I chose to attend “Existence as Resistance: A Queer & Trans Memoir Reading & Discussion” my first evening at AWP because the offsite event had been put together by Jackie Domenus, and they were one of the four authors assembling to discuss queer and trans memoir as a form of resistance. In addition to me being a queer nonbinary writer naturally drawn to such events, I chose this offering over the sixteen other panels, readings, and open mics competing for my attention. Three even had queer themes, including “Lit and Leather: Celebrating queer defiance with prose and poetry,” which was held at an iconic LA leather bar and invited (though did not require) attendees to “bust out your best leather.” As the prose reviews editor for The Rumpus, I had slated a review of Domenus’s memoir, No Offense (Elj Editions, 2025), to run in early June, and I wanted to hear them read from and speak about it. Besides, the only leather accompanying me to LA was my vegan leather iPhone case.
That evening, I learned the overarching theme of No Offense is micro aggressions. I relate to those feelings the book explores, the cis hetero world (including those in it who are theoretically well-intentioned) often making me feel less than, and I was interested to read more about Domenus’s specific experiences within that realm. A few days later, I consumed the breezy 168 pages of essays in one sitting—semi-reclined, in my tenth-row aisle seat during the flight back to the East Coast. During the panel I’d attended, Domenus referenced the book’s publisher having financial issues since losing its distributor in early 2024; Googling further information led to a GoFundMe page, so it’s likely No Offense will struggle finding its way onto store shelves, as these days so many worthy works do. Additionally, we all know how well trans books are faring at libraries nationwide.
No Offense’s forward explains that though Domenus’s gender expression evolved during the decade they wrote the essays comprising the book, they decided not to update that aspect of the writing during their otherwise extensive editing process. This means there are times the nonbinary narrator presents as a cis woman. In fact, because this memoir is told largely chronologically, the author only presents as their most authentic self in the final essay, hinting at their nonbinary identity four pages before the book ends and cementing it, if cement can be used for a decision regarding fluidity, on the final page. While every gender journey is unique to the individual, Domenus’s choice to include their past pronouns and gender expressions is noteworthy. Most times the struggle to get to the self makes replaying the past without the updated filter simply too painful. Choosing to revisit former unrealized versions of oneself again and again for the sake of telling a more complete story can only be classified as brave.
The book’s early essays show where the seeds of such bravery were perhaps sown. Likely some of the author’s courage was forged in their supported childhood: Domenus’s parents encourage their early interests—not merely allowing them to gravitate towards what other families would classify as “boys’ toys” but buying them coveted Shaquille O’Neal high tops and Christmas-gifting them things like a construction vehicle playset with their name monogrammed on the carrying case. Unlike most queer kids, Domenus first encounters microaggressions outside their home and family.
Though their father listens to Queen in the car, drumming along on the steering wheel, and their mom is an Elton John fan, queerness isn’t named or discussed. Domenus’s parents are clearly progressive and accepting, but without the added guidance verbalizing their societal or political leanings would contextualize. Though Domenus’s parents hold attitudes 99 percent of queer kids raised less liberally would certainly prefer to grow up around, the silence of their acceptance combined with the lack of processing Domenus’s sexuality or gender variance doesn’t prepare Domenus for what lies just outside the narrow scope of their household.
Domenus grows up in the 1990s, a time in the US when the climate of queerness simultaneously expanded and contracted. The reckoning with the AIDS crisis of the previous decade (born in stigma and affecting a specific queer population only further stigmatized by it), galvanized many within the queer community to become more politically active, while shaming families into hiding the true identities of their afflicted loved ones. President Clinton’s “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell” made it legal for queer people to serve in the military if they entirely concealed their queerness. Then, three years later, with the passage of the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA), queer couples fortunate enough to find a state to grant and/or recognize their marriage were denied its common federal benefits—namely, inheritance, insurance, and tax advantages. Moreover, DOMA made it possible for states to deny basic spousal rites if they chose to. During Domenus’s childhood, though they grow up a two-hour drive from NYC and “just over the bridge” from Philadelphia, this is mere backdrop. To the suburban middle-class kids Domenus trick-or-treats among or skateboards with, gay people are something distant. “Queer and trans people exist,” they write. “But to kids like me, they are virtually invisible.” As a result, growing up, Domenus experiences the strange trickle-down from the larger political battle; their early love of skateboarding gets them called “dyke” for reasons that confuse them. An aunt “consoling” a teenage Domenus that they are not queer suggests they are merely being misunderstood for their proclivity towards big T-shirts and comfortable sweatpants.
With retrospect, Domenus sees how the lack of queer representation made them ashamed of their authentic self—ashamed enough to lie to themselves about it. They define themselves on MySpace, an early social media platform, as “Yes I Skateboard. No, not all girls who skateboard are lesbians.” This collection repeatedly draws the conclusion that if queer people are expected to disappear their queerness or are only safe when passing as cis/hetero, the norm of invisibility becomes a constant microaggression perpetuating it.
In the era of boy bands, pre-pubescent Domenus gravitates exclusively to *NSYNC’s Lance Bass, even though Bass won’t come out as gay until 2006. In their teens, Domenus sometimes makes out with their female best friend. They describe a butch female character on an MTV reality series as “hot” but in the same sentence add, “I’m not a lesbian.” Domenus and their friends follow a male character on a different MTV reality show who is exposed for having appeared in “gay porn” but diminishes his relationship to the experience, calling it “gay for pay,” as he attempts to hang onto his girlfriend. That character is later asked by a co-star if he, because of his “past,” is “allowed to be around children.” Later, he suffers a panic attack because he might be perceived as gay.
This is indicative of standard media at the time; it informed and created the culture. Even what seems like a safe landing cannot be; Domenus’s mother, on perhaps too many glasses of red wine, acknowledges the immediate family knows that Domenus is “a lesbian with Kaitlin.” This shocks and upsets Domenus, prompting their initial denial and then a long period of the family turning to silence on the topic rather than processing it. But the word “lesbian” has amassed so many negative societal connotations by then, that they can’t entertain the possibility of embracing it. Significantly, at this point, Domenus hasn’t had any physical interaction with their best friend. They feel they are being labeled based on something intangible. Once Domenus crosses that line and becomes intimate with their best friend, they share the relationship openly with friends and family—having no trouble saying they “have a girlfriend”—yet demurring on the label “lesbian.”
Although “out” and in love, as Domenus processes their queerness, they perceive it as something the reader understands is akin to a disease or inherent fault. Domenus looks for what may have caused it—because the outside world has shown them it’s definitely something one would avoid if one could. They write, “. . . I start to wonder if maybe my whole life I’ve been trying to be more like a boy. Because boys can like sports and boys can wear loose shorts and boys can have crushes on girls and maybe even kiss them. . . . Maybe if I hadn’t learned to throw a football the right way, if I hadn’t dressed up as Frankenstein for Halloween, if I hadn’t wanted to know what it’d be like to pee standing up, I wouldn’t be gay.” Years later, as an adult teaching in a high school, Domenus overhears a ninth-grade boy telling another he won’t high-five a kid assumed to be gay, because he doesn’t want to “catch it.” Domenus realizes these constant slights proliferate because a more straightforward and comprehensive education is not being given.
Domenus’s coming out as gay at twenty, and the immediate years beyond that, coincide with many other life events. The essays explore each of these traditional milestones through the lens of the author being a member of multiple marginalized groups. Presenting female, they cannot get a car salesman to address them as the customer. The salesperson exclusively connects with Domenus’s father, even though their father aggressively reorients the conversation to Domenus every time. When Domenus and their girlfriend openly tell their coworkers they are in love, the watercooler conversation, though happy and supportive, concludes with “So which one of you is the guy?”
Domenus, after coming out, is repeatedly told they won’t understand how or why some hot male is considered attractive. When Domenus clarifies that previous to their girlfriend, they were attracted to men and had dated men, they are dismissed as previously confused; their past experiences are invalidated. At a gynecological appointment, the nurse skews the pre-exam conversation so heteronormatively that Domenus, although attempting to be fully disclosing, cannot possibly be seen for who they are. Asked if they are sexually active, they reply they’re with a girl. Asked further by the confused nurse “But like . . . you’ve never had sex with any guys?” They say no, and the response is an incredulous “Like ever?”
Domenus and their girlfriend speak to a therapist, who explains the Kinsey scale to them yet expresses great surprise, based on Domenus’s looks and demeanor, that they haven’t been with a woman previously.
Domenus and their girlfriend decide to buy a house. Whenever they share this exciting news they are repeatedly asked, “But who will mow the lawn?”
They become homeowners, and every stranger—from utility company representatives to solar panel salesmen—asks to speak to their father or their husband instead when one of them answers the door. When they explain they are the homeowner, they must explain it twice.
Domenus and their girlfriend get engaged and each wear engagement rings. They are repeatedly asked, “Who’s the lucky guy?”
Domenus and their fiancée buy wedding dresses. The bridal salesperson cannot see them as anything but two brides marrying men, even though they repeatedly clarify they are two brides marrying each other.
These stories, well-told and containing specificity unique to the author, are a good read. But the anecdotes are neither surprising nor newsworthy. I also have stories about my home ownership and wedding falling victim to heteronormative slights. What is remarkable about this slender collection is what Domenus does to unite this relatively small sector of the queer community with a far greater maligned population. They write:
“Society tricks minorities into thinking we owe an explanation for everything we do. When rich white cis men rule everything, LGBTQ+ people have to explain their sexual background, Latinx people have to explain their family’s immigration story, women have to explain what they are wearing, and Black people have to explain their every move. In order to be considered equal, we have been conditioned to seek the approval of those who deem us less than.”
Moreover, instead of leaving the reader with this morass—the mess of blood on the floor from those thousand paper cuts—Domenus offers the singular solution we can each enact: “But we don’t owe an explanation. Our stories are our own, which is to say we own them. The ways in which our stories shape our identities are personal and are meant to be told however and whenever we see fit. To reflect, to empower, and never to justify.”
That is, if we can get our stories into the hands of those willing to read them.
