B, appealing to weirdos of many backgrounds. People assume that librarians love books, but that isn’t even it. University librarians like my parents love flying below the radar, omniscient about university curriculum but not bound by classroom teaching, grading, or even regular students. When she went to library school, my mom was a 25-year-old polyglot, very pretty and shy, who until then had been taking graduate German courses and hanging around Lincoln, Nebraska, listening to the Who. My dad was 32, starting a new career after years of working for the army as an Arabic translator. He is very loud and friendly, bubbly even. Contrary to the stereotype, he is a librarian who is constantly being shushed.

On their first date, he raced up the stairs to her apartment too enthusiastically and fell and broke his arm. He tried to deny that he had injured himself, and they went to a showing of Casablanca. He cradled his arm like a baby in the dark of the movie theater until the pain became too great, and my mom took him to the emergency room. The next day was Labor Day, and no pharmacies were open within walking distance of my dad’s house. He didn’t have a car, so he sheepishly called my mom to ask if she would drive him to get his prescription. She took him back to her house and made him grilled cheese and tomato soup.

The patently adorable and weird quality of their first date seems to have set the tone for their entire relationship. Early on, my dad gave my mom a copy of one of his favorite books: Roseanna, the first in a series of ten mystery novels by Swedish writers Maj Sjöwall and Per Wahlöö that follow the detective Martin Beck. “You’ll find it ironic,” he told her coyly, and she did: the title character, whose murdered corpse washes up on the shores of a Swedish lake, is a librarian in her 20s from Lincoln, Nebraska. My mom was not put off by the implications of this macabre coincidence, and she and my dad are still together now, many decades later. Improbably, my parents’ marriage echoes the Dead Girl story, but with a happy ending.

***

Uncovering the origins of my dad’s Martin Beck obsession has been more of a project than I first anticipated. When I asked how he discovered the books, he first told me that he read about them in a footnote in Robin Winks’s 1969 essay collection The Historian as Detective, a study in the methods and pitfalls of the academic historian, imagining historians as sleuths solving thorny cases. Throughout the book, there are references to actual detective fiction, which my dad used as a syllabus. He talked to me at length about The Historian as Detective, but later was fuzzy on whether Winks had mentioned Sjöwall and Wahlöö at all. He was only certain that it was where he had heard about Robert Hans van Gulik’s Judge Dee novels, historical mysteries about Tang Dynasty China. (The last Judge Dee mystery is called Poets and Murder, a possible alternative title for this book.)

When that lead dried up, he launched into a story from when he was in the army, working a desk job in Charlottesville, Virginia, and, as he told me, “having a lot of fun.” Unexpectedly in 1973, he was called back from vacation and ordered to report to Fort Bragg. The Russians were in danger of joining the Arab-Israeli War, which might require reciprocal action from the United States. Nixon had put all of the 82nd Airborne, of which my dad was nominally a member, on alert. His superiors on the base refused to issue him a uniform because they didn’t know how long he would be staying there. Instead of having him run information in street clothes, they sent him to the library and told him to read whatever he wanted. “I asked them whether they could teach me to jump out of an airplane if we had to go to the Middle East,” he said of his time at Fort Bragg. “They told me, ‘Eh, no problem.’” He read several of Sjöwall and Wahlöö’s books there, but he was already very familiar with the series, so in the end, they were not very important to that story.

A few days later, he called to tell me he actually first read the Martin Beck books when he was a student at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, California. He had known he would be drafted and sent to Vietnam, so he joined the army and became an Arabic translator, an ironic way to avoid combat, considering our current geopolitical situation. In Monterey, he said, he had studied stupidly hard and had no fun, but he found a Martin Beck book on a rare trip into town. Later, he emailed me another confounding update: he visited a relative, a man named Jim who he claimed was his father’s “cousin/nephew,” the night Nixon had fired his attorney general. Jim had worked briefly in the Nixon White House, he told me. His stories unfold this way, full of the small, intriguing details that in a novel might work as foreshadowing. “I typically spent the first hour of the workday looking through The Washington Post to see what the latest Nixon news was,” he went on to say before circling back. “I think I was at Jim’s when I got a call instructing me to go to Fort Bragg.”

I have found his stories often share an eccentric focus on what he was reading during his somewhat Forrest Gumpy journey through the 20th century. Once he regaled me with memories of his time as a firefighter in Idaho in the late 1960s, when he lived with an agriculture student who was later a prisoner in the Iran hostage crisis. (Rory Cochrane, the guy who played Lucas in Empire Records, portrayed Dad’s roommate in the movie Argo.) Dad hitchhiked down to Jackson Hole during a day off and got The Twenty-Seventh Wife, Irving Wallace’s biography of Ann Eliza Young, Brigham Young’s wife, and Fawn Brodie’s No Man Knows My History: The Life of Joseph Smith the Mormon from the library. He took issue with my saying in an early version of this essay that he checked out books about the Mormon Trail. “I was more interested in biography than the settler experience,” he wrote me. “I have since read books like Angle of Repose, and taken an interest in TV shows like Deadwood and Hell on Wheels.”

***

Maj Sjöwall and Per Wahlöö were a pair of Swedish journalists, a married couple who wrote the Martin Beck novels over long nights after their kids were asleep, working on alternate chapters. Their ten novels, released between 1965 and 1975, were an unexpected sensation, popular worldwide and the subjects of dozens of film and TV adaptations. The books are violent, sexually frank, and political, updating the hard-boiled American noir for the liberal Scandinavian 60s. Nearly everyone acknowledges Sjöwall and Wahlöö as the origin point for Nordic noir, a regional genre that has produced international stars like Henning Mankell, Stieg Larsson, and Jo Nesbø. But Sjöwall and Wahlöö didn’t just inspire other Scandinavian writers to embrace the murder mystery: they shaped the genre so completely that all of their descendants bear their eccentricities. The Martin Beck series is bizarre, a fitting starting point for what has become a multimillion-dollar industry selling other bizarre, exasperating books.

The novels follow the melancholy detective Beck and his cohort in the Swedish National  Police’s Homicide Division as they solve cases including a serial sex murderer preying on children, a mass shooting on a bus, a “locked room” mystery involving a corpse decayed beyond recognition, and the assassination of the Swedish prime minister. Sjöwall and Wahlöö’s books hold very little allegiance to the typical noir that is sparsely written and pessimistic, showing one man against the world. Beck is the putative hero, but in practice, the books are ensemble dramas, shading often into ensemble comedies. His colleagues are annoying misfits, described by their quirks, like the fastidious Fredrik Melander, who has a photographic memory, passionately loves his ugly wife, and spends too much time on the toilet. The series abounds with pairs of hapless bozos whose comedic value is underlined by their alliterative names. Bumbling beat cops named Kristiansson and Kvant wreak havoc at several crime scenes until Kristiansson is tragically killed. After that, Kvant gets a new partner named Kvastmo.

Sjöwall has said she and Wahlöö were influenced by “progressive” crime writers like Dashiell Hammett and Georges Simenon, but they took this progressive imperative rather further. Believing that “people read more mysteries than they do political pamphlets,” they set out to write a Marxist indictment of the failures of the Swedish welfare state disguised as a series of mystery novels. They titled their series “The Story of a Crime”—that is, the crime of a cruel and unequal society. They described their political agenda as “the project,” as if it were a covert mission of infiltration, when it could not have been more obvious. In book after book, the authors include pages-long polemics about the nationalization of the police system, Stockholm’s overdevelopment and the miseries of urban life, and the many demographics that had fallen through society’s cracks. Their political tirades are written in a strident, journalistic tone, fissures where narrative conceit drops out completely. A visit to Beck’s elderly mother becomes an occasion to bemoan (at length) the state of Swedish retirement homes:

Nowadays they were called “pensioners’ homes,” or even “pensioners’ hotels,” to gloss over the fact that in practice most people weren’t there voluntarily, but had quite simply been condemned to it by a so-called Welfare State that no longer wished to know about them. It was a cruel sentence, and the crime was being too old. As a worn-out cog in the social machine, one was dumped on the garbage heap.

My notes from the books are filled with comments like “so didactic” and, more to the point, “why didn’t somebody cut this?”

Critics revisiting Sjöwall and Wahlöö’s books now are fawning, using that canonizing method of inverting their weaknesses instead of acknowledging them. A write-up in The Wall Street Journal from 2009 hilariously calls the Martin Beck books “anything but polemical.” Louise France writes in The Guardian that while the action in the books is “often slow,” they are addictive: “You want to block out a week of your life, lie to your boss, and stay in bed, gorging on one after another, as though eating packet upon packet of extra strong mints.” I admit that I don’t recognize the impulse to stay in bed for a week binging on mints, so maybe that’s why I found the experience of reading these slow books a bit slower than France. The sometimes-tedious lack of action in the books is often pointed to as a strength. In his introduction to Roseanna, Henning Mankell writes that “it’s probably one of the first crime novels in which time clearly plays a major role.” Sjöwall echoed this idea recently, saying that “slowness, and the tension that waiting, distance, and irritating gaps in communication create, became an aspect of the books’ realism.” This argument smacks of imitative fallacy to me, but the wonky pacing of the series does point to its redeeming strength: the utter wonkiness and unconventionality of their entire approach.

Roseanna is more wrapped up in Dead Girl genre tropes than the rest of the books. At first, the series seems less a treatise against corrosive changes in Swedish society than a darkly funny and melancholy meditation on the absurdity of Swedish bureaucracy. The novel opens by describing the administrative procedure for dredging the lake that eventually reveals Roseanna’s body: it is unclear who can okay plans for dredging, and papers for it move among agencies, “passed from one perplexed civil servant to another,” a process that takes months. This critique is more existential than political, a mirror for the frustration Martin Beck experiences in his marriage and his career. As a good Dead Girl should, Roseanna haunts and excites Beck, who for a time is unable to identify her. The case consumes him, so that “when he closed his eyes he saw her before him as she looked in the picture, naked and abandoned, with narrow shoulders and her dark hair in a coil across her throat.” Once he identifies Roseanna, though, his image of her is inevitably complicated.

In conversations with her roommate and her boyfriend, back in Nebraska, Beck learns that she was promiscuous and odd, that she looked messy and slept with her friend’s boyfriends. Where Beck thought he had found a Dead Girl, he had, in fact, found an ordinary dead woman.

Sjöwall and Wahlöö’s books at first seem to follow the Dead Girl genre’s usual depiction of female sexuality as sinister and crazy. Women are constantly described as “nymphomaniacs,” including Roseanna and other female victims, seemingly indicating that they have been punished for their insatiability. There are the requisite femmes fatales, many of whom make attempts to seduce Martin Beck, who distractedly rebuffs them—like many noir detectives, Beck is at first little more than a neutered intellect. But especially as the series wears on, we see that many of the regular characters have adventurous and unconventional sex lives, like Beck’s detective friend who lives with his wife only on the weekends and has a girlfriend in Copenhagen. Beck releases himself from his unsatisfying marriage and finds new love with a magnetic and iconoclastic leftist. Unlike most detective series, which rely on the bleakness of their protagonists’ lives, Sjöwall and Wahlöö allowed their detective a journey of enlightenment and redemptive love.

Sjöwall and Wahlöö did not have a conventional relationship either: Wahlöö was married when they met, and Sjöwall was twice divorced. They lived together for 13 years but never legally married. Sjöwall has said that after Wahlöö died, shortly after the publication of the last Martin Beck novel, she was “kind of wild for a while.  With  guys, with pubs.” She has had relationships since then but maintained her independence. “I know many guys,” she said. “Some of them I have been together with for a while, some are just good friends. That is enough for me.” Considering the authors’ lifestyles, the books read as less judgmental of their promiscuous female characters. Despite my skepticism, I’ve come to believe Sjöwall and Wahlöö did what they set out to do: write a series of novels that are truly progressive, or, at least, that have fewer hang-ups.

***

My dad told me he had read the entire Martin Beck series “five or ten times.” “Why?” I asked him. “Because I love them,” he replied. I don’t know why it’s so frustrating that my dad refuses to say or even think about why he likes the things he does, when his preoccupations run so deep and are so consistent. When I ask him why he likes something, it’s a perverse exercise less to gain new insight than to trick him into admitting to his personality. It’s obvious to me why he likes the Martin Beck books. They are exactly the kind of thing he likes!

When I was a kid, the Martin Beck books were everywhere in my house, old duplicate copies my dad bought at garage sales and used-book stores, leering out at me with their incendiary titles: Cop Killer. The Terrorists. I had never read them until I began working on this book, when I read all of them over the course of several trying months, capping off that experience by reading another Swedish mystery series, the only one that has managed to supplant the Martin Beck books in my dad’s heart: Stieg Larsson’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and its sequels The Girl Who Played with Fire and The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest. I thought I was reading them in a quest to understand him better, but I’m not so sure that’s true now. At worst, this essay seems like a Freudian patricidal project to ignore, then obsessively read, then talk shit in print about my dad’s favorite books.

My dad’s fixation on the Dragon Tattoo books began so quickly and has held for so long it is stunning. He listened to the audiobooks on his iPod over and over again, until he reached the point where he would listen to their chapters on shuffle. I am admittedly inclined to be frustrated with Stieg Larsson’s project, especially because after Larsson’s idols Sjöwall and Wahlöö so cleverly subverted Dead Girl tropes, he embraced them. His books have the Dead Girl story’s typical investigator with a good-guy complex, the crusading investigative journalist Mikael Blomkvist, whose career is dedicated to revealing fraud and corruption in the financial industry. In the first book, he is drawn into solving the 30-year-old disappearance of a wealthy industrialist’s niece, Harriet Vanger. The second and third have him trying to get to the bottom of an ever deeper conspiracy that begins with the smuggling of prostitutes from the Baltics and ends with a secret and all-powerful cabal in Sweden’s security police. Since Dead Girl stories are so psychologically fraught, harried by every demon Freud ever thought up, they often have the torturously complex plots of nightmares. The serial killer plot in the first book particularly has that frenzied kitchen-sink feel: there is not one but two killers, targeting scores of victims over many decades. Some of the murders are humiliating and bizarre, inspired by verses in Leviticus, and on top of this, the killers have ties to nascent Swedish Nazi organizations.

The key element of any Dead Girl story is the investigator’s haunted, semi-sexual obsession with the Dead Girl, or rather, the absence that she has left. Larsson plays with this overtly, as Blomkvist investigates Harriet Vanger’s case and he finds himself “hopelessly fascinated with the enigma of the dead girl’s disappearance.” A police officer he talks to also admits that he is still captivated by the Harriet Vanger “puzzle.” The implication of this choice of vocabulary, if I am being uncharitable, could not be more clear: that women are problems to be solved, and the problem of absence, a disappearance or a murder, is generally easier to deal with than the problem of a woman’s presence. True, Blomkvist (spoiler alert) eventually finds Harriet alive and has an affair with her, as he does with most of the women he comes into contact with in these novels, lending this Dead Girl story a stupefying and ambiguous denouement.

After Larsson’s death, one of his hangers-on, the Swedish journalist Kurdo Baksi, wrote a strange hagiography of him for the Daily Mail, in which he discusses Larsson’s passionate opposition to violence against women. When they discussed this violence, Baksi writes, “Stieg’s eyes would fill with tears. He could not accept someone could be denied their freedom simply because of their gender.” Larsson’s disgust at what he saw as a ubiquitous misogyny was supposedly the impetus for the Dragon Tattoo books, with the original Swedish version of the first novel being titled Men Who Hate Women. But forgive me if I find the Dragon Tattoo books to be something less than the feminist treatises they claim to be. As Christopher Hitchens wrote in his characteristically rude piece on Larsson, their “moral righteousness comes in very useful for the action of the novels, because it allows the depiction of a great deal of cruelty to women, smuggled through customs under the disguise of a strong disapproval.”

More troubling to me than the books’ violence is a flaw at the core of Larsson’s anti-misogynist mission. Throughout the novels, characters insist that “men who hate women” are not monsters: they are everyday people. Blomkvist’s fellow investigator, Lisbeth Salander, says in the first book that their villain is “not some insane serial killer … he’s just a garden variety bastard who hates women.” But Larsson’s villains are as monstrous as he can make them, even though they may hide in plain sight. They are cruel, insatiable, and meticulous, with strange and deviant sexual appetites. The first book is obsessed with sexual sadism, ending with a flourish in a serial killer’s tricked-out torture chamber. This depiction sidesteps the complicated truth of sexual desire and fantasy, which is that in certain circumstances, a person can be turned on by the idea of violence that they would never commit or condone. In the same way, the books sidestep the true face of misogyny: if men who hate women are normal and common, then misogynist violence does not have to be so diabolical. Larsson’s partner, Eva Gabrielsson, has said that Larsson was inspired by comic books, and he obviously could not resist the temptation of the archvillain, a worthy foe for his hero. Where Sjöwall and Wahlöö succeeded in deromanticizing crime and criminals, in his mission to condemn violence against women, Larsson has ended up lionizing its perpetrators by exaggerating the same old prudish tropes.

The first Dragon Tattoo novel features what is in my eyes a maddeningly long final act, where Blomkvist, having solved the mystery of Harriet Vanger’s disappearance, seeks revenge on a corrupt Swedish billionaire who has sidelined his career. Later I came to see that this fight against corruption was exactly the point of Larsson’s books, with misogyny functioning more as an occasional thematic hobbyhorse. Larsson was a lauded  investigative journalist, having founded the anti-fascist Expo magazine, and his plots about corruption among CEOs and government agents gave him the opportunity to write random op-eds a la Sjöwall and Wahlöö on subjects including the injustice of the stock exchange, the Swedish police force’s use of hollow-point bullets, and inconsistencies in enforcing prostitution laws.

In fact, twisted misogyny often acts as a metaphor for other kinds of personal corruption, with fascism, authoritarian overreach, and greed manifesting as sexual malignancy. The political intrigue Blomkvist is investigating in the second and third books turns out to be a conspiracy of perverts, as a sadistic rapist lawyer, a security agent who consorts with prostitutes, and a pedophile psychiatrist conspire to get Salander institutionalized. Blomkvist and Salander hack the hard drive of the psychiatrist, Peter Teleborian, and discover masses of child pornography. This evidence is sprung upon him during his testimony against Salander in the third book, and he is led in handcuffs from the courtroom. After that, as if caught off guard by the implausibility of the book he has found himself in, the judge remarks, “I have never even heard of a case in which the prosecutor’s chief witness is arrested during a court in session.” My dad told me that the downfall of Peter Teleborian is “one of the great moments in literature.”

***

If I sound completely fed up with Larsson’s books, it’s because I have barely talked about Salander, the girl of the books’ titles, who is undeniably their soul and their selling point. When Blomkvist first meets her, she is working as a private investigator at a firm called Milton Security, a role she dispatches so brilliantly, we later learn, because she is one of the most skilled hackers in Sweden, as well as a polymath with a photographic memory. The books are as preoccupied with her unusual appearance as with her unusual talents: she is very small and looks very young, with tattoos, piercings, and a personal style that could be approximated as motorcycle Goth.

Larsson is seemingly in love with the trick of having his heroine judged as a child, a criminal, a deviant, only to have her prove everyone wrong with her unbelievable intellect. The longest arc of the novels is correcting the injustice she suffered from Sweden’s guardianship system. She was put in a mental hospital as a child, and when she was released was assigned a guardian within the government who had control of her legally and financially. An incorrect psychological assessment from when she was a teenager had the government believing she was mentally ill, with criminal tendencies and very low intelligence. Her edgy appearance did nothing to persuade the guardianship agency of her competency.

But despite the Dragon Tattoo books’ focus on Salander’s journey to seize self-determination, she is often constrained by the narrative’s own gaze, even when it is mediated through characters who will end up in the wrong. Descriptions of her are icky either in their prurience or disgust, with a creepy focus on her body. In the first book, I count six times where she is described as looking anorexic (she is not anorexic). Before we have gotten to know her at all, several pages are devoted to her boss’s coming to terms with his sexual attraction to her, a plot element that goes exactly nowhere. She later jumps into bed with Blomkvist, as she is (conveniently) into older men. Salander is, in many ways, a male fantasy of a rebel girl: she is bisexual, rides a motorcycle, works out at a boxing gym, and eats only junk food. Considering that she is only one of Blomkvist’s many paramours, her characterization works especially to distinguish her from his other girlfriends. As with so many detective series, the Dragon Tattoo books seem to be a study in every kind of woman the detective, as proxy for the writer, could possibly be attracted to.

Luckily, Salander is a more compelling, surprising, and complex character than Blomkvist, in his possessive and protective desire, can see. Salander, a classic avenging angel, has her own notion of justice, but it is hard to rationalize her actions, as Blomkvist repeatedly does, as stemming from some deep morality. She uses her computer skills to steal millions from the corrupt industrialist at the end of the first book because he is a bad guy, but also because the opportunity presents itself. When she was 12 years old, she attempted to kill her abusive deadbeat father by throwing a burning bottle of gasoline into his car. This violence is constantly justified by Blomkvist and others, who say that she was only trying to protect her mother, but I do wonder if she could have protected her in a way that did not involve a firebomb.

Larsson created a character so interesting that she wriggled from the grasp of his narrative, letting ambiguity and chaos into a world he set up as black and white, good guys versus bad. Larsson’s widow, Eva Gabrielsson, often speaks about the books like sacred tracts, seeing them as being didactic first, entertaining second. I would tend to agree. But with Salander, who is impulsive, intransigent, and sad, very often unable to be there for the people she cares about most, it is difficult to say what lesson is to be learned—fortunately for the reader. Without her, we would have only Blomkvist, a character as intolerably, triumphantly decent as Perry Mason. (Mason, the hero of Erle Stanley Gardner’s legendary detective series, is the smuggest, most well-adjusted milquetoast in the history of mysteries. In the early nineties, my dad recorded every episode of the Perry Mason TV series onto VHS tapes and cataloged them on our old DOS-prompt computer.)

***

Salander injects into Larsson’s matrix of morals some of the anarchy of children’s literature, and that was by design. Gabrielsson explains how Salander was inspired by Pippi Longstocking:

this delightful and formidable little girl has been a champion of equality between the sexes: she doesn’t depend on anyone, can use a revolver, has sailed the seven seas … But the main thing about Pippi is that she has her own ideas about right and wrong—and she lives by them, no matter what the law or adults say.

But Salander lends some of the melancholy of children’s literature, too. Pippi’s story, after all, is not only about how she brings excitement to a staid Swedish village but the problem of her loneliness, as she seeks friendship and understanding in a world that wasn’t made for her.

I am charmed by Gabrielsson’s description of Pippi Long- stocking, not only because it describes the near-superhero Salander so well, but because in spirit (though in not many practical details), it describes my dad, too. I always think of him as an impish mischief-maker, something of a manic pixie dream dad, whistling in public, sobbing at stories on NPR, flirting with babies, buying candy and stuffed animals, and generally pissing off uptight assholes. Once when he was walking with my brother, they saw a car with a “Who is John Galt?” bumper sticker, a reference to Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged. He stuck a notecard on the windshield that said you are an idiot.

As I think about my dad and Pippi, it illuminates another common feature of the films, books, and TV that he likes: girls who kick butt. He was an early fan of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (though he believes it took a downturn after she graduated from high school) and is even more ardently committed to the cult teen detective show Veronica Mars, whose plucky heroine wields a Taser almost as well as Salander does. I first told him to watch Veronica Mars, and later, after he had breathlessly emailed me about Veronica and Logan and Dick Casablancas enough times, I regretted ever watching it. I used to think that he only had some embarrassing pervy attraction to girls who kick butt, and, I mean, he definitely does. But after he told me through tears that “he only wants Veronica to be happy,” I should have gotten the picture that he sees himself in them, too. I guess it is no surprise that he identifies with teenage girls, when there is an illustrious tradition of grown men expertly crafting young women’s entertainment, from boy bands of all eras to Sixteen Candles and Pretty in Pink, to Buffy and Veronica Mars.

“I definitely think he relates to those girls,” my mom told me. She reminded me of a scene at the end of the first Dragon Tattoo book, when Salander realizes she has fallen in love with Blomkvist and resolves to confess her feelings to him. When she finds him, he is on a date with another woman, and Salander is crushed. This is the most affecting part of the books for my dad, my mom told me. “He’ll just cry and cry about that part,” she said. All along I thought he saw himself as the valiant everyman Blomkvist, who comes to the aid of the sexy girl who kicks butt. I was wrong about that, and I shouldn’t make the mistake of thinking I have figured him out again. I told him that I thought he identified more with Blomkvist, but then it occurred to me that he maybe identified with Salander. “I don’t think I’m like any of them,” he told me stubbornly. “I just think the books have the ring of realism,” a description that in my opinion could not be more incorrect.

***

When I complained to my mom about my dad describing books that strain plausibility in every way as having “the ring of realism,” she explained to me how this is one of the phrases he uses indiscriminately to describe works that grab his imagination (the other is “the spark of greatness”) in the manner of, for instance, the cop show Hill Street Blues. This shorthand praise is another way for him to avoid analyzing his own whims. It’s also, maybe, a defensive posture to keep us from analyzing him.

This could be why I have delayed addressing what was supposed to be one of the points of this essay: whether my dad has autism and if it matters. The therapist he works with has suggested that he has Asperger’s syndrome, based on his difficulty reading conversational cues and other people’s moods; his short temper; his many intense enthusiasms; and his almost complete lack of social inhibition, which often leads to totally inappropriate behavior. When I asked him about it for this essay, it was the first time we had ever spoken about it. “Why are you asking me about that?” he said incredulously, and I explained that it made me think of him when Blomkvist privately guesses that Salander has Asperger’s because of her savant-like skills and social awkwardness. “Yes, that is one possible diagnosis,” he said about Salander. Of his own diagnosis, he would only say, oddly, that he didn’t remember it, comparing it to the apparent amnesia he developed in the 1990s when he had bursitis of the elbow. I pressed him, but he stood by his “no comment.” “I have zero memory of anyone ever saying I have Asperger’s,” he said. “I’d completely forgotten that and I hadn’t thought about it. I don’t have any thoughts or any opinions.”

I really don’t blame him for having no thoughts or opinions. No one even raised the possibility that he was on the autism spectrum until he was 68, and charging someone that age with a condition we often associate with childhood is complicated by a lifetime of ambiguities and examples to the contrary. As he approached his eighth decade, the methods he had learned to navigate the world were just his personality, as they are, I assume, for everyone. He was also unwittingly encountering a fateful tendency in my family to monumentalize the eccentricities of its members, to talk and laugh about them among ourselves and with strangers—write about them, even—until the picture shifts into focus, and those eccentricities reveal themselves as dysfunction.

And no matter his age, I’ve come to see autism spectrum diagnosis as an alienating thicket, where there is no textbook case. At his therapist’s suggestion, he read David Finch’s memoir The Journal of Best Practices, the story of Finch being diagnosed with Asperger’s as an adult and using this new self-knowledge to become a better husband. Despite what would seem to be obvious commonalities between Finch and my dad, he found no applicable lessons in his story, and he thought the book made Finch look, frankly, like a jerk. Finch and his wife, Kristen, were on an episode of This American Life in 2012, where Kristen, a speech therapist who worked with disabled kids, says that she and her coworkers would always joke that their husbands were autistic. The stereotypes in that joke are uncomfortable for me in both directions. Joking about men’s emotional stuntedness seems at best inaccurate, at worst self-reinforcing, and joking about autistic people as socially retarded and robotic almost certainly increases their ostracization. But it also collapses the almost endless variation among people with autism spectrum disorders: my dad didn’t recognize Finch’s compulsions, which isn’t to say he has none of his own.

I found myself combing through websites about the autism spectrum, many of which are compiled by civilians who have the disorder themselves, who I think are also trying to come to terms with the many ways one can have autism. One particular website called Inside Perspectives of Asperger Syndrome and the Neurodiversity Spectrum describes possible autism spectrum symptoms across an exhaustive list of categories, including work, sex, eating, sleep, phone problems, “spacing out,” and even allergies and drug sensitivities. The primary sources on every page are testimonials from web users who identify as having autism and related conditions, like Asperger’s and ADHD, describing their own experiences. Many of these don’t describe my dad at all, while others do with eerie accuracy. During the conversation we had about his possibly being autistic, this description was dinging in my head: “Some have problems with reciprocity & timing and either talk on and on without letting anyone else get a word in edgewise, constantly interrupt others without realising that it’s disrespectful to do so, or say nothing at all unless asked a direct question.” There is of course also the claim that many with autism “are able to hyper-focus intently on the same thing for hours, days, sometimes weeks on end, and keep up a special interest for years”—see Sjöwall, Wahlöö, Larsson, et al.

One of the most helpful things I read on Inside Perspectives is this eloquent description from one of the site’s users of the problem with seeing autism as a disorder:

If you have one neurodiverse trait you are more likely to have additional neurodiverse traits. I am not sure why this is. The more of these traits you have, the more difficult it is to function . . . If you can’t function in society because you have too many of these traits and/or they are too intense then it becomes a disability. And when it becomes a disability then they have to put a label on it. . . . The ‘clump traits together and give them a name’ strategy is fundementally [sic] flawed . . . Labeling falsely claims you have one thing, not a group of things which may be better treated individually.

But viewing the autism spectrum as a matrix of possible traits evokes all the problems of mental health diagnosis, because, to put it simply, everyone has traits. The American Psychiatric Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) does not seek to describe what a healthy person looks like: psychological “normalcy” is judged only by an absence of any of the dysfunctions it addresses. Considering the gargantuan length of the DSM, there are nearly as many ways to be crazy as there are to be alive. But despite the DSM’s attempt at exhaustiveness, it remains very difficult to wrangle a human being’s habits, thoughts, desires, quirks, and pain under the heading of a single diagnosis of mental illness. This is underlined by the manual’s primary use, which is not therapeutic, but clerical: a diagnosis of a disorder with a DSM classification is often the requirement for an insurance company to authorize treatment.

I gained the most insight from the wonderful autistic writer and rhetorician Melanie Yergeau, who discusses the problem of diagnosis on her blog autistext.com. As she writes, “For many, diagnosis is validating and/or leads to self-understanding. Diagnosis can explain a lot.” But a disease model of autism, where there are degrees of severity and some have it “worse” than others, effaces the individual value of autistic people. Yergeau writes powerfully for the model of disability that relies on disabled people’s rights to advocate for their own needs:

Whether your disabled child screams in the grocery checkout line or testifies in front of Congress, he is self-advocating. Whether your disabled child throws peas in your face or writes a snarky blog post or falls asleep during board game nights or says NO in all capital letters, she’s self-advocating. And none of these things is less noble or gutsy than the other.

All people have needs that flow from their humanity, not from a predetermined list of problems that we call disability. Diagnosis and the vocabulary that it trades in should be tools to help people understand themselves and ask for what they need. It follows, then, that if the language of disability doesn’t help someone advocate for himself or herself, he or she should be free to reject it.

For my dad, navigating the “neurodiverse traits” that make functioning more difficult individually—like  helping him to remember not to make too much noise around the house, to reflect more on his emotions, not to give in so quickly to frustration—is most helpful, and it doesn’t require him to align all the vagaries of his personality with a diagnostic label. The autism designation isn’t helpful for him. The autism spectrum is one more place I’ve looked for my dad, with only partial success. My mom told me that, library cataloger that she is, one of her greatest interests is in creating typologies, finding categories and seeing where things fit. But she has never been that good at categorizing the people close to her, not suspecting that there was anything in my dad’s weirdness that might be explained by someone else’s weirdness. “I tend to be accepting of the way that people are,” she told me helplessly, which might be another way of saying that love is blind.

***

Larsson died of a heart attack shortly after delivering the manuscript for The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest, never living to see his novels published, much less the worldwide sensation they would become. Per Wahlöö died after he and Sjöwall finished the tenth Martin Beck novel, blessedly missing most of the social degradation he had warned against. These deaths are both eerie in the same way: socially conscious writers not living to know how right they were. Sjöwall cheerily admits now that “the project” was a failure. “Everything we feared happened, faster,” she says. “People think of themselves not as human beings but consumers. The market rules, and it was not that obvious in the 1960s, but you could see it coming.” What would have been harder for them to see coming was the murder of the Swedish prime minister Olof Palme in 1986, 11 years after they wrote about a fictional Swedish prime minister being assassinated in The Terrorists. The most remarkable thing about reading the Dragon Tattoo books now, in the spring of 2017, is their overwhelming, prophetic resonance with the scandals of the 2016 election and the Trump administration, as they involve neofascists, computer hackers, sexual misconduct scandals,  Russian spies, government corruption, evil billionaires, and journalistic integrity. It makes me wish Larsson had lived to comment on it, although I assume the current era would immediately make him wish he were dead.

Many people have noted the marketing brilliance of changing the title of Larsson’s Men Who Hate Women for the English translation, shifting the focus from creepy men to always more salable “girls.” Men Who Hate Women could be another alternate title for my book, and I have chosen, maybe hypocritically, to sell it on girls instead. In the end, the careers of Larsson and Sjöwall and Wahlöö turn out to be Dead Man stories, where men leave their wives and collaborators to deal with their absence for decades. This female survival is probably the truer story and, I think Larsson, Sjöwall, and Wahlöö would agree, a better one, but it doesn’t have the same addictive glamour that comes with a Dead Girl. In Roseanna, one of Beck’s colleagues mentions a movie that the suspect they’re trailing goes to see. “It has a wonderful ending,” he says. “Everyone dies except the girl.”

Larsson died at 50, after years of working too much, eating too much junk food, drinking too much coffee, and smoking too many cigarettes. There has been extended drama involving his partner of 30 years, Gabrielsson, who, since they never legally married and Larsson left no will, is not entitled to any of his posthumous millions. His death was ironic and unjust, having happened at altogether the wrong time. I can’t help but think about my dad when I read about Larsson’s heart attack: how Larsson’s colleagues found him in a chair, breathing heavily and in a cold sweat, and even then he did not want to admit he was sick. My dad was probably in congestive heart failure for weeks before my brother and his boyfriend found him hunched over in a parking lot, gasping for air. I burst into terrified tears when I saw him on a gurney in the emergency room, looking so gray and puny. “It makes me cry, too,” he said and sobbed.

Insofar as this is a Dead Girl story with a happy ending, you know that my dad got better. His cardiac emergency became another episode in his life, another story underscored, appropriately, by reading. In the hospital after his angioplasty, he had a paradoxical reaction to a sedative that launched him into an hour-long panic attack. Every 60 seconds, he would jump out of bed and run around his hospital room, endangering his fresh stitches. At one point my mom, her nerves completely shot, picked up The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest and began to read from Salander’s trial. This was the only thing that soothed my dad, and she read to him until he fell asleep.

* * *

From Dead Girls: Essays on Surviving an American Obsession by Alice Bolin. © 2018 by Alice Bolin. Published by William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. Reprinted by permission.

La Otra

Getty / Sire Records / Photo illustration by Katie Kosma

Jaquira Díaz | Longreads | June 2018 | 19 minutes (4,721 words)

1985. These were the days of Menudo and “We Are the World,” the year boxer Macho Camacho gave a press conference in a leopard-skin loincloth as Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” blared from radios across the United States. In one month, the space shuttle Challenger would explode while all of America watched on television, entire classrooms full of kids, everyone eager to witness the first teacher ever launched into space. My mother had just turned 22, and a week later Levy turned 8. By then, Mami had three children. She’d already been a mother for more than a third of her life.

In those days, Mami teased her blond hair like Madonna, traced her green eyes with blue eyeliner, applied several coats of black mascara, apple-red lipstick, and matching nail polish. She wore skin-tight jeans and always, no matter where she was going, high heels. She dusted her chest with talcum powder after a bath, lotioned her arms and legs, perfumed her body and her hair. My mother loved lotions, perfume, makeup, clothes, shoes. But really, these were just things to her. The truth was my mother loved and enjoyed her body. She walked around our apartment butt-ass naked. I was more used to seeing her naked body than my own. You should love your body, my mother taught me. A woman’s body was beautiful, no matter how big, how small, how old, how pregnant. This my mother firmly believed, and she would tell me over and over. As we got older, she would teach me and Alaina about masturbation, giving us detailed instructions about how to achieve orgasm. This, she said, was perfectly normal. Nothing to be ashamed of.

While my father only listened to salsa on vinyl, Héctor Lavoe and Willie Colón and Ismael Rivera, my mother was all about Madonna. She was American, she liked to remind us, born in New York, and she loved everything American, including her music. She belted the lyrics to “Holiday” while shaving her legs in the shower, while making us egg salad sandwiches for lunch. She talked about moving us to Miami Beach, where most of our titis and Grandma Mercy lived, about making sure we learned English.
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The Camouflage Artist: Two World Wars, Two Loves, and One Great Deception

'Grumble' York, July 1941, Retreat from Dunkirk by John Churchill

Mary Horlock | Excerpt adapted from Joseph Gray’s Camouflage: A Memoir of Art, Love and Deception | Unbound | September 2018 | 22 minutes (5,778 words)

This story starts with a picture: a vast turquoise sky, an endless yellow beach, a mother and her child playing in the sand.

My grandmother lifts a trembling hand and points towards the smallest figure.

“That is me.”

She now has a room measuring nine feet by five. There isn’t much wall space, so the picture hangs in the corridor outside, beside the sign: “No.18: Maureen Barclay.”

Maureen Barclay is a widow and there are many here. Some don’t know where they are, nor do they remember the lives they have lived. Maureen is different, she remembers plenty. But with this blessing comes a curse: the older she becomes, the more she worries what she might soon forget. She has moved into a nursing home quite by her own choice, but as she downsizes, reducing her life to the essentials, the more she is stripping back memories, the memories embedded in clothes, objects, papers and pictures.

There simply isn’t room for them here.

The only solution is to pass them on to the people she trusts. She has given me many things over the years — her love and time above all else — but now she surrenders a most treasured possession. It is a pencil-drawn self-portrait of her father and my great-grandfather, Joseph Gray. This is the man who first painted that small child playing on the beach.

Joseph Gray is an artist most people have never heard of, but for much of my early life he was the only artist I’d ever heard of. His paintings filled all the rooms of my grandparents’ flat and much of my own family home. Smoke-filled streets and blitzed churches lined our staircase, thickly painted still lifes crowded in corners, restless seas churned over each mantelpiece. While the houses of my friends contained candy-colored Impressionist prints or tastefully anonymous landscapes, we had this curious mix of styles and subjects, all courtesy of an artist I’d never even met.

But at least I knew what he looked like. I would stare for hours at this pencil-drawn self-portrait: darkly piercing eyes under hooded lids, a wide curving nose, a proud, rounded jaw. With a crumpled hat pulled low on his head Joseph Gray stood straight and returned my gaze. Now that’s what an artist should look like, I thought.

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The Cold War and its Fallout

Photo courtesy the author / Photo illustration by Katie Kosma

Vincent Czyz | Longreads | June 2018 | 21 minutes (5,418 words)

 

I was born into Cold War America, 1963: Brezhnev, the Kremlin, the KGB, ICBMs, the Warsaw Pact. My father was a hard-line Republican, a Rough Rider looking for his Roosevelt. Reentry vehicles, NATO, first-strike capability, limited strike, and hardened silos were all part of my vocabulary by the time I was 12. He dismissed with contempt liberals who wanted to cut the defense budget and showed me bar graphs comparing U.S. and Soviet military hardware. The red bars representing Soviet numbers always towered alarmingly over the blue ones, except when it came to helicopters; the United States had a lot of those.

The stalemate between the superpowers has been over for a long time, but every now and then I still catch some of the fallout. While making a furniture run, for example, with a friend — Danny had mothballed a bedroom set at his mother’s house and needed a hand getting it into his truck. We went to the front porch in jeans, construction boots, jackets. It was a chilly March afternoon. He rang the bell.

Danny’s mother, a small Korean woman, opened the door. She gasped when she saw me, then covered her mouth. I almost stepped back, wondering what I’d done wrong.

Mrs. Lo Cascio lowered her hands. “You look just like your father!”

From his early 20s on, my father had had a mustache, and this was the first time Mrs. Lo Cascio had seen me with a beard. Her reaction was a rerun of an incident at my father’s wake in June 1983, a couple of weeks before I turned 20. Uncle Eddy, an adopted member of the family, put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “You’re the ghost of your father when he was 17.” As often happens at funerals, his face performed a high-wire act between smiling and crying.

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Sex Workers vs. The Internet

Illustration by Erin McCluskey

Rick Paulas | Longreads | June 2018 | 24 minutes (6,543 words)

 

Lauren couldn’t afford any more canceled dates.

A “combination of beauty and brains, exclusively available for adventures,” according to her website, she’d spent untold time and energy building her brand on the back of a modeling résumé that included portraiture in Penthouse. She’d spent thousands on website maintenance and professional photos, and another $250 to $800 a month on ads on the Eros Guide. And she’d worked damn hard for those glowing reviews — over 70 in all — posted by clients online at the Erotic Review (TER).

It allowed Lauren to charge “discerning and professional gentlemen” $500 for an hour of her time, $750 for 90 minutes of it, or $5,000 for an overnight. But like roughly half of the United States, Lauren was still living paycheck to paycheck.

There was the high cost of living in New York City, a necessary expenditure that came with the gig; unlike cam girls, she had to physically be with clients. The more pressing hit to her pocketbook, however, was the result of a serious autoimmune illness that necessitated eight surgeries over a six-year period, an out-of-pocket cost of $240,000. It was this enormous bill that had shifted her career from modeling into sex work in the first place.

“All the money I ever made [modeling] is gone,” Lauren says. “All I want to do is buy a home in the country where I don’t fucking see people. Just me and my dog.”

A stream of last-minute cancellations and no-shows, then, was extremely troubling. Not only did they leave her without the income she was expecting, but also hours she could’ve used to earn money were stolen from her. “I didn’t know why people were booking and not showing up,” she says. But a quick Google search of her name revealed the reason: a negative review posted on Ripoff Report.

“When you look up [my name], it’s the first thing that comes up,” she says.

A privately owned, for-profit website, Ripoff Report publishes anonymous complaints about products, businesses, and individuals, from multinational corporations like Walmart to self-employed freelancers like Lauren. “The evening was unpleasent [sic] to say the least,” the pseudonymous reviewer wrote. “She tried upselling me the entire evening offering a wide range of unsafe activities. I ended up cutting the date short and let her keep the 2k.” (Companies and individuals can rebut accusations — Lauren did — but the original complaint remains. “We DO NOT remove any reports,” a spokesperson for the site wrote me in an email.)

“I couldn’t tell you how much business I’ve lost due to this,” Lauren says.

Lauren deduced the reviewer’s identity almost immediately; the former client gave himself away with the same dialectical misspellings that littered previous negative reviews on other review websites. He was an hour-long date she’d had the previous year in Houston. “These hour motherfuckers can go one of two ways,” she says. “And when it goes bad, it goes really bad.”


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According to Lauren, the man paid for an hour of her time, but stayed for an hour-and-a-half, during which he “had his dinner and had it twice.” He left without giving her a tip. Three months later, he contacted Lauren to get her to “verify” him on Preferred411 (P411), a website used by sex workers and clients to “connect with others in a safe and secure way.” (On P411, clients pay $99 for a “basic” six-month membership, which can be upgraded to “basic plus” with an OK from a worker; essentially a way for workers to know the client is legit.) She said yes, and since everything in the industry is an exchange of money for time, she asked for something in return: a 10/10 review on the Erotic Review. He agreed.

She saw that while he gave her the agreed-upon 10 in the “performance” category, he’d only given her a seven in “looks.” She contacted him about the betrayal.

“I said, ‘Why would you do that?’” she says. “And he lost his fucking mind.”

The man told her she was lucky he gave her a score that high, then threatened to write another TER review about “how fucking ugly” she was. He soon made good on that threat, falsely claiming that he’d gone on another date with Lauren, giving her a 3 for “looks” and a 4 for “performance.” Lauren contacted TER with screenshots of their electronic exchanges, and they took down the new review. But the time it took for TER to process her complaint was costly; she’d lost $1,000 that night from someone who read the review and canceled. (The client’s 7/10 review, meanwhile, remained up.)

Still, it didn’t sink her business. That 7 for “looks” dragged down her average, but she’d banked enough 10/10 scores over the years that this outlier didn’t tank her score. For the next year, everything went smoothly until the “hour motherfucker” resurfaced with the aforementioned negative review on Ripoff Report and the great cancellation of dates began anew.

“Your reputation can be ruined in a heartbeat,” says Lauren, who’s since added a range of cancellation fees to her listing. “These reviews could ruin your entire business.”

* * *

Maxine Doogan remembers getting the call that revealed the future.

It was in ’98, or maybe ’99, and it came in on her landline, or maybe her cell. It was from her friend Melanie, a fellow sex worker with 25 years of experience in the field.

Melanie told Maxine to go to her computer and visit SFRedBook.com. She warned Maxine, “This is what’s coming.”

“I got on there and said, ‘Oh my fucking god, this is going to be a disaster,’” says Doogan, a Bay Area–based sex worker, activist, and founder of the Erotic Service Providers Union. “And I was right.”

RedBook was launched in 1999 by Mountain View programmer Eric “Red” Omuro. Similar to Craigslist, it was a bare-bones website composed of classified ads, but RedBook focused primarily on rating sex work. These posts, written by customers, were intended to mitigate some of the risks associated with the lack of legal protections in these business transactions. “There are women that make ads, make appointments, walk in, take the money, and walk out,” says Doogan. “And clients have no recourse.”

These rip-offs frustrated workers like Doogan, because their negative effects cultivated a general atmosphere of distrust, which then rippled into her own workplace. “Clients were treating us with suspicion, asking a lot of questions, and wanting [illegal] verbal commitments,” she says. “It made for a very difficult customer base.”

But beyond the growing concern of client rip-offs in this uncharted virtual world, Doogan saw that sex workers faced a new vulnerability. Previously, in the the street or massage parlor, workers could get a visceral sense of a potential client before choosing how to proceed. In fact, before industry norms shifted to faceless online greets before private meets, workers had ways to sleuth whether the client was on the level, a cop, or just plain bad news.

“Remember the old Thomas Guide maps?” asks Doogan. “You could use those to see if the house was their real address. And when AT&T came out with Caller ID, that helped a whole lot.”

The rise of the free online classifieds — where “everybody and her mother, aunt, brother, and grandma could put up an ad,” says Doogan, “and with no experience!” — also changed how workers spent money. Initially, this meant withdrawing the cash spent on ads in local newspapers and alt-weeklies, a shift exacerbated by some publishers’ own newfound ethical codes which led them to refuse accepting ads from sex workers. “That’s what happens when you start being the tool of moral enforcement in advertising,” says Doogan. “You lose your ass.”

That’s what happens when you start being the tool of moral enforcement in advertising,” says Doogan. “You lose your ass.

New laws targeting sex workers also aided the pull away from print as an advertising expenditure. “We all used to have ads in the Yellow Pages. They were making thousands of dollars off us,” says Doogan. “But police threatened [Yellow Pages publishers] PacBell or U.S. West with felonies, and that prompted the change.”

One way around these laws was the “personal escort” loophole, where workers sold “time” and avoided terms like “sex” in ads. It allowed Yellow Pages to continue listing escort agencies, a move that prompted independent workers to license themselves as official agencies, sometimes more than one when they could afford it. “We’d have multiple mobile phones with multiple names, so we could get listings through the alphabet,” says Doogan. “Something that began with an A, something in the middle like an M, something at the bottom.”

As print avenues dried up through stricter laws and as publishers went bankrupt, digital options filled the empty space. Eliminating physical distances and national boundaries, they offered a perceived freedom and a potential reach that print never could. But there was a catch with this new frontier. Rather than a competitive marketplace, the sites that invested in offshore servers to avoid the law’s arm and, more importantly, hired the right programmers to win the search engine optimization game, developed a near-monopoly in short order.

“Fucking Google,” says Doogan. “They’ve cut the ability to search by our name, phone number, or geographical location. It’s given Eros a lot of power.”

The Eros Guide is a classic “ad mall,” that is, simply a place to post ads. The site was founded in Oakland, California, in 2000 by Byron Mayo as a relatively obvious way to capture profits in an as-yet-unregulated market. “[The internet now] makes it possible to economically present far more information in a much more accessible fashion than ever existed before,” Mayo told the Jamaica Observer in 2001.

Doogan had one of the early ads on the site, first for free, then for “30 to 40 dollars a month.” Now, due to its paramount nature in the market, Eros makes millions of dollars a year; in 2010, Washington, D.C.–based dominatrix Jenny DeMilo estimated that the website brings in somewhere between 8 and 10 million a year. “They’re number one, so they can command what they can command,” says one sex worker, who wished to remain anonymous for fear of reprisal from Eros. “[To them], one thousand a month [for a single ad] isn’t unreasonable.”

From a worker’s perspective, it’s hard to say that money used on Eros isn’t spent well. Google “escort” plus wherever you live, and odds are good you’ll see an Eros listing. (Anecdotally, every worker I interviewed for this piece said that most of the traffic to their personal websites came from Eros.) This dominance over a worker’s ability to find clients has given Eros unchecked power over the industry; they decide who can use them and who can be banned without warning or explanation.

“They can’t give us an explanation, because it would implicate them,” says the anonymous worker. “Imagine you’re trying to work at a company, and there’s a bunch of rules in a book that you’re not allowed to see.”

Imagine you’re trying to work at a company, and there’s a bunch of rules in a book that you’re not allowed to see.

With that power comes editorial control. Unlike during the print era, when workers chose what to put in their ads, the information that workers can present is restricted by Eros’s’ legal team, limiting how they can distinguish themselves from one another. “You can’t use certain words. You have to put in your height, your weight, your hair color,” says Doogan. “They’re like, ‘The customers want to see that.’ The customers aren’t paying you! I’m paying you! I’m your customer, dumb bitch!”

In November 2017, the Department of Homeland Security raided Eros’s North Carolina call center. The raid sent a shock wave through the community after DHS obtained access to their personal information, but Eros remains active.

This creeping power of a lone, dominant ad mall wasn’t what was on Maxine Doogan’s mind when she received that phone call about RedBook back in the late ’90s. And the harrowing “disaster” on the horizon wasn’t necessarily the free-for-all ads or the rip-off-exposing message boards either. It was RedBook’s most innovative feature: the reviews section.

As described in a 2015 Wired feature about the site:

You could pay $13 a month for access to the section, where VIP customers shared detailed write-ups of their experiences with escorts, BDSM providers, and erotic masseuses. As part of their reviews, users listed the services they received, as well as details about the provider’s physical attributes.

On RedBook, clients rated workers on a scale of 1 to 10 in services, body, and face categories. Reviews was the most popular section of RedBook, and to Doogan, it represented an epochal industry shift that tilted power from workers to customers.

“Men had custody of the internet by the time Prostitution Nation got there. We were already on the internet, but we didn’t know we were on the internet,” says Doogan. “The domination of the customer over the business started on the internet.”

* * *

“I was getting ripped off,” David Elms, a frequent sex work “hobbyist” told MSNBC in 2006. “There was no way to hold people accountable.”

Elms’s solution to the claim that he was being ripped off — which could mean that a worker took his money and left without providing any services, or that they didn’t look exactly like their photographs, or that they weren’t willing to consent to every type of sexual request — was, in 1999, to develop The Erotic Review, a website where clients review their dates with sex workers. “Our reviews serve as powerful barometers that keep an otherwise illegal business honest,” reads its general FAQ section. It was RedBook’s review section hopped up on a cocktail of amphetamines and Viagra.

“Outside of America, people don’t really use it,” says Scarlett St. Clair, a sex worker based in New York and London. “But in America, they are the biggest, and they wield unfortunately a huge amount of influence.”

That “unfortunately” from the worker’s mindset makes sense. Elms’s own personal experiences, whatever they were, steered the site into a “customer is always right” ideology that persists. It’s a questionable viewpoint in an industry where, according to Sex Workers Outreach Project, its workers are 400 times more likely to be murdered on their job than workers in any other career. (To further illustrate the point, note Elms’s own record following TER’s creation: After a slew of accusations about him using his position of power to extort sex from workers, he was arrested in 2009 on several charges, including an attempt to hire a hitman to kill a sex worker; Elms and TER reportedly cut ties after the arrest.)

And yet sex workers, particularly new ones, feel compelled to use TER’s system.

“It gave me a kind of legitimacy,” says St. Clair, who joined in mid-2016. “It signaled to others that I am who I say I am and good at what I do.”

The signals of integrity, credibility, and trustworthiness are broadcast because the reviews aren’t contained in a closed, private network that only an exclusive few can examine. The low cost of entry and accessibility make TER similar to Yelp, but one where the worker-customer interaction takes place behind closed doors. “The guys who post on TER and the guys who lurk on TER are not the same set of people,” says Missy Mariposa, a worker at a legal brothel in Nevada.

TER users have two choices on the site. Basic Membership is free and allows users access to the worker’s contact information, appearance characteristics, and broad details of their reviews. A VIP Account, available for $30 a month — or free for clients who write the equivalent of one review every 15 days — gives users access to every review, a list of services offered, and more. There are forums too, where one can “hang with your favorite Hobbyists and catch up on the latest news,” but like RedBook, the reviews are the draw.

Also like RedBook, reviews use 10-point rating scales, but only for two categories. There’s “Looks,” ranging from “she was one in a million” to “I was really scared,” and there’s “Performance,” which can be rated from “it was one in a million” to “a total rip-off.” Reviews must describe encounters within the past three months and must offer “juicy” details.

As described on the site:

The Juicy Details section should be used to describe the provider, the experience, and whether or not you enjoyed the session in graphic emotional and sexual terms. Don’t make this space a recap of the General section. Instead, go for a blow-by-blow tell-all of your session with the provider from your own unique point of view.

These “Juicy Details” are a key aspect of the site used to justify the cost of a VIP membership, and thus, the site’s revenue stream. In fact, according to multiple interviews with sex workers who have used TER, reviews are often rejected by editors for not being salacious or detailed enough. As you’d expect, this focus on “blow-by-blow tell-all” leads to heavily embellished tales.

Mariposa recalls a date with a client who’d recently hurt his back. Despite being barely able to move, he wanted to keep his appointment, and so after Mariposa slowly brought him over to the bed, they had a very gentle session. “You can’t be bouncing up and down with your back broken,” she says. But when she read the date review, she couldn’t stop laughing.

“He didn’t write about how we had a lovely, intimate time,” she says. “It had to be, ‘I had her bent over. My balls were slapping everything.’ What do they call it, locker-room talk?”

TER’s FAQ section maintains that reviews are verified for authenticity, where the reviewer bears “the burden of proof.” Based on interviews with nearly a dozen workers, system checks are lax enough that a sub-industry of fake reviews has sprouted. For a fee, workers can purchase 10/10 ratings for themselves, or more insidiously, pay to take down their competitors. “You can go to a review-writing service and say, ‘I want to buy three negative reviews for so-and-so,’” says Mariposa. “You think they’re going to turn down your $175? What do they care?”

More commonly, according to workers, clients are too busy or uninterested to write reviews, so they let workers write their own. This is positive for workers; they can control how they’re perceived, but there’s an opportunity cost to spending unpaid hours writing copy hoping it will attract future clients.

There are other, more dangerous ramifications for workers reviewed on websites like TER. Whereas negative Yelp reviews may get a restaurant worker a stern talking-to from their boss, a sex worker has no real advocate other than themselves. Workers can contact TER about reviews and theoretically have them removed, but according to workers, such complaints are rarely heard or acted upon. “This company does not care about what happens to [workers],” says St. Clair. This has given TER’s reviewers — that is, the customer class — overwhelming power over the industry.

“TER’s purpose was always to push the standards of what the industry should be,” says Mariposa.

One shift in standards has reviewers dictating rates for services. This can work through a kind of rumor-based osmosis (St. Clair offers the example of a reviewer falsely claiming to have paid $150 for a service that a worker actually charges $200 for, then another worker, lurking on TER, reacting to that falsified price by adjusting their own), or it can be through a concerted effort by organized reviewers to fix prices. “There’s talk on the forums about trying to enforce lower prices by refusing to see certain women,” says St. Clair, “or by trying to make women feel guilty or bad by charging as much as they do.”

This pressure can get workers, particularly those new to the industry, to lower their prices enough that the income no longer sustains them. “The new workforce doesn’t know what to charge, so they’re chronically undercharging, and they can’t support themselves with these low rates,” says Doogan. “The turnover is higher than in the past.” But as workers accrue experience, they often learn that pricing is truly their decision.

“There was a point where I wanted to stop offering anal, so I marked it up, and people still absolutely paid,” says Mariposa, who then marked the service up again. “Guess what? They paid.”

The logical question to Mariposa’s price change is, well, if you really wanted to stop offering a service like anal intercourse, why mark it up? Why not simply refuse to offer the service? The answer? Dual pressure from customers.

First is pressure from “hobbyist” reviewers. “There were gangs of customers on RedBook who’d review a girl and falsely say she provided these services for low rates,” says Doogan. “So, the girl’s getting customers expecting these services and putting her in a bad position. That’s customers using technology over a divorced workforce to get them to provide services they don’t provide.” The second level of pressure comes from the system itself.

In December 2016, TER made a seemingly subtle change to its review system. Previously, a reviewer could score a worker anywhere between 1 and 10 in the “Looks” and “Performance” categories. But after the change, workers could only earn up to a 7 out of 10, unless they were “willing to perform one or some of the following during a session.” (With each new offering, the worker’s max score increases by one point.)

“There was no announcement, no one’s opinion was taken into account,” says St. Clair. “It just happened, and we all had to adapt.”

The four situations that allow for additional points: A “bareback blowjob” (that is, oral sex without a condom), kissing with tongue, anal intercourse, and “really bi,” which means having sex with “more than one guy.” Keep in mind, it’s irrelevant if the client wants, requests, or participates in any of these acts. If the worker doesn’t offer these services, during the review approval process, TER can lower the points of, or outright reject, the review.

The implications of the new system are obviously biased against workers. A worker who doesn’t want to participate in anal sex is now compelled to in order to score a better review. Same for a worker who doesn’t feel safe with having sex with two men at once. The change in the system also exacerbates one of the ever-present dangers of the industry: the spread of sexually transmitted diseases.

“After the AIDS scare, most people use condoms for everything,” says Mariposa. “But now TER comes around and says, ‘Girls do bareback blowjobs.’ Well, now bareback blowjobs are the new standard.”

But this time, some workers fought back.

* * *

The first time Vanessa read a review of her date with a client, she felt embarrassed and ashamed.

“Not because of what I do, but because of how it’s so public and so graphic,” she says. “It was really an invasion of my privacy.”

But Vanessa, like many other workers, felt it was just part of the business. She played the review game. It was a way to feel legitimate, despite how it eroded her own power in the workplace. “Your typical TER member is like, ‘If you do this for this amount I’ll give you a really good review,’ which is really saying, ‘If you don’t, I’m giving you a shitty review,’” says Vanessa. “Everyone knows how to read between those lines.”

The first time Vanessa read a review of her date with a client, she felt embarrassed and ashamed. “Not because of what I do, but because of how it’s so public and so graphic,” she says. “It was really an invasion of my privacy.

Now and then she’d have bad experiences with TER. Like the U.K. client who gave her a 5-6 review (“5” for Looks, “6” for Performance) and said she was 90 pounds overweight. She fought that one, proving her looks to some faceless TER rep by jumping through their hoops, including taking photos in the same clothes that she donned on her personal site, while holding up hostage-like notes with the date, time, and “TER” scrawled on them. After all that, they took down the review.

Ironically, it was a relatively innocent review — her 36th, she recalls, where she received a 10/9 — that led to her leadership role in a burgeoning movement of sex workers choosing to leave TER for good.

“This guy said we did anal and he came on my face, all this bullshit that didn’t happen,” Vanessa says. “It was a great review, but none of the services I provide.” But the bigger headache was how this fake review caused friction with a longtime regular. He had wanted to book time with her, and she told him, truthfully, that she was out of town and unavailable. However, this false review suggested she was actually in town with another client at the requested time, so her longtime client felt that she was lying to him.

“It sounds immature and silly, but I have special relationships with [clients],” she says. “They want to think I’m not seeing anyone else, and that’s how I communicate with them. It’s part of the fantasy.”

To stem this, Vanessa contacted TER to tell them it was a false review. They contacted the reviewer, who doubled down on his claim that they’d met at a hotel. Vanessa asked TER to have the reviewer send a copy of their email correspondence, or anything else to prove that they’d met. The reviewer refused, citing privacy reasons. TER ultimately decided to keep the review up.

This did not please Vanessa.

“You’re not holding me hostage,” she says she told them. “You’re not my pimp, you’re not my manager!”

Vanessa went to her TER profile, copied the reviews, and pasted them on her own website. She began posting about the incident on her personal Twitter account, along with a call for other workers to copy and paste their own reviews as well. Shortly thereafter, she received a letter from TER’s attorney threatening to sue for copyright infringement. But it was something else in the letter that irked Vanessa.

“That letter was cc’d to my legal name and to an old address I was living at previous,” says Vanessa, who read these actions as threats. “They threatened to expose my legal name on the internet if I didn’t stop talking about them on social media.”

Vanessa questioned the legalities of TER’s business, musing about whether this attorney knew the amount of taxes TER paid, openly suggesting that if he didn’t maybe the IRS might. She followed these inquiries with a request for TER to remove all of her information from their website.

“Everything was gone within 24 hours,” she says.

This was Vanessa’s opening salvo against the web giant. In March 2016, she started the Twitter account @FCK_TER_, which, according to its bio, is “exposing exploitation, cyberpimping, bullying, harassment, & profiteering of sexworkers by the establishment racket known as TER.” The feed is a mix of commentary about the industry, warnings about dangerous clients, mocking quips about disgusting reviewers (known in industry parlance as “slobbyists”), and retweets from workers who are interested in or have removed their listing from TER.

There’s even a hashtag: #delisted.

While the @FCK_TER_ account currently has a relatively modest follower count around 3,600, Vanessa says that, based on her active direct messages, that number is nothing compared to those who read her feed. Often, workers will contact her privately with questions about delisting, mostly asking how to do it. Workers say TER won’t simply remove accounts upon request, using the excuse that published reviews exist for the public good. To counter that argument, Vanessa suggests legally worded threats or posting private client information, actions that seem to get TER to expedite the deletion process.

Vanessa’s DMs aren’t just about logistical concerns, but also jammed by emotional workers worried that delisting will kill their business. “Will this hurt my business? Where else should I advertise? How did you do it without TER?” she says. “It’s a whole slew of things.”

Scarlett St. Clair shared these reservations. “This is my full-time income,” she says. She spent months asking other women for tips on how to leave, trying to estimate how her business would be negatively affected if she decided to go. “There’s a lot of men who want to keep [TER] alive,” says St. Clair. “They say things like, ‘If she doesn’t have reviews she’s not legit, she’s gonna steal your money.’” Ultimately, it was an experience with a prospective client who boasted about being a “Top 50 TER reviewer” that shifted the fuzzy stressors into focus. “I don’t know them, they don’t know me, and they want to control my reputation in this industry?” she says. “I really enjoy my job and look forward to seeing clients, and this was preventing me from doing that.”

She says that she “essentially threatened legal action,” and her TER listing was removed in October 2017. “Provider information is no longer available on TER,” reads the page for her locked account.

“My dream is for TER to disappear and not have them control the careers of young women who are vulnerable,” says St. Clair. “There’s that saying, and I know I’m going to get it wrong: ‘If I see far, it’s because I stand on the shoulders of giants.’ That’s how I feel about the women of Twitter and providers online who have been a huge support.”

In fact, Twitter has become an important resource for workers educating themselves on their industry. @FCK_TER_ is merely one account devoted to recovering worker power. @FCK_ECCIE takes on a similar review forum, while @FCKP411 exposes the “exorbitant ad prices” of Preferred411.com. Laura Cohen (@ProviderSafety), a “retired escort” and “deep background screening specialist,” runs one of dozens of accounts that share tips on how workers can stay safe in this profession. Combined, their retweets, responses, and private back-and-forths compose an expanding network where workers can organize and reclaim power from client-driven websites.

“It’s snowballed,” says Vanessa. “Twitter is becoming a huge platform for sex workers.”

Twitter also doubles as a return to the era when workers wrote their own ad copy. The social media platform’s lax content restrictions allow workers the same self-determined censorship they have on their personal websites, while giving potential clients a glimpse at another selling point: their unique personalities. “It’s a wonderful resource to watch conversations, to be kind of a voyeur,” says St. Clair. “To watch these interactions and see if this is someone you want to spend time with.”

But not everyone’s buying Twitter as the savior. For some, it’s another symptom of the tech-driven work-hour creep that’s infected nearly all of employment. “It’s a waste of our unpaid labor,” says Doogan. “There’s the expectation that you have to spend unpaid time talking on Twitter to turn a prospective customer into a paying one.” Similarly the act of delisting from TER isn’t a reality for many workers who are active on the platform. “There’s a level of privilege to talk about [in delisting],” says Mariposa. “A person who gets 100 percent of their business from TER? They can’t afford that.”

Perhaps more blatantly problematic is that relying on Twitter as panacea ignores the lessons from the long history of American law enforcement’s continual and relentless clampdown on sex worker advertising, as proven by recent events.

In April 2018, President Trump signed into law FOSTA/SESTA, a bill that seeks to “clarify” the Communications Act of 1934 in a way that many sex workers believe will have a chilling effect on their ability to communicate with one another about dangerous clients. These worries have proven accurate mere weeks after the law’s passage, with many of the largest tech platforms preemptively shutting down certain elements of their sites, if not their entire operations. Most recently, those signing into Backpage.com, the popular ad-listings website, were met with a notice that the domain “has been seized” by an alphabet soup of government enforcement agencies.

No one knows how far this attempt to blockade sex workers from tech will go. But if workers are ultimately forced off even places like Facebook, Snapchat, Instagram, and yes, Twitter, well, what’s left besides simply going back out onto the streets?

* * *

“This is a very simple concept that requires very little start-up capital, relatively little in the way of operating expenses, and will turn a profit because the concept will be embraced,” reads a boldly worded 2012 blog post by Amanda Brooks, author of The Internet Escort’s Handbook.

The post detailed a simple website that eschews the popular review-based model for one that embraces the basics. “Verification without incrimination,” writes Brooks in the post, before describing simple ways to develop a system that would allow workers to prove who they are without publicly outing themselves, while incentivizing clients to prove they’re not law enforcement, to show up for appointments clean, and to be safe on dates. Meanwhile, the problems that have previously plagued websites would be inoculated its bare-bones construction: no forums, no private messages, no reviews, no membership fees, and no explicit photos or details of the services provided.

Rather than retelling “juicy” details, a date would complete a questionnaire of simple yes-or-no questions, for example, “Did they arrive on time?” and “Would you recommend them to another person?”. A “yes” to all questions by both parties, and they’re both verified. The website would then keep a public running tally of positive and negative verifications, to be viewed by clients and workers before deciding to see someone.

“Can’t wait for someone to run with this idea,” Brooks closed her post.

“I was in my pj’s lounging when I read Amanda’s blog post,” writes Ella, owner of The Verification Guide, to me in a chat message. “I went, ‘Well, that’s fucking brilliant’ and got to work.”

Ella had spent the previous decade as a sex worker based in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. During that time, she listed her services in the usual client-driven alphabet soup that workers are forced onto. “P411, ECCIE, TER, TOB, BestGFE, Slixa, you name it,” she writes. “Oh, TRB before it was raided.”

She remembers the 2009 murder of Julissa Brisman, a 26-year-old model and internet masseuse who answered an ad on Craigslist and was shot dead in a Boston hotel room. Even with all of those systems out there, “we had nothing reliable,” she writes.

But with Brooks’s brainstorm, Ella found a blueprint that she felt could deliver. “I can’t call TVG my idea,” she writes. “We used that framework as a core foundation for our site and branched out from there.”

Despite the site’s simplistic design, Ella quickly hit a major roadblock. After months of design work, her first developer, a close friend, was struck and seriously injured by a car. “I had to start all over again with someone new, which set me back pretty significantly,” she writes. But finally, after the plodding process of redoing much of the work, the Verification Guide launched in February 2017.

“We are coming up on 1,000 users, and I’m beaming with pride,” she writes.

One worker who bought into the new possibility is Missy Mariposa, whose ads now blanket the site. “I wanted to pay their server bills,” she says. “I love the site. I would love nothing else than for it to get traffic.” For Mariposa, it’s a chance for a website that stabilizes the power dynamic between client and worker.

She walked me through a beta test that Ella conducted to counter one of the most common problems with online verification: the client falsely claiming a date had occurred. After Mariposa and a friend input their information in the system, Ella contacted the “client.” In her review, Ella asked them for a parking receipt, or a receipt for anything purchased on the same block, or an ATM receipt with the private information blurred out — anything at all to verify the story. “Guys who got ripped off wouldn’t have a problem with that,” Mariposa says. “They’d say, ‘Fuck yeah, here’s my receipt.’”

While this level of worker protection seems simple — even obvious — it’s an important ideological shift from the pure market-based approach of Eros and the customer-is-always-right ethos of TER and other review sites. Yet despite that focus, TVG has an uphill battle to relevancy; it will only be as useful as the number of clients and workers that buy into it. Like any industry shift, that necessitates disrupting strongholds that currently control the trade.

All of the above, of course, doesn’t even consider how the passage of FOSTA/SESTA has disrupted how workers communicate with one another and with their clientele.

Since I began reporting this piece, TER has blocked access from U.S. addresses until “such time as the courts have enjoined enforcement of the law, the law has been repealed or amended, or TER has found a way to sufficiently address any legal concerns created by the new law.” The response to this news has been predictably mixed, with the anti-TER contingent full of gloating glee, while those relying on it for business have promoted work-arounds and struggled with what to do next. As Christina Parriera, a sex worker in Nevada, summed up: “No ability to screen = coming into contact with dangerous clients. Predators. = Rape. Assault. Murder.”

Meanwhile, TVG’s site has also been taken down, although Ella assures me they’re “making big changes to protect ourselves as well as our members, but we will not being going anywhere.” She tells me that they’ll be moving to a new site called Have We Met?, which will function in much the same way as the original TVG, but now, because of FOSTA/SESTA, only accessible to those who register. It’s a big change.

“In reality, having aspects of the site public will still put our members at risk of being easily found and having their ads misconstrued by overzealous law enforcement,” Ella writes. “The goal in this situation is to not be the low-hanging fruit.”

Sex workers, as always, move forward into the murky ether of constantly shifting laws, hoping that this time they’ll claim more control than they had before. One new development has been the creation of Switter by a collective of sex workers, which anticipates a crackdown on Twitter by developing a “sex work–friendly alternative to mainstream social media.” To remain active in the United States, they’ve set servers up in Australia, where sex work is legal, and developed their system using “a decentralized, open-source network.” It attracted 20,000 members in less than two weeks of operation.

But even that seems like fighting for scraps against the forever game of U.S. taxpayer–funded whack-a-mole.

With each site’s closure in this latest generation of communication crackdown, sex workers, already unprotected as a workforce, will be left further vulnerable to dangerous clients as they wait for the next online portal to fill the current power vacuum. And if the internet’s long relationship with sex workers is any indication of the future, there’s no reason to expect that the next dominant website, whatever it may be, will have that class’ best interests in mind.

“There would be no market for such a shoddy online platform as Backpage was if sex work wasn’t a crime. No one need defend that,” the journalist, Melissa Gira Grant, wrote in response to Backpage.com’s seizure. “There are no martyrs here, just increasingly poorer sex workers.”

* * *

Rick Paulas has written plenty of things, some of them serious, many of them not. He lives in Berkeley, is a White Sox fan, and is working on his second novel. He can be found at rickpaulas.com.

* * *

Editor: Krista Stevens
Fact checker: Ethan Chiel
Illustrator: Erin McCluskey
Copy editor: Jacob Gross

The Menace and the Promise of Autonomous Vehicles

Getty / Photo illustration by Katie Kosma

Jacob Silverman | Longreads | June 2018 | 10 minutes (2,419 words)

In Tempe, Arizona, on the cool late-winter night of March 18, Elaine Herzberg, a 49-year-old homeless woman, stepped out onto Mill Avenue. A new moon hung in the sky, providing little illumination. Mill Avenue is a multi-lane road, and Herzberg was walking a bike across; plastic bags with some of her few possessions were dangling from the handlebars. Out of the darkness, an Uber-owned Volvo XC90 SUV, traveling northbound, approached at 39 miles per hour, and struck Herzberg. The Uber came to an unceremonious stop, an ambulance was called, and she died later in a hospital. The car had been in autonomous mode.
Read more…

Meet the New Mormons

Illustration by Lizzie Gill

Sarah Scoles| Longreads | June 2018 | 23 minutes (5,714 words)

It’s a summer day in Salt Lake City, and tourists are resting inside the Mormon Tabernacle, staring at the enormous, golden pipes of the Tabernacle organ, which are topped with carved wooden finials that appear to scrape the ceiling. These are the same pipes I stared at on a satellite feed from my hometown chapel in central Florida twice a year until I was 18. Although I’d remotely watched the church’s semiannual conference religiously as a kid, I’d never been inside the building until now, more than 12 years after leaving the church and becoming an atheist, and 10 after coming out as a lesbian. My parents have spent those years trying to come to terms with these shifts, but our détente has involved not talking much about any of it. This is the Mormon way.

It’s strange then to find myself in this Tabernacle, waiting for my mom’s plane to arrive in Salt Lake so that she and I can attend the Sunstone Symposium, a yearly gathering that includes liberal Mormons and ex-Mormons who are redefining their relationship with the church. But here I am.

Two young missionaries step up to the pulpit to demonstrate the building’s acoustics for those in attendance. One rips a newspaper, and I can hear the tear from my perch in the shadows at the back of the room. It sounds soft and wet, like the stories it contains might be smeared. The demonstration ends and the missionaries walk offstage, accompanied by a recording of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir: God be with you till we meet again. The harmonies burrow into my chest like they belong there, which in some sense they always will. The Mormon worldview shaped mine — I could speak in King James English at age 4 — even though the two now stand apart, like puzzle pieces where the outcropping of one is the cavern of the other. Only together do Mormonism and I make a full picture. Read more…

A Crocodile In Paris: The Queer Classics of Qiu Miaojin

Getty / Photo illustration by Katie Kosma

Ankita Chakraborty | Longreads | June 2018 | 14 minutes (3,488 words)

(1)

D. H. Lawrence once used chickens to describe the two types of women. “A really up-to-date woman is a cocksure woman,” he wrote. “She is the modern type.” The other type is the hensure woman, “the old-fashioned demure woman who was sure as a hen is sure, that is, without knowing about it.’’ He made other references to animals and birds in his work. He often used animal lives to describe sex and male desire. “The desire rose again, his penis began to stir like a live bird,” he wrote of a man in Lady Chatterley’s Lover. Lawrence seemed to have thrived on the animal spirit. Three of his novels are called The Fox, Kangaroo and The White Peacock. The more the woods and the old mining towns of his childhood seemed to give way to industrial landscapes, the more easily animals seemed to have crept into his work. Often animals from these woods were imagined as insensible beasts. The chapter called “Rabbit” in Women in Love comes to mind, where a pet sustains society’s adulation until the moment it turns against its owners.

The beast in Qiu Miaojin’s modernist novels is the consciousness in women that is aware of a deviant lust for women’s bodies. Their sexuality is their bestiality. They are not necessarily hiding behind their animal pseudonyms; but like any animal on the fringes of human settlement, they are loath to be seen. The narrator of Qiu’s cult classic Notes of a Crocodile declares very early in the novel, “I’m a woman who loves women.” Yet a few pages later, she thinks she should carry her shoes and tiptoe down the streets of Taipei so that no one will notice her. In the industrial Taiwanese society where these women live, the self-discovery of their own sexuality is considered to be a social condition and an epidemic. It made for cheap television and for trash talk. In Taiwan in 1987, everybody seemed very interested in knowing who among them was a “crocodile.” Read more…