{"id":991,"date":"2024-03-20T19:06:24","date_gmt":"2024-03-20T23:06:24","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/sites.bu.edu\/ampersandjournal\/?p=991"},"modified":"2024-03-21T15:47:16","modified_gmt":"2024-03-21T19:47:16","slug":"lily-weeks","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/sites.bu.edu\/ampersandjournal\/2024\/03\/20\/lily-weeks\/","title":{"rendered":"Lily Weeks"},"content":{"rendered":"

Lily Weeks<\/strong> is a Ph.D. student in American Studies at New York University. Their work centers on 20th and 21st-century American literature, media, and popular culture, with an emphasis on ephemeral, deteriorated, and\/or forgotten works. Their primary fields of interest include queer studies, affect studies, critical race theory, and physical & digital archives. Lily has recently been writing on 1990s lesbian films and plans to incorporate this work into a larger project on sincerity and seriousness in queer archives. They hold a B.A. in English and Visual and Dramatic Arts from Rice University.<\/em> <\/span><\/p>\n

Serious Ambivalences: Sensationalism and Sincerity in Lesbian Pulp Fiction<\/strong><\/h3>\n

Introduction: Ambivalence in the Lesbian Pulp Fiction Canon<\/strong><\/p>\n

Most scholars credit Tereska Torr\u00e8s\u2019 1951 novel Women\u2019s Barracks <\/em>as the first entry into the lesbian pulp fiction genre. The novel is a largely autobiographical account of the women of the French Freedom movement in World War II, and it is far less salacious than one might expect under the category of pulp. Portrayals of lesbian sexuality in the wave of lesbian-centric pulp novels that followed Women\u2019s Barracks <\/em>actually varied widely, ranging from lesbian-authored romances to male-authored pseudo-studies of sexual deviancy. Even now, the scope of the genre is extremely broad. As scholar Yvonne Keller outlines, the novels published between 1951 and 1965 must meet only two criteria for entry into the lesbian pulp fiction genre: they must be printed on mass-produced paperbacks, and they must prominently feature a woman in a love plot with another woman.[1]<\/span><\/a> To address the homophobia often embedded in the genre, scholars such as Keller have divided the works into two sub-categories: \u201cpro-lesbian pulp fiction,\u201d[2]<\/span><\/a> books written by women centering a woman in a romantic plot with another woman, \u201cwithout obviously extraneous sex scenes, and with well-developed characters\u201d and \u201cmale reader-oriented pulp\u2026typically with more sex and a male protagonist.\u201d[3]<\/span><\/a> Despite these delineations, the intermixing of male-oriented pulp with lesbian narratives has led to concerns about the genre as a whole as a purveyor of voyeurism, or a catalyst for the association of lesbianism with heterosexual pornography.[4]<\/span><\/a> The novels\u2019 covers, too, tend to exacerbate this issue; they are infamously salacious regardless of content.<\/p>\n

Dismissing the novels as inherently voyeuristic, however, neglects the prominence of lesbian authors within the genre. The work of queer authors within a sensationalistic (and at times homophobic) genre nonetheless presents an archive of queer ephemera ripe for analysis. By pointing to the liminal queerness visible in lesbian pulp works, I position lesbian pulp novels as archives of queer ephemera. In \u201cEphemera as Evidence,\u201d Jos\u00e9 Esteban Mu\u00f1oz describes how, in these spaces, “Queerness is often transmitted covertly. This has everything to do with the fact that leaving too much of a trace has often meant that the queer subject has left herself open for attack.”[5]<\/span><\/a> In 1950s and 1960s lesbian pulp fiction, the possibility of attack is twofold. Lesbian authors contended with the (almost assured) risk that publishing companies would mandate tragic endings for queer protagonists, whose deaths operated as a failsafe for avoiding accusations of moral indecency.[6]<\/span><\/a> Additionally, there was the possibility that the authors themselves would be outed through their work, hence the trend of authorial anonymity and the disguising of explicit lesbian identities within the texts.[7]<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n

The “trace” of open, unashamed queerness in lesbian pulp fiction is thus mitigated by the authors, editors, and publishers. The trace also emerges as a recurring pattern of queer affects related to the protagonist\u2019s taboo desires. For all their variation in content and tone, pulp novels frequently follow the same narrative structure: the (young, white, feminine) protagonist engages in a whirlwind romance with another (often older) woman that ends in heartbreak or tragedy. The more experienced love interest often inducts the protagonist into their queer circle of friends, even as the protagonist struggles to accept her queer identity in their presence. Because of the plot\u2019s straightforward nature, the novels\u2019 conflicts tend to be incredibly interior. Readers follow the protagonists as they become enamored with the love interest, fraught with frustration over their queer desires, and overwhelmed with despair at the impossibility of their situations. While these feelings vary greatly in tone, they are almost exclusively tied to the melodramatic because of their excessive and sentimental nature. In a contemporary review of Women\u2019s Barracks,<\/em> for example, Publisher\u2019s Weekly <\/em>describes the novel as \u201ca delicious blend of sex and melodrama that manages to be sentimental without ever becoming mawkish or campy.\u201d[8]<\/span><\/a> Sentimental protagonists frequently enable the blend of melodramatic sexuality by remaining in close proximity to the reader, often narrating or engaging in free indirect discourse. As a result, their vulnerability enables increased emotional insight when they \u201cinvariably veer from the promise of pornography to the achingly real, and often painful, emotional excavations.\u201d[9]<\/span><\/a> The painfulness of the protagonists\u2019 emotions often invokes the structure of moral melodramas. In lesbian pulp fiction, these melodramas manifest as an intense self-hatred at the idea of inhabiting an unaccepted (or supposedly immoral) identity. As a result, the novel\u2019s pull towards wallowing in feeling, towards the extreme or the excessive, is inextricably linked to the protagonist\u2019s queer identity. So, while the texts\u2019 melodrama can be read as campy or sensational, the turbulent emotions that melodrama enables are also crucial to understanding the affective underpinnings of the lesbian pulp genre.<\/p>\n

As a consequence of the genre\u2019s palpable melodrama and heteronormative marketing, lesbian pulp fiction has often inspired ambivalence among readers and critics alike. For example, the term \u201cambivalence\u201d is the focus of Christopher Nealon\u2019s essay “Invert-History: The Ambivalence of Lesbian Pulp Fiction.” In an overview of the genre, Nealon describes reading pulp in the present day as \u201cboth funny and sad;\u201d[10]<\/span><\/a> funny \u201cbecause of their outrageous melodrama\u201d and sad \u201cbecause the women who wrote the most popular lesbian pulp novels of the fifties and early sixties were always under pressure to remember that, officially, they were writing for a male readership.\u201d[11]<\/span><\/a> The novels feel additionally sad because of their tragic endings and the homophobic messages that often couple them. The sense of homosexuality as punishment is most palpable in the protagonists\u2019 expressions of pain. In one of the most famous lesbian pulp novels, Ann Bannon\u2019s I am a Woman <\/em>(1959), <\/em>the protagonist spends pages explaining queerness as discomfort. She describes how, being a lesbian, \u201call you want on God\u2019s green earth is to get the hell out of your own skin and to be normal.\u201d[12]<\/span><\/a> Even the protagonists whose same-sex relationship survives the novel are often plagued by uncertainty; they face constant reminders that their happiness could be fleeting.[13]<\/span><\/a> The novels\u2019 emotional intensity, especially surrounding first romances and sexual awakenings, exacerbates the sense that queer happiness is unsustainable.<\/p>\n

But despite the restrictiveness of the narratives\u2019 ambivalences, the protagonists\u2019 emotional oscillation defines the novels\u2019 emotional registers. The emotional highs of queer liberation and the lows of moral entrapment come together and contradict one another, giving way to unique affective illegibilities. These illegibilities are perhaps most pronounced in pulp novels that reside in an in-between space, between the categories of pro-lesbian pulp and virile adventures. And so, to continue investigating difficult ambivalences, I turn to two lesser-known pulps, Kay Addams\u2019 Queer Patterns <\/em>(1959) and Della Martin\u2019s Twilight Girls<\/em> (1961). <\/em>Although moments in both Queer Patterns <\/em>and Twilight Girl <\/em>could be read as erotic rape fantasies, I momentarily disregard questions of authorial intent to consider sincere articulations of queer pain. Reading Queer Patterns <\/em>and Twilight Girl <\/em>in conjunction with one another, I look for moments of sincerity in the novels\u2019 discomforting dissonances as a way of reading for silences in the lesbian pulp archive. Additionally, I aim to highlight the varying emotional strategies that emerge from the genre\u2019s ambivalences by focusing on an emotionally vulnerable protagonist and an invulnerable minor character. I argue that although lesbian pulps often traffic in homophobic tropes, their ambivalences do not make them \u201cbad\u201d queer art. Instead, their irresoluteness documents tangible queer pain and the complex and contradictory desires of lesbian subjects.<\/p>\n

Reading Nora: Sincere Pain and Failed Alternatives in Queer Patterns<\/strong><\/p>\n

Queer Patterns <\/em>is a particularly difficult pulp novel to read. The novel has elements of a pro-lesbian pulp piece. The narrative follows Nora\u2019s attempts to come to terms with her lesbianism following her breakup with her boyfriend, Roger. Although Nora\u2019s realization of her homosexuality is painful at first, she begins questioning her feelings of shame after beginning a romantic relationship with her coworker, Clara. Addams explores the romance between Nora and Clara in depth from a sympathetic perspective, aligning with Keller\u2019s description of pro-lesbian pulps that have \u201csurprisingly nonhomophobic images of lesbians given the time period, and emphasize the story of a lesbian romance in some depth.\u201d[14]<\/span><\/a> For example, moving in with Clara relieves Nora of the shame that often follows her. Nora describes, \u201cLiving with her was glorious, more wonderful than anything I had ever known.\u201d[15]<\/span><\/a> Addams not only takes seriously Nora\u2019s queer desires but also delves into Nora\u2019s pain following sexual trauma.\u00a0 Nora is raped twice throughout the course of the novel, once by Roger and again by an unnamed man at a bar. Although rape narratives are not uncommon in pulp novels, particularly in the erotic virile adventures, the author viscerally portrays the psychological repercussions of the violence Nora has experienced. By centering Nora\u2019s numbness with a reserved seriousness, the narrative deviates from erotic rape narratives to highlight Nora\u2019s long-lasting pain.<\/p>\n

But despite these moments of perceived sincerity, the text also frequently veers into the territory of virile adventures. Halfway through the narrative, Nora takes a job nude modeling, and her internal monologue fades to the background as scenes of sexuality take center stage. Three-quarters of the way through the text, Nora\u2019s former boyfriend suddenly returns. His re-entry into the narrative catalyzes the novel\u2019s turn towards explicit heterosexual eroticism, erasing and re-framing Nora\u2019s earlier queer desires. Lines like \u201cThe fact that he hadn\u2019t pleased me had probably been just as much my fault as his\u201d become the norm.[16]<\/span><\/a> However, even in moments where the text centers male pleasure, its earlier portrayals of Nora\u2019s psyche haunt Roger\u2019s return. The text\u2019s oscillation between sincerity and eroticism makes it so that unpacking contradictory forces in the novel allows a unique insight into an unintelligible emotional landscape. The novel\u2019s contradictions create failure at many levels, introducing possibilities for sustainable queer happiness before foreclosing them with palpable force.<\/p>\n

Queer Patterns <\/em>portrays visceral representations of the protagonists\u2019 pain following instances of sexual violence, investigating her psyche with a seriousness that feels disjointed from the rest of the text. The scene deviates from both the tropes of erotic rape fantasies in virile adventures and the \u201cmelodramatic exaggerations\u201d that accompany even most pro-lesbian pulp novels.[17]<\/span><\/a> In investigating the prevalence of erotic rape narratives in mid-twentieth-century pulp novels, scholar Alex O\u2019Connell points to a pattern in which these novels\u2019 protagonists continually grapple with their masochistic desires. In the erotic pulps that O\u2019Connell references, inevitably, the protagonist \u201csoon finds herself enjoying rape and sexual violence at the hands of the main male character.\u201d[18]<\/span><\/a> The protagonist\u2019s \u201cmasochistic enjoyment\u201d is portrayed alongside the \u201csadistic pleasure\u201d of the assailants throughout the text.[19]<\/span><\/a> In Queer Patterns<\/em>, Addams portrays neither the sadistic pleasure nor masochistic enjoyment that marks most eroticized rape narratives in postwar pulp novels. When a stranger rapes Nora, the act of rape itself is relegated to two sentences. Nora narrates: \u201cThen I was on the bed, unable to cope with his weight and strength. I closed my eyes, shuddering, trying to cut myself off from reality.\u201d[20]<\/span><\/a> The lack of detail stands apart from later scenes of homosexual and heterosexual sex, which are described explicitly. The detail that she was \u201ctrying to cut herself from reality\u201d urges the reader to take this moment seriously, neglecting visual descriptions in favor of prioritizing Nora\u2019s defensive psyche. The narrative also does not portray pleasure from the perspective of the perpetrator\u2013the scene cuts to him claiming, \u201cI didn\u2019t mean to do it,\u201d to which Nora responds that he did.[21]<\/span><\/a> The scene\u2019s matter-of-fact nature contributes to a sense of realism, encouraging the reader to identify with Nora and her painful experience.<\/p>\n

The narrator\u2019s withholding of details surrounding sexual violence creates a careful representation of withdrawal resulting from trauma. In An Archive of Feelings, <\/em>Ann Cvetkovich focuses on trauma in contemporary queer and female texts. She describes a traumatic response as difficult to portray, a \u201ccomplex and even paradoxical process because it includes not only \u2018hyperarousal,\u2019 or states of heightened sensitivity, but \u2018numbness,\u2019 or states of imperviousness to sensitivity, such as \u2018dissociation.\u2019\u201d[22]<\/span><\/a> Addams conveys Nora\u2019s paradoxical response to trauma in the novel\u2019s first rape scene. The scene painstakingly builds as Nora protests Roger\u2019s assault during their date until Nora describes how \u201cHe was moaning, and then he clutched at me in the shock of ecstasy I felt nothing, nothing at all. I felt only the violation of my body, not once but many times, and each time I begged him to stop.\u201d[23]<\/span><\/a> Nora\u2019s description of feeling \u201cnothing\u201d alludes to her withdrawal from the scene. In contrast, her insistence that she still felt the \u201cviolation\u201d of her body conveys the paradoxical hyperarousal that exists in tandem with her numbness. The lack of punctuation between \u201cecstasy\u201d and \u201cI\u201d creates additional discomfort in the reader. The run-on reflects the immediacy of Nora\u2019s assault even as she mentally withdraws. Compared to moments of sexual violence common in virile adventures, Addam\u2019s exploration of Nora\u2019s pain feels pressing and real.<\/p>\n

Additionally, despite the prevalence of sexual violence, Nora\u2019s lesbianism is not framed as a result of rape but as a separate (painful) issue. This, again, stands apart from other pro-lesbian pulp novels; several books of (relatively) well-known status in the lesbian pulp fiction canon portray lesbianism as a result of trauma. In \u201cVoyage to Camp Lesbos,\u201d Barbara Brickman describes how books like Vin Packer\u2019s Spring Fire<\/em> echo \u201cthe sickness theories of writers such as [Frank] Caprio and [Wilhem] Stekel where some trauma, such as violence, abuse, or early sexual assault, results in frigidity and\/or homosexuality in women.\u201d[24]<\/span><\/a> While Spring Fire <\/em>aligns with popular 1950s psychosexual theories, Queer Patterns <\/em>resists these explanations for Nora\u2019s homosexuality. Nora is careful to note that her attraction to women has endured for some time, presumably as long as she has lived. She describes seeing women in changing rooms as a teen, remembering how \u201cSometimes at night I would dream of this and wake up in a cold sweat. I would have the pillow clutched tightly to my body but it wouldn\u2019t be a pillow at all. It would be the body of a girl.\u201d[25]<\/span><\/a> \u00a0Her feelings of despair may be overwhelming and all-consuming; however, Nora is careful to differentiate her desire from the consequences of her traumatic experiences. This separation allows Addams breathing room to explore Nora\u2019s sexuality in tandem with her sexual trauma without necessarily linking her lesbianism to the sexual assaults she has experienced.<\/p>\n

The book\u2019s insistent portrayal of Roger as a hero, however, rewrites this more serious investigation into Nora\u2019s trauma and sexuality.\u00a0 As Roger becomes a viable love interest again, Nora also retroactively doubles back on her earlier feelings.\u00a0 She reframes his \u201cviolation\u201d of her as unsatisfactory sex that was probably \u201cjust as much my fault as his.\u201d[26]<\/span><\/a> She continues to shift responsibility to herself, describing, \u201cSex was merely an expression of love, not the whole of love. You took a man to your body and sometimes you expected too much.\u201d[27]<\/span><\/a> She also separates herself from her desire for Clara; suddenly, \u201cQuick memory of the nights I had known her, the nights we had known each other, swept before me in a blinding flash of distaste and disgust.\u201d[28]<\/span><\/a> Through the degradation of Clara and praise of Roger\u2019s sexual prowess, Addams portrays Roger as \u201csaving\u201d Nora from her lesbianism, mirroring the virile adventures that\u00a0 \u201coften have a male hero.\u201d[29]<\/span><\/a> Notably, this ending is not a tacked-on disclaimer on the dangers of homosexuality but an extended culmination of the narrative\u2019s more sensational aspects. Early on in the text, for example, Nora\u2019s friend Hilda gives an extended monologue praising the sexual prowess of the \u201colder men\u201d who \u201cshow her a good time.\u201d[30]<\/span><\/a> But although the novel\u2019s ending is foreshadowed by these moments, the decision to have Nora end the novel with Roger rather than fall in love with a new male love interest feels particularly painful. The move necessitates not only negating Nora\u2019s earlier desire for Clara but retroactively rewriting Roger\u2019s rape of Nora, replacing her view of the incident with his.<\/p>\n

But despite the novel\u2019s many shortcomings, Nora\u2019s failed attempts at exploring alternative futures allow readers to chart unexplored possibilities. Throughout much of the text, Nora seems to be working towards a path of self-discovery that later doubles back on itself. Although her pain at her lesbian identity feels familiarly melodramatic, there are other moments in which Nora begins to question whether or not she should<\/em> be feeling wounded by her desire for Clara. When she debates returning to Clara after they first sleep together, Nora starts to doubt her feelings of guilt. She starts to describe returning to Clara, saying, \u201cTo do that was to destroy myself totally, to take further and further into a forbidden world.\u201d[31]<\/span><\/a> However, then she pivots, asking herself, \u201cBut was it really wrong?\u201d[32]<\/span><\/a> Nora resolves to \u201cfigure out\u201d how she feels about her lesbianism not by seeking out moral guidance but by looking to her own feelings.[33]<\/span><\/a> She tells the reader, \u201cI had to solve this by myself. I had to reach into my mind and body and learn the truth.\u201d[34]<\/span><\/a> This move marks a distinct change in Nora\u2019s psyche; she pivots from wallowing at the pain of immorality to investigating \u201cthe truth\u201d about her desire.<\/p>\n

Nora’s victimization leads to an increased fervor in discovering her sense of self. She describes feeling like a \u201ctramp\u201d following her rape; however, she remains insistent on not returning to her previous life. She maintains, \u201cThe old life was behind me and I had to build another one. I couldn\u2019t go back, couldn\u2019t retrace my steps. I had to plunge ahead, right or wrong, and find myself.\u201d[35]<\/span><\/a> At this moment, Nora sidelines her quest to find what is right and wrong, instead prioritizing self-discovery. She progresses in her quest to find herself at unexpected moments following her experiences with sexual violence. After the second rape, Nora describes her feelings of intense loneliness; however, she also comes to a revelation about her desire for Clara. She explains to the reader, \u201cThe night before a man had taken me on this bed but now I was alone, so terribly alone that I felt lost to the entire world. I put my hands to my breasts, cupping them, admitted to myself that they wanted the love of only one person. Clara.\u201d[36]<\/span><\/a> Although the visuality of Nora cupping her own breasts is possibly aimed at male readers, Nora\u2019s touching of herself and admittance of her feelings for Clara can also be read as an act of reclaiming sexuality. Her sense of feeling \u201clost\u201d is connected to her rape, the man that had \u201ctaken\u201d her in her room, as well as to her desires for women, which she repeatedly describes as isolating. As a result, Nora admits her attraction to Clara as a remedy to her loneliness, even as it cannot resolve her pain at being assaulted. In other words, Nora\u2019s acceptance of her desire provides a building block for a new understanding of identity after it has been shattered in a multitude of painful ways.<\/p>\n

However, Nora understands this admittance of her lesbianism as a failure, even as it provides her with a sense of identity. Alluding to her return to Clara, Nora tells the reader, \u201cI knew what I was going to do, and what I had to do\u2026I had been a fool to try to forget; failure was the only thing possible. And I had failed.\u201d[37]<\/span><\/a> By failing at trying to \u201cforget\u201d her feelings for Clara, Nora fails at fulfilling expectations of heterosexuality. As a result, Nora\u2019s failure to meet her own expectations provides certain possibilities. As Jack Halberstam explains in The Queer Art of Failure, <\/em>failure to meet patriarchal standards can also be freeing, as \u201cgender failure often means being relieved of the pressure to measure up to patriarchal ideals.\u201d[38]<\/span><\/a> Once Nora lets go of her attempt to succeed at heterosexuality, she asserts that she has finally found herself. She asks herself a question that she has repeated time and time again: \u201cWho was I? What was I?\u201d[39]<\/span><\/a> For the first time, she has an answer: \u201cI was in love with another girl.\u201d[40]<\/span><\/a> Nora\u2019s failure to forget her queerness catalyzes her newfound assurance of \u201cwho she is\u201d as she ties her identity to her love for Clara. Even though her love for Clara cannot encapsulate her entire identity, Nora\u2019s move to define herself by her queerness mirrors the manner by which \u201cqueer lives exploit some potential for a difference in form\u2026<\/em>not as an essential attribute of sexual otherness but as a possibility embedded in the break from heterosexual life narratives.\u201d[41]<\/span><\/a> Consequently, Nora\u2019s failure marks the culmination of her self-discovery journey, as her assertion of queerness offers many alternative paths away from heterosexual narratives.<\/p>\n

However, in the larger context of the novel, Nora\u2019s attempt to better understand herself fails, as well. Nora\u2019s newfound assurance in her lesbian identity falls apart when she discovers Clara cheating on her. She describes the pain this betrayal resulted in, saying, \u201cShe had torn me apart and I needed to be alone.\u201d[42]<\/span><\/a> Clara\u2019s betrayal feels particularly palpable because it comes directly after Nora shares details about her sexual assault with her. Clara is the only person sympathetic to her experiences, comforting her and reminding her that she is not alone.[43]<\/span><\/a> As a result of her betrayal, Nora is left in a state of confusion. Because Nora\u2019s new sense of identity had been rooted in her desire for Clara, Clara\u2019s betrayal shatters her new understanding of self. Returning to a space of profound and multifaceted pain, Nora fails at charting new narratives. Although Nora\u2019s rejection of heterosexuality introduced new ways of being, Nora\u2019s inability to situate her queer identity showcases the way that \u201cfailure is also unbeing, and that these modes of unbeing and unbecoming propose a different relation to knowledge.\u201d[44]<\/span><\/a> After being undone by Clara, Nora immediately returns to Roger, seemingly seeking a return to normalcy. But although the text ends with Nora \u201csucceeding\u201d at heterosexuality, her moment of unbecoming lingers in the margins. What happens if we stay with Nora\u2019s desire to be alone? In a position where her knowledge is completely in question? Although Nora chose a path back to heterosexual narratives, her moment of undoing provides a starting point for a new understanding of identity. From this point, we can imagine alternative paths to queer narratives, paths that start not from knowing oneself but from unknowing. However, ending Nora\u2019s narrative here still leaves us in a moment of stasis, with Nora once again hurt and alone. The moments where the novel deviates from virile adventure tropes, especially when Nora\u2019s pain is taken seriously, render the novel\u2019s final indecisiveness especially crushing. While readers can imagine alternatives for Nora, they can also feel how her pain seeps through the narrative, even in its most sensationalistic moments.<\/p>\n

Reading Mavis: Invulnerability and Racial Melodrama in Twilight Girl<\/strong><\/p>\n

While Nora\u2019s emotional vulnerability in Queer Patterns <\/em>clashes with the texts\u2019 sensational tendencies, Twilight Girl <\/em>uses a minor character\u2019s invulnerability to pre-emptively defend itself against sensational readings. Della Martin\u2019s 1961 novel exemplifies the unique benefits of butch invulnerability as a mode of protection and expression for nonwhite lesbians through the character Mavis, a Black butch lesbian.[45]<\/span><\/a> The text follows Lon, a white sixteen-year-old who befriends Violet, a waitress at the local drive-through. Violet invites Lon to the 28%, a lesbian bar, where Lon meets Sassy Gregg and Mavis, an interracial couple who are friends with the bar\u2019s owners, Rags and Betty. Lon becomes enraptured with Mavis\u2019 knowledge of lesbian history, and the two begin a mentor\/mentee relationship. Eventually, Lon convinces Mavis to leave Sassy and begin a new life with her in Plymouth. The novel is configured in three parts: \u201cKid Stuff,\u201d which introduces Lon to the 28%; \u201cSassy,\u201d which pivots to follow Sassy and Mavis living together in Sassy\u2019s home; and \u201cLon,\u201d which follows Lon as she attempts (and fails) to run away with Mavis. While Queer Patterns\u2019 <\/em>intended audience remains unclear throughout the text\u2019s duration, Twilight Girl<\/em>\u2019s ending closely reflects the endings of other pro-lesbian pulps who are forced to punish lesbian characters by the end of the work. And so, rather than attending to the ending\u2019s expected negativity, I instead choose to read the text through the character of Mavis and her moments of illegibility.<\/p>\n

Considering the ambivalence associated with the lesbian protagonist and the melodramatic genre, I argue that viewing the text through the minor character, Mavis, exposes layers of nuance absent from protagonist-centered readings. As a Black lesbian in a predominantly white space, Mavis draws attention to performances of both masculinity and race. In doing so, Mavis invokes a level of invulnerability that points to the limits of the novel\u2019s melodramatic structure. Specifically, Mavis\u2019 emotional withdrawal subverts the pulp genre\u2019s sensationalism as well as the structure of racial melodramas.[46]<\/span><\/a> Sometimes Mavis uses a stone affect as a means of protection against broader racist and homophobic ideology; other times she does so simply to antagonize her girlfriend, Sassy. Regardless of her motivation, Mavis creates spaces outside sensationalism and beyond ambivalence; as a result, centering her introduces a meta-conversation on lesbian pain and its resulting affects.<\/p>\n

Mavis and Sassy have an abusive relationship, with each character openly antagonizing the other. Lon imagines Mavis as in need of rescue from this relationship because Sassy has a reputation as volatile and rageful. In fact, Sassy once beats Lon without provocation \u201clike an animate, crazed hammer.\u201d[47]<\/span><\/a> But Mavis dismisses Lon\u2019s concern. She maintains that Sassy is the object of her \u201ctormented, vindictive pity\u201d and admits to Lon that her impulse to stay with Sassy is akin to \u201csome kind of hate in me making me wait around like a vulture.\u201d[48]<\/span><\/a> Although Mavis is generally less expressive than Lon, she shares her same \u201cviolent hatred\u201d for Sassy,[49]<\/span><\/a> a hatred which she demonstrates by verbally abusing Sassy in the following scene. The scene is the first in the section titled \u201cSassy,\u201d the only section of the novel where Lon does not appear. In Lon\u2019s absence, Mavis at first seems no less ambivalent toward her lover than the rest of the novel\u2019s characters. However, Mavis\u2019 dedication to invulnerability halts her sudden outburst. She stops her provocations and becomes completely silent, thereby infuriating Sassy further. The two then enter into a violent sex scene\u2013the only sex scene in the novel\u2013in which Mavis remains silent and unresponsive. The scene uses vague language, not explicitly depicting rape but implying it as a possibility through Mavis\u2019 withdrawal. In this scene, the narrator mirrors Mavis\u2019 reserve; they back away from both characters\u2019 violent desires to instead define the relationship by what is absent. Consequently, by suddenly self-silencing, Mavis adds an ambiguous depth to a scene that at first appears sensationalistic. The effect is to hinder the readability of the scene, placing the reader in an uncomfortable stasis that reflects Mavis\u2019 silence. This stasis allows for serious reflection on scenes of violence between women while evading direct depiction.<\/p>\n

Mavis\u2019 interaction with Sassy draws attention to a cycle of reading and rereading that ironically obfuscates the \u201cgood\u201d and \u201cevil\u201d moral designations associated with the noir and melodramatic genres. Before Mavis takes on this silent role, her relationship with Sassy is legible through the back-and-forth nature of their interactions: Mavis makes an aggressive comment, and Sassy responds in a way that seems overtly sentimental. However, Mavis\u2019 silence, in tandem with the narrator\u2019s new, withdrawn position, makes it very difficult to read who is reacting to whom. Mavis seems to be following what Jackie Stacey calls butch noir sensibility, which lies in anticipating what has already been read and then rereading it constantly in a dizzying cycle, which in itself is incredibly hard to follow. In a relationship, butch noir exists in a system by which, in Stacey\u2019s ventriloquization: \u201cMy [butch] vulnerability arises in your capacity to wound me, but my queerness defies this wounding power, since it has already embraced and incorporated your derision; thus, you read me, I show you that I have read your reading by reclaiming it, and, in reading myself\u2014by refusing your reading of me\u2014I try to get ahead of the game; but, just when I think I have done so, I find this rereading has already been reread, if and when I arrive in your future.\u201d[50]<\/span><\/a> Because of Sassy\u2019s whiteness, Mavis\u2019 vulnerability manifests in her anticipated reading of the scene as a caricature of an interracial relationship. Her knowledge of these readings and subsequent repurposing of racialized melodramatic tropes then denies Sassy the ability to wound her. However, when Mavis is silent, she cuts this loop of endless anticipatory reinterpretation, taking away Sassy\u2019s ability to reread her. Furthermore, she hinders the novel reader’s ability to reread the scene, instead wrapping them into the exhausting and opaque dynamics of this violent relationship.<\/p>\n

Within her cycle of rereading, Mavis employs explicitly racialized and gendered performances to reimagine melodramatic tropes to her personal benefit. In doing so, she momentarily leans into the sensationalistic reading that she is the \u201ctrue villain\u201d of the text. When Mavis returns home after meeting with Lon, she immediately prods Sassy for information on her male fianc\u00e9, whom she is marrying to placate her family. Mavis speculates that Sassy \u201cMust get tired, running. Meeting that big, strong he-man nights. Coming home sick enough to vomit. But planning to marry him, come across steady.\u201d[51]<\/span><\/a> Mavis\u2019 brutal comments come as a shock following her vulnerability with Lon. Mavis does more than \u201cwait around like a vulture;\u201d she externalizes her hatred through verbal abuse. The sudden switch in Mavis\u2019 character mimics the mechanics of a racialized \u201csensation scene.\u201d Only briefly diverting from Lon’s perspective, “Sassy” as a chapter anticipates the narrative\u2019s revelation of the true nature of Sassy and Mavis’ relationship. In Playing the Race Card, <\/em>Linda Williams describes the purpose of sensationalism as relating to the texts’ morality, explaining how, in early melodramas, “Typically the ‘unspeakable’ truth revealed in the sensation scene is the revelation of who is the true villain, and who the innocent victim, of some plot.”[52]<\/span><\/a> In racial moral melodramas, this revelation positions the \u201ctrue villain\u201d as the Black masculine figure and the \u201cinnocent victim\u201d as the white feminine. Mavis references this reading directly by returning to the style of dialogue that perplexed Lon. Alluding to Sassy\u2019s ambiguous scars, Mavis asks, \u201cYo\u2019-all wear them long-sleeve pee-jamas when dat big boy enjoyin\u2019 yo,\u2019 Miz Gregg?\u201d[53]<\/span><\/a> Referring to Sassy as \u201cMiz Gregg,\u201d Mavis distances herself from the intimacy of their romantic relationship by invoking explicitly racialized hierarchies that demonstrate Sassy\u2019s position of social power. Moreover, Mavis rereads Sassy\u2019s derision by representing her as the white mistress and, by implication, rereads herself as the Black servant. She does so as a means of feigning ignorance about the impact of her comments, rereading these hierarchies to give her the power to hurt Sassy.<\/p>\n

However, Mavis\u2019 sudden silence gives readers access to Sassy\u2019s unequivocal violence to subvert the structure of a sensation scene. While casting Mavis as the Black masculine villain and Sassy as the white feminine victim would align with the melodramatization of race that often occurs in pulp, both characters actually resist these categories. When Mavis makes a comment that Sassy marks as the final straw, Sassy slaps Mavis across the face. It is this violence that prompts Mavis to enter her state of silence, which she maintains for the next two pages. From this point forward, the pair\u2019s actions no longer signal anticipatory readings; readers are left with purely Sassy\u2019s physical violence. It is also only once Mavis is silent that readers learn Sassy\u2019s motives, and the narrator states, \u201cShe could not love Mavis enough, hurt her enough in her rage to possess what could not be possessed.\u201d[54]<\/span><\/a> Sassy\u2019s aim to \u201churt\u201d and \u201cpossess\u201d Mavis opposes the sort of moral legitimacy mapped onto white feminine victims in racial melodramas, the “racially beset victims who acquire moral legitimacy through the public spectacle of their suffering.”[55]<\/span><\/a> Mavis\u2019 unresponsiveness casts doubt on her version of the relationship as mutually toxic and leads the reader to question Mavis\u2019 agency within the relationship. The narrator describes Mavis as in a dissociative state, with a \u201ccoldly permissive attitude,\u201d \u201crobot face,\u201d and a \u201cbody that was like dry ice.\u201d[56]<\/span><\/a> This representation suggests vulnerability and victimhood. Nonetheless, the narrator maintains that Mavis\u2019 silence is an act of agency in other moments. For example, they describe how \u201cMavis ridiculed [Sassy\u2019s] attempt to bring tears with a retribution of silence.\u201d[57]<\/span><\/a> Moments such as these make it difficult to know whether to trust the narrator or if the narrator is reflecting Mavis\u2019 intentions. They have retreated from Sassy\u2019s internal monologue, certainly, but they do not expand on Mavis\u2019 thoughts any further. As a result, Mavis\u2019 withdrawal catalyzes a move from the realm of sensationalized toxicity into a space that is uniquely discomforting and difficult to define within the pulp genre.<\/p>\n

Mavis\u2019 silence is also imbued with questions of the scene\u2019s purpose that destabilize straightforward readings of the two characters. The subversion of the sensation scene begs the question: what does the scene reveal? Purely the extent of their \u201cviolent hatreds?\u201d Or that beneath the explanation of mutual hatred lies something deeper, undefined but far more sinister? Generally, the narrator\u2019s careful description aligns with Mavis\u2019 reserve and, thereby, seems to contrast the voyeurism that structures rape scenes in erotic pulp novels. The narrator moves from specific, incendiary lines of dialogue to vague descriptions that distance the reader from the scene. They stop referring to Mavis by name; she becomes diminished to \u201cthe girl\u201d in the line: “The girl offered no more objection to Sassy\u2019s brutal handling of her body than to the intermittent love words, the occasional caresses that were adoring and gentle.”[58]<\/span><\/a> Although we learn that Sassy\u2019s handling of Mavis is \u201cbrutal,\u201d most of Sassy\u2019s violence is only ever alluded to in contrast to what is \u201cadoring and gentle.\u201d The structure of the description changes as well; longer, meticulously constructed reflections replace the previous paragraph’s short, exclamatory sentences. Neglecting to state the details of the encounter and instead reflecting on the relationship, the narrator presents the scene as a sort of plot twist, taking what we thought was over-the-top and melodramatic and suddenly rendering it serious. However, the sudden return to sensational language creates a moment of tonal whiplash that leaves the reader in a disorienting space. As soon as their encounter ends, the narrator quickly goes back into Sassy\u2019s mind, where she describes her intense \u201cpenetrating\u201d jealousy for Mavis and Lon\u2019s relationship.[59]<\/span><\/a> Within the span of a paragraph, the narrator weaves inside and outside character perspectives, inside and outside sensationalism, and inside and outside Mavis\u2019 silence. At this moment, the narrator themself seems to be \u201crereading\u201d the scene; they render the violence serious only to re-mark it as erotic in the aftermath. This move also pushes the reader into the uncomfortable space of reading and rereading by pressuring them to anticipate the dramatization of violence in pulp novels, subverting that dramatization, but then returning to it once again.<\/p>\n

Despite the confusion that surrounds it, Mavis\u2019s silence makes space for unspoken nuances of victimization and abuse, even as they are not explored elsewhere in the novel. Although I am inclined to say that Sassy\u2019s physical violence, coupled with her desire to \u201cpossess\u201d Mavis, signals a pattern of domestic abuse, the characters\u2019 preemptive actions make it difficult to say this with certainty. Because readers are abruptly dropped into the middle of the relationship, this uncertainty seems purposeful; both characters employ symbols that the reader lacks the context to read. Mavis\u2019 remarks about Sassy\u2019s relationship with her fianc\u00e9, for example, seem to be building off a relational history that is inaccessible to the readers. The narrator creates this inaccessibility by handling Sassy\u2019s trauma with a similar type of reserve. They neglect descriptions of heterosexual sex to allow Sassy to describe it as “neither painful nor pleasurable, only gross\u2026gross and degrading and stupid.”[60]<\/span><\/a> Depicting every major character as having a violent\u2013but sympathetic\u2013 “hatred” hinders readers from ascertaining the “sufferings of innocent victims” or <\/em>“the exploits of brave heroes or monstrous criminals,” particularly as they are often mapped on to Black and white characters.[61]<\/span><\/a> Moreover, resisting straightforward moral and racialized categorizations, the dynamic between Mavis and Sassy provides a level of nuance to the subject of violence between women. As a minor butch lesbian character, Mavis introduces this nuance by constantly rereading herself and resisting the categorizations imposed on her by Sassy, Lon, and sensational pulp narratives.<\/p>\n

Conclusion: Archival Silences in Lesbian Pulp Narratives<\/strong><\/p>\n

One can consider the way in which both the Noras and Mavises of the genre serve as microcosms of larger silences, particularly in archives. Although I have focused on silence as constructed in archival texts, the effects of this silence on modern queer narratives are similarly palpable. Carmen Maria Machado, for example, begins her 2019 memoir In the Dream House <\/em>with a discussion of \u201carchival silence.\u201d Framing her experience with domestic violence in a queer relationship, Machado asserts that, through her retelling, \u201cI speak into the silence. I toss the stone of my story into a vast crevice, measure the emptiness by its small sound.\u201d[62]<\/span><\/a> The stories unreferenced in this essay, both of silence and of voyeurism, in part create the emptiness that Machado feels. However, I posit that Mavis, and characters like her, speak into the silence that Machado references, morphing and resisting melodramatic tropes as a form of measuring the voices that are missing. As readers move through Nora\u2019s emotional failures and Mavis\u2019 discomforting silence, they move towards a realm of ambiguous emotion that exists even in ambivalent spaces. Taking these emotionalities seriously invites queer histories to recognize in them the spaces of unmitigated queer feelings.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

[1]<\/span><\/a> In a historical review of lesbian pulp novels from 1950-1965, Yvonne Keller similarly defines the lesbian pulp genre as “mass-market paperbacks with explicitly lesbian themes and sensationalized covers that enjoyed widespread distribution and millions in sales” (385)<\/p>\n

[2]<\/a> Keller, Yvonne. \u201c\u2018Was It Right to Love Her Brother\u2019s Wife so Passionately?\u2019: Lesbian Pulp Novels and U.S. Lesbian Identity, 1950-1965.\u201d American Quarterly 57, no. 2 (2005): 392<\/p>\n

[3]<\/a> Keller, \u201cWas It Right,\u201d 392.<\/p>\n

[4]<\/span><\/a> Keller describes how \u201cthe genre\u2019s undeniably homophobic and voyeuristic appeal to a heterosexual male audience intent on enjoying the \u2018queer loves\u2019 of the \u2018twilight woman\u2019\u201d which \u201cties this image of lesbianism to heterosexual pornography\u201d (385).<\/p>\n

[5]<\/span><\/a> Mu\u00f1oz, Jos\u00e9 Esteban. \u201cEphemera as Evidence: Introductory Notes to Queer Acts.\u201d Women & Performance: A Journal of Feminist Theory<\/em> 8, no. 2 (January 1996): 6. https:\/\/doi.org\/10.1080\/07407709608571228<\/a><\/span>.<\/p>\n

[6]<\/span><\/a> As Melissa Sky details in \u201cCover Charge: Selling Sex and Survival in Lesbian Pulp Fiction,\u201d the trend of tragic endings began after Women\u2019s Barracks <\/em>was lambasted by the House of Representatives 1952 Committee on Current Public Pornographic materials, inciting fear that publishers and distributors would be jailed if they did not tone down the sexual content and end the novel emphasizing the immorality of queer identities (Sky 130).<\/p>\n

[7]<\/span><\/a> Michelle Ann Abate describes these risks in reference to Marijane Meaker in the essay: \u201cFrom Cold War Lesbian Pulp to Contemporary Young Adult Novels: Vin Packer’s Spring Fire, M. E. Kerr’s Deliver Us from Evie, and Marijane Meaker’s Fight against Fifties Homophobia.\u201d<\/p>\n

[8]<\/span><\/a> Publisher\u2019s Weekly<\/em>. \u201cWomen\u2019s Barracks by Tereska Torres,\u201d https:\/\/www.publishersweekly.com\/9781558614949<\/a><\/span>.<\/p>\n

[9]<\/span><\/a> Publisher\u2019s Weekly, <\/em>\u201cWomen\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n

[10]<\/span><\/a> Nealon, Christopher. \u201cInvert-History: The Ambivalence of Lesbian Pulp Fiction.\u201d New Literary History<\/em> 31, no. 4 (2000): 745.<\/p>\n

[11]<\/span><\/a> Nealon, \u201cInvert-History,\u201d 745.<\/p>\n

[12]<\/span><\/a> Bannon, Ann. I Am a Woman.<\/em> Naiad Press, 1959\/1995, 147.<\/p>\n

[13]<\/span><\/a> Artemis Smith\u2019s The Third Sex, <\/em>for example, ends with a toast to the central couple, in which a minor character reminds them that they barely know each other.<\/p>\n

[14]<\/span><\/a> Keller, \u201cWas It Right,\u201d 400.<\/p>\n

[15]<\/span><\/a> Addams, Queer, <\/em>123.<\/p>\n

[16]<\/span><\/a> Addams, Queer, <\/em>144.<\/p>\n

[17]<\/span><\/a> Nealon, \u201cInvert-History,\u201d 752.<\/p>\n

[18]<\/span><\/a> O\u2019Connell, Alex. \u201cPulp Sadomasochism and Sensational Narratives of\u00a0 Sexual Violence in the Postwar United States.\u201d Journal of the History of Sexuality<\/em> 32, no. 2 (May 2023): 202\u201323. https:\/\/doi.org\/10.7560\/JHS32204<\/a><\/span>.<\/p>\n

[19]<\/span><\/a> O\u2019Connell, \u201cPulp.\u201d<\/p>\n

[20]<\/span><\/a> Addams, Queer, <\/em>82.<\/p>\n

[21]<\/span><\/a> Addams, Queer, <\/em>82.<\/p>\n

[22]<\/span><\/a> Cvetkovich, Ann. An Archive of Feelings: Trauma, Sexuality, and Lesbian Public Cultures<\/em>. Series Q. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2003. 98<\/p>\n

[23]<\/span><\/a> Addams, Queer, <\/em>16.<\/p>\n

[24]<\/span><\/a> Brickman, Barbara.\u201cVoyage to Camp Lesbos: Pulp Fiction and the Shameful Lesbian \u2018Sicko\u2019.\u201d\u00a0Sontag and the Camp Aesthetic: Advancing New Perspectives<\/em>, edited by Bruce Drushel and Brian Peters, Lexington Books, 2017. 13<\/p>\n

[25]<\/span><\/a> Addams, Queer, <\/em>22.<\/p>\n

[26]<\/span><\/a> Addams, Queer,<\/em> 144.<\/p>\n

[27]<\/span><\/a> Addams. Queer, <\/em>144.<\/p>\n

[28]<\/span><\/a> Addams, Queer, <\/em>152<\/p>\n

[29]<\/span><\/a> Keller, \u201cWas It Right,\u201d 400.<\/p>\n

[30]<\/span><\/a> Addams, Queer, <\/em>62-63.<\/p>\n

[31]<\/span><\/a> Addams, Queer, <\/em>56.<\/p>\n

[32]<\/span><\/a> Addams, Queer, <\/em>56.<\/p>\n

[33]<\/span><\/a> Addams, Queer, <\/em>56.<\/p>\n

[34]<\/span><\/a> Addams, Queer, <\/em>56.<\/p>\n

[35]<\/span><\/a> Addams, Queer, <\/em>93.<\/p>\n

[36]<\/span><\/a> Addams, Queer, <\/em>95.<\/p>\n

[37]<\/span><\/a> Addams, Queer, <\/em>107.<\/p>\n

[38]<\/span><\/a> Halberstam, Jack. The Queer Art of Failure<\/em>. A John Hope Franklin Center Book. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2011. 4.<\/p>\n

[39]<\/span><\/a> Addams, Queer, <\/em>142.<\/p>\n

[40]<\/span><\/a> Addams, Queer, <\/em>142<\/p>\n

[41]<\/span><\/a> Halberstam, Queer Art, <\/em>70.<\/p>\n

[42]<\/span><\/a> Addams, Queer, <\/em>136<\/p>\n

[43]<\/span><\/a> Addams, Queer, <\/em>111.<\/p>\n

[44]<\/span><\/a> Halberstam, Queer Art, <\/em>23.<\/p>\n

[45]<\/span><\/a> While the pen-name \u201cDella Martin\u201d is likely recognizing queer activist and founder of the Daughters of Bilitis Del Martin (b.1921), the text is not attributed to her (\u201cPhyllis Lyon and Del Martin Papers\u201d).<\/p>\n

[46]<\/span><\/a> I am using the term \u201cracial melodrama\u201d as it is invoked by Linda Williams in Playing the Race Card<\/em>. Williams describes racial melodramas as melodramas in which \u201cwe discover the generation of \u2018moral legibility\u2019 (Brooks 1995) through the spectacle of racialized bodily suffering\u201d (xiv).<\/p>\n

[47]<\/span><\/a> Martin, Della. Twilight Girl. <\/em>Beacon, 1961. Box 3, Folder 10. MSS 116 Gay and Lesbian Pulp Fiction Collection 1955-1988, Fales Library & Special Collections, New York University, New York, NY. 74<\/p>\n

[48]<\/span><\/a> Martin, Twilight,<\/em> 68.<\/p>\n

[49]<\/span><\/a> Martin, Twilight, <\/em>66.<\/p>\n

[50]<\/span><\/a> Stacey, Jackie. \u201cButch Noir.\u201d Differences<\/em> 30, no. 2 (September 1, 2019): 34. https:\/\/doi.org\/10.1215\/10407391-7736035<\/a><\/span>.<\/p>\n

[51]<\/span><\/a> Martin, Twilight, <\/em>84.<\/p>\n

[52]<\/span><\/a> Williams, Linda. Playing the Race Card: Melodramas of Black and White from Uncle Tom to O. J. Simpson<\/em>. Princeton University Press, 2001. 18.<\/p>\n

[53]<\/span><\/a> Martin, Twilight, <\/em>85.<\/p>\n

[54]<\/span><\/a> Martin, Twilight,<\/em> 89.<\/p>\n

[55]<\/span><\/a> Williams, Playing, <\/em>44.<\/p>\n

[56]<\/span><\/a> Martin, Twilight,<\/em> 87.<\/p>\n

[57]<\/span><\/a> Martin, Twilight,<\/em> 90.<\/p>\n

[58]<\/span><\/a> Martin, Twilight, <\/em>90.<\/p>\n

[59]<\/span><\/a> Martin, Twilight,<\/em> 91.<\/p>\n

[60]<\/span><\/a> Martin, Twilight,<\/em> 104.<\/p>\n

[61]<\/span><\/a> Williams, Playing, <\/em>19.<\/p>\n

[62]<\/span><\/a> Machado, Carmen Maria. In the Dream House: A Memoir<\/em>. First Edition. Minneapolis: Graywolf Press, 2019. 2.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Lily Weeks is a Ph.D. student in American Studies at New York University. Their work centers on 20th and 21st-century American literature, media, and popular culture, with an emphasis on ephemeral, deteriorated, and\/or forgotten works. Their primary fields of interest include queer studies, affect studies, critical race theory, and physical & digital archives. Lily has […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":22232,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[18],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.bu.edu\/ampersandjournal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/991"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.bu.edu\/ampersandjournal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.bu.edu\/ampersandjournal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sites.bu.edu\/ampersandjournal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/22232"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sites.bu.edu\/ampersandjournal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=991"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/sites.bu.edu\/ampersandjournal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/991\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1105,"href":"https:\/\/sites.bu.edu\/ampersandjournal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/991\/revisions\/1105"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.bu.edu\/ampersandjournal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=991"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sites.bu.edu\/ampersandjournal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=991"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sites.bu.edu\/ampersandjournal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=991"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}