"The Other White Meat":
An E-Conversation with Erika López (Part 2)

GIL-GÓMEZ: Many of my students report when they are reading your books in the library, or local coffee shop, etc. they feel like they are “being bad”—people lean over to peek at their “porn.” They feel they must respond “Yes yes it’s for my class!” I’m guessing that being a monstergirl also means you don’t care much about what people think; but do you have readers tell you about their naughty behavior and/or thank you for it?

LÓPEZ: I write as if I were alone and when I’d go on book tours, I’d have that frog in headlights look as people told me about their sex stories. I don’t want to hear that kinda stuff. I don’t care about sex, but I do want to hear about people—especially younger ones—reading my stuff and feeling like they can be more of who they are. Sex is easy an d rife with games and is made even more difficult with pop culture. But it’s not sexy to be your dorky self and there’s nothing out there that encourages you to. In fact, you’re encouraged to buy what everyone else has got and even the subculture is for people to go and conform together against the main culture. Gays and lesbians in San Francisco are not this huge subculture with secret religious pamphlets on how not to fit in together.

To be oneself is to sign up for a lifetime of embarrassment, dorkiness, many come-to-jesus talks about fitting in “or else,” and many family fights. All of this leads to loneliness. Being oneself plays better when it’s been washed out and hung up onstage or on film or in print. It doesn’t play well face-to-face/one-on-one. This is why I don’t like meeting many new people. I wait for the love to end and the other boot to drop on my neck and want me to change and submit. It’s inevitable.

And I’m no dream. I’m a pain in the ass to most. But those who’re close to me? I let them say whatever they want and it’s rare that I’ll freak out. I’d say, “so, you want to go and fuck her? Okay.” Or “okay, you don’t want to invite me to your birthday party because I don’t play well with others? hmmm. I guess I’m a little sad, but okay, yeah, you’re right.”

It’s the way it is and I’ve come to peace with it, but it’s hard on some, like my mom and sister, who still want me to change. As I write and do more, I only get “worse.” The payoff? That I do feel more and more powerful and like I can do anything even though that first silly blush of reckless youth is over. I feel like my teeth are sharper than ever and that I’m even more entitled than before. It’s fun feeling self-entitled. It beats damn near everything because most of the time, I feel like I belong at the place with those who tried everything, risked everything. I get afraid a whole lot. Especially of people and this new fad in tsk-tsking and cynicism. But I try not to let fear get the best of me. It’s so easy to. I try to remember that “all witnesses eventually die.” And if you couple fear with skin-deep victimhood, you’re totally and completely fucked.