I Am the Dreadful Other
By Elizabeth Burch-Hudson
“How did no one know?” This is a question that many queers ask themselves, jokingly at times and heartbreakingly at others. How did no one know I was queer? How did no one know that I was hiding my entire queer self inside, feeling like I would burst at the seams with every breath, every look, every touch? My answer is: We knew. But in knowing, all we had room to feel was that immense fear. That dreadful other. The monster within.
I was raised in a college town in Middle America. I came there from North Carolina, and before that, California, where my parents had me and my sister. Before that, they came from Rhode Island, and before that, a litany of states where each had settled in attempts to find a home.
I came to Missouri spoon-fed the Southern tradition of story, passive aggression and sacrifice. I was only seven, but I knew what I had to do. I swallowed myself whole and made room for a more acceptable me. If I had the smallest slip up, I’d ruin everything. I lived in this fear for a decade.
Now I’m a heavily pierced, tattooed, out and proud bisexual queer. I make art about my demons and share it with strangers. Sharing your feelings with others is the least Southern thing ever, and I do it professionally. But every day I fight to not live in fear of who I really am. Some days it’s easy. Others, I search for the will to live. I never thought I’d make it this far. Plenty of queer children—and particularly trans children—don’t outlive this fear, let alone make it to their twenties.
Recently, I traveled to Mississippi for the first time in my sentient life. Because of moral and political differences, my family only saw our Mississippi relatives—my father’s extended family—for weddings and funerals. My last memories of being in Mississippi were half-formed, from almost twenty years ago.
The last time I’d been around my father’s family was for his last living brother’s funeral in 2019. I’d paced an Urban Outfitters dressing room trying to find appropriate funeral attire. I settled on a near floor-length black lace dress, with cap sleeves and a V-neck. I thought it’d be okay, that I could hide my queerness underneath the ample skirt.
Before the funeral, my father parked our car outside the Evangelical church. This brother was more religious than the rest of my father’s Southern Baptist family and thought the family lot in Mississippi not sacred enough ground. I’d been given strict instructions not to talk about my work or political opinions and suggestive instructions not to mention my sexual identity, though I knew my nose piercing might do the job for me.
When I got out of the car, my father asked for someone to give me a sweater so that I could cover my chest. I took the knit sweater my mother handed me and hurried inside. I felt like I was back in Missouri. Like being myself was putting a target on my back—on the backs of my father, my mother, my sister. Like I needed to sacrifice my queer self all over again.
For my recent trip to Mississippi, I packed long pants and long sleeves. Even then, fully covered, locals looked me up and down—they were suspicious of either the person I was or the person I was claiming to be. Did I show my true self in the way I was clothed or how I walked down the street? Was it the mask I wore, literal and otherwise? Did I simply reek of queerness? In Southern tradition, no words were spoken but their message was emphatic and unwavering: You do not belong.
Yet I did. I visited the local cemetery, my father’s family plot where half my namesake is buried. I stood there, at odds with my Southern self.
“I’ve fought to make myself small, to make my queerness small, for too long now. I lay down my sword at my own feet.”
That same plot is where my father’s brother, Carroll, is buried. Carroll “died by suicide” as my father says, at 28 years old, found at the bottom of the Mississippi River in Memphis, Tennessee. “How did no one know?” is also a common refrain used in the wake of suicide. This answer seems less clear to me. As someone who has struggled with suicidal depression most of my life, I’m still searching for the answer. I stood over Carroll’s grave, and saw myself there, in my dead uncle’s patch of frozen grass.
I’ve felt at odds with myself my whole life. I’ve lived in contradiction. I’ve lost myself and grieved. I’ve lost others close to me—people like Carroll—who should still be alive. Every birthday I have is an act of queer resistance. It’s a fight, a proactive choice, a defiance. But I’ve fought to make myself small, to make my queerness small, for too long now. I lay down my sword at my own feet. I am the monster within. I am the dreadful other. I am all that is queer. And I’m damn proud of it.
This essay is part of the “Courageous Acts” series.
Elizabeth Burch-Hudson is an award-winning writer with deep Southern roots based out of LA. They have had work published with the Gay and Lesbian Review, performed for Forever Magazine’s reading series, and were a grant recipient for the 2021 Los Angeles Department of Cultural Affairs’ Reimagine Public Art Showcase.