By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
By Tom Sellar
Having grown up in the right wing, I don't have to infiltrate, I just have to go home, and it is precisely for this reason that I find Minkowitz's bravery as a reporter so extraordinary. As a lesbian, I can't imagine daring face-to-face debate with media representatives for Focus on the Family, or invading the Promise Keepers, or getting saved in a charismatic service; her chapters about these subjects are strong because her material and point of view are original. However, she's a better reporter than she is a writer, and that's too bad, because this could have been an important book, and instead it's just an interesting one.
Minkowitz opens with a service at the Toronto Airport Christian Fellowship, a fringe group even among charismatics, where people are "spiritually drunk," make animal noises, and writhe on the floor, providing unobscured evidence that getting saved is a lot like having sex with the "Heavenly Daddy," which means that it also carries the added heat of incest. Moved despite her cynicism, Minkowitz goes forward to the altar, where she starts "to feel a profound shaking in my chest, and if I were one of the Torontans, I'd be sure it was the Holy Spirit knocking." It may not be the Holy Spirit knocking, but something real is happening to her that can't be accounted for with the physiological write-off she first offers. In my own experience, spiritual ecstasy, like orgasm, involves momentary destruction of the self, and those who haven't had it don't know what you're talking about; those who do tend toward denial, and have difficulty creating a trail of words.
The book's weaknesses come when she is trying to describe her own experiences, especially with s/m. Conceptually, Ferocious Romance was a major opportunity to tease out the entwinements of pleasure and pain. Instead Minkowitz stumbles repeatedly into the potholes of narrative nonfiction: overanalysis and overstatement. On page after page I scribbled in the margins, Too interpreted. "All of us have something in us like the desire to exploit starving boys, the desire to abuse little girls. The impulse to beat up prostitutes, menace wimps, degrade lovers, just because it feels so mysteriously satisfying to treat people like dirt." Maybe that's so for Minkowitz (and even for me), but I don't think it's true for everyone, and I've been around the block a lot. If she'd said "many of us" or even "most," her assertion might wash, but "all" tips her hand--it's preachy.
The desire to preach taints Ferocious Romance, but hearing a sex radical use terms like "Old Nick" or "the Afflictor" for the Prince of Darkness is endearing. And her reporting is full of kicky information. At one event--for women only--she describes getting saved combined with a makeover. You could writhe on the floor and get your colors done. In her encounter with Focus on the Family, where she lets the smartest of the fundamentalists lay out their analysis, she achieves some of her finest writing. In return, they listen carefully to her, and
I feel what I can only describe as divine grace--as an incalculable gift from Somewhere. . . . Getting to tell these men my "wrath," as Blake would put it, means that I can love them without fear. I hear Kurt Cobain in my head. . . . "As a tramp, as a friend," he sings joyfully to a potential lover. "No, I don't have a gun! No, I don't have a gun!"
Connecting Blake, Cobain, fundamentalists, a direct experience of grace, and her own rage is a writing tour de force, successful because she doesn't create a scaffolding of argument and leave it stuck all over the scene.
Minkowitz came out in the context of queer liberation rather than in the feminist movement, so, like Dorothy Allison, she rode the razor's edge of anonymous sex and lesbian sado-masochism. Yet her writing about subjects like s/m and places like New York's Labia Lounge, "where all you had to do was ask and you would receive," is sketchy and unsatisfying. Carrying language into the darkness is difficult, of course, but the real problem is that Minkowitz just doesn't have the technical chops yet for the autobiographical disarmament she desires. A great deal of her self-analysis is smart and very honest: " . . . the connection between my sex and my rage terrifies me. . . . I have never really understood why people find sexual sensations pleasurable. I find arousal mostly frightening and torturous. . . . " But when it's necessary to make s/m scenes live on the page, she either fails or shies away. One clear, detailed scene would have provided both menace and shimmer for the issues she's addressing and would have helped her avoid statements like this one: