How To Find Yourself During the End of the World

Ever since I can remember, I have always been a reader. Although I was apparently reluctant to actually learn how to read, once I did, there was no stopping me. I read everything I could get my hands on. Books, catalogs, cereal boxes, you name it. Every spare moment I had, I used to read. My parents were thrilled, of course. They encouraged me and I just kept growing.

I read my way through most of school, summer camps, car rides, and almost everything else. I was an unstoppable force. The limit for the number of books that could be checked out on one library card at my local library is fifty, which I know because I nearly hit it multiple times.

After school got out this summer, I drove myself to the library. I headed to the YA section in the back and started grabbing books. Any book that looked interesting went in my bag. And then the other bag. In total, I checked out about thirty books. In the past, I would have plowed through all of those within the month. Now, I had the internet and a job and only got through three or four over the whole summer. The first book from that pile that I read is still chewing on my brain, all these months later.

I took it because the title caught my eye. How to Get Over the End of the World by Hal Schrieve. The inside flap had something about queer trans punks and into the bag it went. I had just gotten into punk music about six months prior to reading that book, and was slowly immersing myself into punk culture. I would spend the next month making patch pants and go to my first punk concert with my girlfriend in July.

I picked up How to Get Over the End of the World in the afternoon. I don’t remember what day it was, but I might have worked that morning. It was sunny out, because it was an afternoon in the summer in Southern California. The overwhelming Republicanness of Orange County was starting to get to me, and I wanted something a little strange and a lot gay. Something that reminded me that I wasn’t alone.

I curled up in bed and cracked open the book. The cover had three people facing me, although none were looking at me. Monique is screaming into the mic with her eyes closed, Orsino is looking into the sky, and James is looking at Orsino.

The book started with a worm alien nightmare. Overall, pretty cool and very creepy. I was hooked. For the next few hours, I tore through the pages. The worm aliens had slithered into my brain and infected me. I read about Orsino’s telepathic connection with his dead dog and Ian becoming Monique and James trying to save the local LGBTQ+ support group with a punk rock opera. I read about people named Jukebox, Acorn, and Opal. I read about basement punk shows, elder queers, and how LGBTQ+ groups are actually incredibly drama-filled.

At some point, I moved from my bed to the slightly moldy hammock on the balcony. The crows squawked, the wind blew, and I read. I was immersed in this world that was real and not real. I couldn’t believe that there could be a place like those shows. The line between realistic and fantasy was unclear. I so desperately wanted to be at one of those basement shows, being able to feel the music in my bones, and having the drums replace my heartbeat. I wanted to be surrounded by queer people as strange as me.

How to Get Over the End of the World reminded me that there are people like that out there. Someday, I’m going to find my people. It won’t be in Orange County, and might not even be in California, but somewhere, they’re out there. I got a taste of them at the Pansy Division concert I went to. An older butch lady complimented me on my patch pants and a

gender-non-conforming person said they liked mine and my girlfriend’s energy. The former Masonic Lodge was full of screaming queers, and I was one of them. My rainbow eyeshadow and crop top that said “queer” made me fit in instead of stand out.

All my life, I had been finding myself in books. My favorite books were always the ones with characters like me. As I grew older and more complex, it became harder and harder for me to find characters I saw myself in. Every so often, I’d find a book that made my brain hum. Whether it was the escapism of In Other Lands, or the gritty realness of Bruised, something in those books spoke to me. I saw myself in more than a snippet of a background character.

How to Get Over the End of the World felt like Hal Schrieve had reached directly into my brain. Ze pulled out my feelings of isolation, community, and identity and mixed them all up into that book. For the first time in a long time, I saw myself in a book.

That book helped me realize that there is a place for me. I hadn’t gone to that concert yet, didn’t know that my patch pants and rainbow eyeshadow belonged somewhere. I had heard of punk concerts, of course, but hadn’t quite figured out how I fit into everything. How to Get Over the End of the World took my hands, looked me in the eyes, and said, “Don’t

worry. You’ll find your place.”

Davia Oransky

California, USA

Davia Oransky (they/them) is a freshman from southern California. They are studying aqua science and are hoping to minor in visual arts. Most of their writing is sad and gay, which is a side effect of having a long-distance girlfriend. Their hobbies include knitting and DnD, and they love Star Trek more than is reasonable. This is the first time they’ve been published anywhere since sixth grade.