The Dervish Dance of Gender: Reading Xan West’s Show Yourself to Me

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I write to you from a tower. I’ve been sitting in bed, on my knees, back straight, eyelashes lifting and falling slowly. I imagine myself, briefly, as some haughty, flawless woman with a cruel mouth. The image is hazy and in another moment I’m myself again: a working-class black dude in Illinois who just paid…

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