I took three books with me to read on my holiday trips to Dallas and Chicago, but I only finished one—and that was thanks to an extra-long delay going. I’m a slow reader. I tease my partner for breezing through books in days when I am known to spend weeks or even a month on one 300-page volume. I find myself forcing myself to read every word because skipping to the good parts while still comprehending the big picture is easy, and the point could be that some of the skippable parts contain an even bigger picture.
That’s how I felt reading the 2007 memoir Mississippi Sissy by Kevin Sessums, whose name I recognized from various Vanity Fair profiles. Interestingly, magazine stories about celebrities—even those which are beautifully written—can sometimes be an act of making something resonate where nothing exists. The need for the story is driven by the fact that the magazine’s got to come out every month, stars’ movies are released every month and money is on the line. But in the case of a memoir—except for those written to cash in on fame, kind of like the lesser of those magazine articles I was referring to—the story is driven by the desire to explain one’s self, to fit one’s self into the world.
Did it bother me to know in advance that the author became a celebrity scribe, perhaps not on the surface the deepest-seeming fate for the deep-thinking kid who narrates Mississippi Sissy? I don't know. Does it bother me that I did???
Not having re-read Sessums’s VF pieces, I can only assume they were distinguished, but I know his memoir achieves that distinction. Sessums lays out his early-life story in artful but never pretentious prose, and what a story it is—his life could almost be considered an autobiography of the gay community.
Born in the South as a sissy who could not pass, to loving but tempestuous parents destined to die young, the “Kevinator” (as his star-athlete dad called him) took refuge in stars. He didn’t discriminate, elevating Arlene Francis to pole position and even demanding to be called by her name in petulant moments. That he wasn’t beat senseless is surprising, but he certainly didn’t make it out unscathed, enduring teasing and, as we’ll eventually hear, abuses of a more tangible nature. But what makes this little person Kevin describes (himself!) so iconic is his indomitable spirit. Even facing being orphaned, he has a drive to move forward, to move up. He never seems to ruminate on his situation, or to doubt whether he deserves to thrive and succeed in life.
Detail from the sissified cover of Twilight Men (1948), André Tellier's gay novel.
The most universal aspect of this memoir has to be the examination of what it is to be, or to be considered, a sissy. It's something lobbed at gay men by non-gay and gay people alike, and it's a slur we even call ourselves.
Also, for me, the book has several specific stories that transcend the already compelling surroundings, usually rooted in his deepest bonds—his conspiratorial alone time with his mother spoke loudly to me, his later negotiated relationship with his grandparents is surprisingly touching and his racially informed friendship with his grandma’s servant goes far beyond the words on the page.
As a writer myself, I’ve mostly been interested in relationships, in observing what makes them work. And my novel Boy Culture is defined by an exploration of the concept of a “gay family.” Maybe for those reasons, I found a story about a mentor toward the end of the book to be the most moving—and the most familial in nature.
If there are flaws in the book, I’d have to say I felt that despite the meaningful aspects of some of the later material, the core of the story ends with Sessums’s childhood. I have a feeling there was a need to include that mentor relationship and also some of his fascinating memories of the legendary writer Eudora Welty—for that reason, the end of the book feels slightly extended. I was personally turned off by the praise for Billy Graham (the author’s brother had a more important encounter with him than Sessums himself did...and his appearance in the book was not important), and Sessums—maybe hypercompensating for some of the emasculating treatment he’s endured—goes out of his way to mention he was once nicknamed “B.D.” for “big dick.” This was one small eye-rolling moment.
But if you can enumerate flaws on part of one hand, you’ve got a pretty inspiring book in the other. I highly recommend this brave, shocking book—you're bound to recognize so many things in it, not the least of which could be yourself.
