Dirty Laundry

Dear reader, 

My name is Alex Snyder and I am a traumatized eighteen-year-old (no thanks to Leo) who doesn’t know the first thing about creative writing. Leo has asked (forced) me to write this artist statement on his behalf. Big mistake. Usually, Leo is in control and determines my fate, but this time I’m telling his story. So here is my attempt at his very important senior artist statement. Seriously, I don’t know why he wants me to do this. Seems like a waste of his hard-earned Bachelor’s degree, but whatever, here goes:

Once upon a time, 

“What the fuck. Don’t start it with ‘once upon a time,’” said Leo, who must have forgotten who he was dealing with.

“Okay, you’re the one making me do this, what did you expect?” Alex said.

“I expected you to actually try!”

“You know I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I know you know better than starting a story with ‘once upon a time!’ I know you know that because I created you!”

“Fuck you, I will write what I want, I’m doing this for free.”

Once upon a time, Leo Goddard rounded the corner in the dimly lit hotel hallway. When he reached the laundry room door, he held a key card to the reader. When the lock clicked open, he swung the door open and entered. Inside, only one machine hummed, laundry churning inside. The rest of the washing machines were quiet and still, but at the back of the small room, a man stood, removing his lacy, black, lingerie from the dryer.

“Stop.” Leo laughed. “That’s not funny,” he said.

“No way! This is too much fun!”

Leo was staying at the five-star hotel for the night. He was on tour with the circus as the show’s most famous clown. He had to wash his polka-dot pants because there was an incident with a lion.

“Stop! Do it the right way.”

“Ugghhhh, fine!”

Leo was just visiting the three-star hotel. His mom was staying there for a few weeks while she was between homes. She had asked him to switch the load of laundry she had put in the wash. It was late at night. Unbeknownst to him, the laundry room was about to close for the night, locking everyone out until morning. Inside, the washer still had a few minutes left. He leaned against the washer across from it and waited.

“Hi,” a voice greeted.

Leo turned to the man who had just spoken. “Hi…” he said.

The man was taller than he was, though most people were. His hair was white and thinning and he wore glasses with thin rims. He made small talk and asked Leo about himself too. Leo, a socially anxious nineteen-year-old who was often mistaken for a lesbian or a thirteen-year-old boy, smiled politely and nodded, answering when necessary. As much as he was curious, he was also concerned as to why he was making conversation with someone who looked like him. Especially at this hour. With every awkward pause in the conversation, there was the steady beat of the washing machine that he was silently praying would end soon so he could switch the laundry and leave.

The man balanced the conversation with some random facts, politics, and personal anecdotes and questions. Leo found himself relaxing slightly and even talking a little about his own life as well. 

Suddenly the washing machine buzzed, the piercing noise filling the room, before falling silent. He lurched forward and opened the door to the washer. As he retrieved the damp blanket, the man carried his laundry basket to the door. I’m not sure why he said what he said next, maybe they had been on the topic of networking or making friends. Maybe he had noticed Leo’s socially awkward demeanor and thought he could use some pointers, but as he opened the door he turned to Leo and said: 

“I want to let you in on a little secret,” he said with his hand on the door handle. “The easiest way to make a person like you is to give them the opportunity to talk about themself.”

The man smiled and let the door shut behind him as he left. All Leo was left with was some soggy laundry and the realization that the man wasn’t all that bad. He almost liked him, even. 

Hm. Maybe the man was right after all.

I think I should be honest with you, reader. I made most of that story up. I’m not trying to lie to you (if I were, then I wouldn’t be telling you this right now), I just think you should know that I am trying to write this artist statement with whatever scraps I can find in Leo’s feeble memory, which isn’t much. I just thought that quote from that random dude would make a good opening. It’s not my fault that all he can remember from the encounter is that he was in a hotel laundry room with him. 

Besides, it works perfectly; Leo loves the sound of his own voice. According to his mysterious Laundry Godfather, he should be his own best friend. Instead, his relationship with himself is like that one Katy Perry song. What’s it called again? Hot N Cold. Yeah, that’s the one. He is both the protagonist and the antagonist of his own story. He doesn’t seem too bothered by this as long as he’s the main character. 

Side note: I am rolling my eyes right now. He told me to put the main character line in there. He thought it was good. It’s not.

“Hey!”

Anyway, he doesn’t have a super healthy relationship with himself, but I’m not one to talk. Luckily, like me, he has also found solace in writing. The only difference is that I only really know how to write letters. My dad taught me, and I wasn’t really all that present during my English classes. I had more important things going on, like mourning my dad’s death. 

“Alex!”

“Jeez, fine, okay! I didn’t know it had to be all about you.”

“It’s my artist statement!”

“Well, then why the hell am I writing it?”

Silence.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

He often likes himself a little more after writing a solid piece of work. If he can transform his trauma and otherwise difficult life experiences into something palatable for an audience to enjoy, it becomes more digestible for him too. He told me that writing staves off the self-hatred, and I told him that I wouldn’t put that in here because my therapist told me I’m no longer allowed to use the word “hate.” 

“Well,” Leo argued. “I didn’t say ‘hate,’ I said ‘hatred.’ There’s a difference.”

And Alex said: “Don’t be an asshole, I’m doing you a favor writing this artist statement for you.”

Then Leo said: “That’s not even possible, you’re not real. I made you up.”

To which Alex responded: “This is getting really meta. I’m moving on.”

He told me that writing staves off self-doubt and I feel the same way. 

It hadn’t occurred to Leo that writing was a thing he could do until his junior year of high school. He was decent at essay writing but dreaded it. Other than that, his backlog of writing consisted of only two memorable works. The first was a series of six-paged books made with construction paper about colorful bananas that he co-wrote with his step-brother at the ripe old age of six. The other was in third grade when he wrote a story in class about taking his gigantic dog to the dump because he had a hole in his body that was leaking. His teacher read it aloud while Leo sat bursting with excitement, awaiting a reaction from the big plot twist where he revealed that it was a stuffed animal all along and not an actual dog. With its insides falling out. That they were taking to the dump. His poor teacher was probably shitting her pants, wondering if she should call my parents and more importantly, when she should stop reading the morbid story aloud to a class of eight-year-olds. 

Jesus, really, Leo? Goddamn. Mrs. Bassett, I apologize on Leo’s behalf.

But other than those two pieces of Pulitzer-quality literature, he could only think of a few instances in which he was passionate about writing. There was that time in middle school when he tried to write a disturbing short story to cope with his home life. And that period when he really wanted to write poetry, but he quickly gave up because he was too literal and it always turned out too dry and elementary. Oh yeah, and as an overthinker, he became pretty skilled in the genre of apology letters. 

It wasn’t until he was sixteen that some miracle happened. That’s the only way I can think to describe it. Like me, he was a depressed teenager, trying to find reasons to live in a world that was dying fast around him. He hated, whoops, I mean… severely disliked, his body and his voice and his everything really. He felt misunderstood. By himself and everyone else around him. He was deep in denial about his identity. 

When he was fourteen or fifteen, he read a book about a transgender character who was born female but transitioned to become male. It wasn’t the first time he had seen this, but this one awakened something in him. He related to it, but he didn’t yet know the extent of it. The main character, Leo, had the same birth name as he did and he decided then and there that if he ever changed his name, it would be Leo. 

At the time, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do about this information. He knew that something had felt wrong for a while, and after cutting his hair short and often being “mistaken” for a boy in public, he started to wonder. He never felt attached to his breasts, and when he got his first period, he wasn’t surprised, just disappointed. He bound his chest with a secret binder that he bought from Wish.com (come on, Leo even I know better than that. That might even be worse than using ace bandages). He wore men's clothes most of the time and had an “I’m just not like other girls” mentality. Well, he was right. 

And don’t even get me started on his sexuality. Most people just assumed he was a lesbian and he didn’t correct people when they did. He didn’t have a label, and he still doesn’t really. He just likes who he likes, I guess. Fair enough.

“Dude, move on. This is supposed to be about writing.”

“Okay, okay! Jeez.”

What was I saying before? Oh, right! The miracle. Sorry, someone was distracting me. 

So he was in the shower one day, thinking (as one does) and it just happened. As he stood, naked and soggy under the streaming water, he was hit with an idea, a big one. It felt huge. A plot for a book. He thought, what if there was a heaven specifically for queer people? An afterlife specifically for people who were told they were going to hell just for existing. Especially for those who felt their only way out was suicide. Someone needs to write this, he thought. He would’ve read the fuck out of that book. I would too… well, haha. I guess I don’t really have to… I already lived it. 

The idea swam around in Leo’s head for at least a week before he started to realize that no one else could write this book. Even if he knew someone who would want to take on the project, it wouldn’t be exactly what he had envisioned. It had to be him. So, for the first time ever, with very little knowledge or experience in creative writing, he sat down with a notebook and pen and started to write a book. He knew it would take a long time to write a book and he knew he had a habit of dropping creative projects out of lost interest or time. But he was determined to hold a tight grip on this one. Even when life and school got in the way. So that’s why five years later he is still working on it (Seriously, dude. You only have like three chapters left, just get it over with). And even though he didn’t imagine it would take him this long, he’s sort of glad that he didn’t finish it in high school because he has grown so much as a person and writer and that has affected the quality of his work. 

He wouldn’t have wanted to publish this book before even knowing who he was. Before truly knowing himself and what trans joy is. Before experiencing transphobia and homelessness at the hands of the people who were supposed to love him unconditionally. Before finding his own little family. Before falling in love and being loved by someone for who he truly is. Not before finally learning to love and accept himself. All of which are important aspects of the story that he is trying to tell: Mine. How is he supposed to convince me and everyone reading my story that life can be beautiful even when everything seems stacked against me if he is still in the same rut that I’m in? He could try, but I would be more likely to believe him if he had proof. But now he does. He knows who he is and he loves himself, flaws and all. He’s about to graduate college and move into an apartment with his partner. He doesn’t know what the future holds, but he’s willing to fuck around and find out, and that makes me want to try too. He inspires me. Don’t tell him I said this, but I think he feels the same way about me too.

His mom loves to use the phrase “everything happens for a reason” as an explanation (and sometimes as a weapon) for everything. Leo isn’t entirely convinced, but even still, he can usually find the good in the worst situations, eventually. If nothing else, he can use his trauma as a tool to better his life by turning it into something beautiful. Who ever said that airing out your dirty laundry was a bad thing? People love to read about other people’s fucked up lives. Not only is it interesting, but it also reminds them that their lives could always be worse. 

I think that’s why he made my life so fucked up when he made me. He definitely created me in his own image, but somewhere along the line, he had to make my life worse than his. To make things more dramatic, I guess. Gee, thanks. I have him to blame for my father passing away and my mother becoming a raging alcoholic as a result. He’s at fault for my gender dysphoria and his hand was the one guiding me toward suicide. But he’s also the one who saved me and created a beautiful world for me to find comfort in, even if it was ripped away too soon. Wow, our relationship is toxic as fuck. Wait, does that make him God or my father? This is some sick, twisted dependency shit. It’s fine though. I understand why he did it. I’m past that. We’re friends now. Even though it still hurts, I know those shitty things were necessary to shape me into the character that I am today. Besides, now I tell him my story. He set the parameters, and now I get to live it out while he writes it all down. Every time he writes me into a problem, that’s him working through his own. Maybe this is more of a codependency thing. Or a symbiotic relationship. That sounds less awful. We’re helping each other out. I let him process his shit through me, and he makes sure I make it out alive. I trust him. If I start to get off track, I know he’ll nudge me in the right direction.

We’ve gotten to know each other very well; we’re similar in a lot of ways. He has been writing my story for so long. He said it’s his baby and he knows it’s growing up. I told him I think it’s more like a high school freshman: messy and trying to figure itself out. But soon it will be all grown up and it’ll be time for him to let it and me go out and face the world on our own without the shelter and protection of his Word document. We will have to part ways like everyone does eventually in this world. But when will he know it’s ready? When he first started writing, he had hoped that he would publish my story around the time he graduated high school, but after another couple of years, he read it back and decided that those first few chapters needed to be rewritten entirely. They say that a piece can always be improved; how will he know that it’s good enough if it can always be better? He could change any number of words, phrases, or situations to change the delivery of my story and make it more appealing to the public eye. But it will always be the same story being told. I try to tell him that, but it’s hard for him.

He knows he can’t keep me to himself forever. The whole reason he started writing my story in the first place was to share it with others like us. People who don’t know that it can get better. That they can find love from themselves and from others. That suicide isn’t the way out. That life can be beautiful if you make it. Leo isn’t doing this for the fame and the money. Though those things do sound nice, if that were his goal he wouldn’t have chosen writing as the road to get there. He wants to tell my story to reach people on a personal level, to relate to them, and to show them that things can get better. I think he has been trying to show himself that too, whether he realizes it or not. 

Leo said to Alex, “If the page is the washer, then my pen is the soap.” 

And Alex told him, “That’s stupid and you’re trying too hard to push the laundry metaphor.”

“Okay, you little shit, got anything better?”

“I don’t know, you’re supposed to be the writer! You can do better than that. Say something like ‘Publishing this book is like airing out dirty laundry and then washing it in front of everyone.’”

“Wait, that’s actually kind of good.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re welcome.”

“It’s technically a simile though, not a metaphor.”

“Whatever! I’m using it. Now stop distracting me.”

For Leo, publishing this book is like airing out his dirty laundry and then washing it in front of everyone. He’s healing himself, and at the same time setting an example for everyone else who reads it. But that can’t happen if he doesn’t let go.

Leo has developed a knack for networking and I think some of the credit should go to one strange laundry man. It isn’t as hard as it seems. He was right after all, most people love to talk about themselves, especially those with power. So once you’ve hooked them with the topic of them, then you can start to sneak yourself in there as well, and BOOM! You’re in. It wasn’t until recently that he realized it’s because of this cycle (and general kindness, don’t forget that part, it’s pretty important) that he has a lot of people on his side, which has allowed him to get as far in life as he is now. So maybe he can use this to his advantage in the publishing world.

My story is also the reason he attended UMF in the first place. He wouldn’t be where he is now without it. He did get distracted by a seemingly large art scholarship, but that turned into a side quest that deflated both his wallet and his passion for art. Somehow (miraculously) his passion for writing remains intact. And with little personal projects here and there, his love for art is slowly making a comeback after years of being dormant. 

For a long while, Leo worried that my story would be his only idea. It was the reason he came here in the first place, to better his skills and in turn, better the story. But he didn’t have any other big ideas to write about. He began to wonder if he was spending all of this time and money (that he didn’t have) just for this one book. And then what? Was any of it going to be worth it?

But over the past year, he has grown. It’s like he’s been given the key to his own mind. When he sits down to write, even if he’s not sure where to start, the words start flowing through him a lot easier than they did before. He knows the unwritten templates to create a decent piece of writing. The rest is something that’s always been inside of him: a story worth telling. This whole time he has been writing my story, he has been living his own. Every core event in my life stems from something he has experienced. So in theory, if he thinks people can get something from reading about my life, then somewhere deep down, he’s admitting that the same goes for his story. One that is comprised of many smaller stories, just waiting to be written. 

After everything, he’s confident in his ability to write something worth reading, and he’s realized he has an endless vault of ideas and stories. If not imagined, then from his own experiences, in which some are so bizarre that they sound fictitious in themselves. Over the last couple of years, writing has helped him work through some shit like his identity, and learning to forgive his parents for their mistakes. Still not as crazy as mine, but I hope he never has to go through what he put me through. I’m still getting through my own shit and I have a long way to go, but like him, I have learned to forgive. He’s helping me heal and I want to do the same for him.

I know that he’s scared of graduation. He’s been in school his entire life, it’s all he knows. But if, even after everything, I can graduate high school, leave the only home I’ve ever known (no matter how abusive and unwelcoming), and figure myself out, then I know he can do this. And I know that it won’t be long before he finally lets me go so we can both face the world head-on, together. It’s time for him to do his laundry.

How hard could it be?

Sincerely, Alex.

“Thank you.”

“You got it, boss.”

“No, really... I’m proud of you.”

Alex took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m proud of you too.”

P.S. Leo Goddard is a stinky doo-doo baby.

“Really?”

“Sorry!” Alex chuckled. “I couldn’t help myself.”