Lately, and quite accidentally, I read three books in a row that involved shapeshifting or similar transformations. I’m going to talk about two of them.
RoAnn Sylver’s Chameleon Moon (kindly loaned to me by Corey Alexander) is a fantasy novel about a trans, queer, and poly found family struggling to survive in a burning city hemmed in by overwhelming surveillance. Nearly everyone left alive in the city has been transformed by the miracle drug Chrysedrine — some people get wonderful, powerful talents, while others get horrible, painful conditions that might as well be magical curses. The story was beautifully built but at times too painfully earnest for me to disappear into like I wanted. Certain scenes were so palpably aware of the presence of the reader: explorations of one character’s newly realized asexuality, for instance, or fierce objections when villain deliberately misgenders a trans family member. The book went out of its way to showcase characters being kind to one another, outside of the demands of plot. I initially read my discomfort as a flaw of the book — as if you’d dropped by a friend’s place casually to say hi and they’d immediately set out the best china and made three of your favorite desserts from scratch. I felt horribly awkward.
Then via NetGalley I received a copy of Masked Possession by Alana Delacroix, a debut in a new paranormal romance series about shapeshifting magical creatures called masquerada who can take on different physical traits and personae, depending on their level of talent and training. The prose is polished and the premise is a novel one for a paranormal. The reviews so far are strongly positive. A lot of people are going to enjoy this book.
I am writing this review for you, the trans reader, wherever you may be. Because I do not think you will enjoy this book. I think it’s going to hurt you and I am writing this review to offer evidence.
Masked Possession is a story centered on trans-coded characters and experiences that never once stops to consider that the reader might be trans. This story about modern-day shapeshifters, about masks and passing and secret identities and mental trauma and family rejection and love and who someone really is deep down — this story never once acknowledges the existence of actual trans humans in the world, despite having trans parallels at all levels from the worldbuilding right on down to the individual phrases.
To briefly show why this is inherently harmful it helps to consider The Matrix, which is certainly also a trans allegory but which places the burden of the metaphor on computers and machines. Neo’s journey is a search for truth outside of the falsely imposed limits of the physical body. Masked Possession, on the other hand, consistently makes the characters’ physical bodies the source of truth, power, and identity. The only place for trans people in such a metaphor is as collateral damage.
Did I really wince at Chameleon Moon being too considerate? I should have known better than to undervalue kindness.
I started Masked Possession with enthusiasm and a lot of questions I hoped the book would explore. Here is what I found; stop me when this starts to sound familiar.
Masquerada are manipulative, vain, and frivolous. They cannot be trusted. They cannot be intimately known, because they change appearances too drastically. One masquerada can recognize another wearing a masque (except all the times when they can’t because the plot requires them to be fooled). Learning to take on a masque is referred to as a transition. Only the most powerful can change genders — but that includes our hero, our heroine, and the Evil Other Woman. Masquerada are long-lived but prone to something called la vide, a severe depression that commonly ends in suicide. (The French term translates to “the void” or “the gap,” which is probably worth a whole bitter essay of its own in this context.) Masquerada believe in their superiority to humans, and though humans find them captivating and sexually alluring intermarriage is extremely rare. They have a secret, glamorous hierarchy with royalty and etiquette of their own. They object to being incarcerated in human prisons.
It gets worse. As a cis woman, I don’t often respond viscerally to descriptions of what amounts to body dysphoria, but the climax of this book left me sick and shaking. I’m going to provide a summary and very short quotes below, but I’m also going to put two rows of asterisks around the whole thing and set it in italics in case you want to skim right past this part.
Our heroine, Caro, is a journalist in hiding. Attacked and almost killed by the book’s main villain, she now lives in Toronto under an assumed identity. The parallels to a deadname are evident from the start, and the fact that the heroine keeps her past life a secret from the hero is presented as a fault and a failing. The very first thing we see on page one is her arriving at work in mile-high stilettos, and her Francophone boss praising her for dressing “more like a woman.” Later, when she finds her boss is in league with the villain, Caro will transform into a giant, muscular, “dickless” man and crush her boss’s genitals with her bare hands. The prose goes needlessly, graphically out of its way to emphasize that A) she hates this form and we should never ever picture the heroine as having a penis, and B) that the genital-crushing is a severe and likely permanent injury (telltale phrase: “his ruined groin”). Caro is forced into this giant’s body by the villain, who intends to send her in his place to duel the hero to the death. No, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense in the text either. At the novel’s climax, Caro has to fight the mindless demands of her unfamiliar, aggressive, frightening, masculine body in order not to kill the man she loves. It is one of the most violently grotesque things I’ve ever encountered in a romance and it ruined my belief in the HEA, my trust in the author, and any sense of critical distance. And then we are treated to the final sex scene where the hero fucks Carol in those mile-high heels, then takes on a woman’s masque and suggests having sex in that form, which Caro finds playful and arousing and I found infuriatingly flip and fetishizing.
The one good thing about having read all the way to the end of Masked Possession is that I can look at Chameleon Moon with a newfound sense of appreciation. It is now startlingly obvious that Sylver’s book is centered on caring, on kindness, on radical acts of trust and belief in other human beings. There is conflict — real, profound conflict, that endangers lives and futures — but the conflict does not make anyone unworthy of human consideration. This story is founded on love, and not merely the characters’ love for one another within the bounds of the plot. It is founded on love-as-a-verb, in the best sense, and it makes sure the reader knows some of that love is directed at you. The unease I felt with being so deliberately taken into account — as if the book were looking back at me — now feels like a major misread. Chameleon Moon opens its arms wide and shows a beating, vulnerable heart to the world just in case one reader, somewhere, is feeling raw and shaky and in need of succor. The world is better because this book exists.
In such an age as ours, I can think of nothing more necessary.