Love in the Time of Banned Books #9 | "Her and Her" by Gaeun Choi
- julian32019
- Aug 6
- 6 min read
Art by A.M.R.
Introduction by Tessa Kats-Rodgers
"Her and Her" by Gaeun Choi
"Her and Her Illustration." Artwork by A.M.R.
Introduction
“Her and Her” by Gaeun Choi explores queer identity through themes of tender longing and self-discovery. Her use of literary devices like poignant symbolism and metaphor shed light on the shame that comes with being different in a world that demands conformity.
The piece begins with striking imagery as the narrator observes her friend through an enamored lens; it forces the reader to sit beside her, to experience the yearning that she knows so well. Choi additionally captures the narrator’s sense of compulsion, which alludes to the guilt that weaves throughout the piece. Vulnerability accompanies the narrator’s feelings, as she pretends to sleep, concealing the permeating and inherent sense of queer shame within herself.
Choi’s portrayal deepens with a symbolic reference to a one-eyed painting created by the narrator’s friend. The painting serves as a metaphor for both the narrator’s lust for the woman and her internalized shame. Choi’s careful prose engages readers with the narrator’s struggle, promoting a sense of resonance.
As the piece concludes, a note of hope blossoms, shifting the tone from self-loathing to quiet resilience.“Her and Her” encapsulates the journey from shame to self-acceptance that will resonate deeply with anyone exploring identity, love, or authentic expression. “Her and Her” captures the deeply personal journey from shame to self-acceptance, showcasing Choi’s nuanced craft in portraying the challenges unique to queer identity.
"Her and Her"
by Gaeun Choi
The first thing that drew my gaze was her feet. Lying on the bed facing the door, I fixed my eyes on the ground as she entered the room. Even in the dim light, the strong contours of her foot bones stood out. With each step, the muscles and blood vessels on the tops of her feet visibly flexed. Her toes, resembling mountain peaks, with slightly lifted knuckles, had a strange allure. ‘Attractive.’ I silently voiced. As her feet approached closer to me, I lowered my eyelids. For a moment, I thought about the idea of getting up to discover who she was. But it felt overwhelming, so I chose to pretend to be asleep instead. My loose bangs allowed my squinted eyes to continue observing her feet without her knowing. You don’t really have many options for staring when face-to-face interaction is off the table. Staring at toes would be much easier than making eye contact. Eyes talk too much. My gaze persistently chased the feet as they climbed up to the bed. The cheap Airbnb mattress’ squeaking noises scratched my ears, but I enjoyed her feet subtly stopping in the air every time she made noise.
The next morning, she wasn’t in her bed. A pang of disappointment brushed me momentarily as I turned to unpack my overstuffed suitcase. I always carry things too much. I knew I wouldn’t even touch half of the clothes throughout the whole five days in Boston, but I still packed them. Sliding my suitcase under the creaky metal bed frame, I noticed her minimal belongings–a small backpack and a canvas atop a leftover Chipotle bowl. The woman on the canvas had only one eye drawn. Her askew direction of gaze and slightly raised eyebrow gave the sense of avoidance. I instantly felt uneasy from the uncomfortable familiarity of which I couldn’t quite figure out the origin. The eye also held dread and its small pupil tried to divert my attention away from it. Things that I wanted to ask her about the painting sprang up in my head, but I soon stopped myself from thinking further.
She came back an hour later, as quietly as she slipped out. Lying in bed, I missed the timing to fully get up and ended up awkwardly pausing halfway through. We exchanged a short Hi. Her husky voice somehow harmonized with her appearance in a weirdly attractive way. As the conversation went on, I could feel her staring at me. But my gaze couldn’t bring itself to meet hers and decided to just stay somewhere around her knees. As if noticing my attention to the launching rocket tattoo on her left ankle, she stroked it. She might have said something else, but they all slipped away from my mind. I only remember her mentioning her ex-girlfriend in a thick Aussie accent which drew my gaze upward momentarily. The gaze allowed itself up there just long enough for me to be able to later trace her radiating pink hair in my head.
After a short outing, when I returned to the room that night, I found her already asleep on her bed. I busied myself with cleaning, trying not to gaze at her for too long and seem creepy. As I cleaned the table, I picked up the canvas from earlier. This time, I could sense some confusion in the woman’s eye. The drawing still didn’t appeal to me at all. My subconsciousness still didn’t welcome its disorientation. Wondering if she would complete the painting before leaving, I grabbed the plum that I had bought this morning. It was so red that it looked almost black. I tossed the plum into the air a few times before I pressed it with my finger. It was too hard to eat yet. It seemed like it still had a few days to fully ripe. Having nothing to entertain myself, my gaze naturally flowed back to her. Her hands were resting beside her thighs. Her long, nude-toned nails dug into her palms so deeply that I nearly reached out to release them. A slight frown creased her forehead, a touch of cuteness that brought a smile to my lips. Then the sudden realization startled me. The swirling uncertainty and unease I felt were foreign, stirring deep within me as I gazed at her face and drowned in wonder. It was a tangled web of confusion and discomfort. ‘A girl.’ I muttered it under my breath, trying to let that sink in. Unable to sleep, I felt the slow movement of the sun going down and rising again, wearing me out just from watching it.
Her ex-girlfriend’s call woke her up the next day. Frustrated, she blocked the number as I quietly watched. She caught me off guard by saying that ‘we’ need a decent girlfriend. She proceeded to sweep through me as she asked me to accompany her to Haymarket. Before I could stop myself, I said yes on impulse.
The trip from Moseley St to Haymarket took exactly 31 minutes. It was enough time for both of us. Entering the UMass station, I stole a glance at her face. Scrambling through the coins to pay the $2.40, I loved her Australian Naur. Passing through five stops, I only picked the questions to which I knew the answers were no. When transferring to the Green Line at Park Street, I could feel her hands on my shoulders. At every C word she dropped so unfazed, I threw my head back in laughter. Trying not to lose each other in the pushing crowd, our hands might have been held together. And just like that, after a bit, we arrived at Haymarket.
The smell of fruits was so sweet that it was sticky. Feeling adventurous with her, I picked up three more black plums, hoping for the best. I picked less hard ones this time, but they weren’t fully ripe. Still in the middle of ripening. She picked up a red fruit that seemed like peach, plus hairless. She said it was called nectarine. She pulled out a water bottle and washed one of the nectarines. Then she held it in front of my mouth daringly. Smile spread across my face with expectation. I took a bite, looking right through her eyes. At first, the taste was watery. The excessive juice was almost hard to swallow but soon I could detect the brief sweetness that brushed my tongue. It was the incomplete sweetness that I started to love.
She was once again already gone the next morning. I waited for her to come back for half an hour, but the door remained closed. Feeling a void pressing upon me, I sat on the bed. My gaze wandered, seeking distraction, and it settled on the canvas atop her suitcase. The woman was now staring at me with a more eased expression. Turning my head a bit, I could see that the plums by its side had ripened overnight. As I pressed my finger into one of the plums, the tender skin gave way, releasing a stream of yellow juice. Unconsciously, I brought my tongue to the liquid, giving in to its temptation to taste.
.
.
Her parting gift, the canvas with the single-eyed woman, is still hanging on my bedroom wall. I made a small change to it by making a hole where the other eye was missing. In what I initially saw as incomplete, abnormal, and disoriented, now I see the true self. Looking at the canvas, I bite into a fully ripe black plum, and try to capture the sweetness of it. With each bite, I feel pure joy, as I finally embrace the fullness that I once sought in her, as I free her from years of restraint.
About "Love in the Time of Banned Books"
In this series, we seek to celebrate LGBTQ+ identities and experiences, while critically examining book bans and how they impact the LGBTQ+ community.
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