Keywords: transecology, bodies, ecocriticism, trans studies, ecosystems
Abstract
This article uses autobiographical experience and recent events, namely my own attempts at small farming and the 2023 megafires, to map the contours of a transecology, that is, to build conceptual tools for ecocriticism inspired by transness and its sets of knowledge and practices. Transecology, I argue, is neither an ontology nor an epistemology, but a creative networking practice, building on trans experience and embodiments. The Western definition of nature, with its rigid discrimination between Humans and non-Humans, sustains the capitalist biopower keeping our bodies controlled and isolating them from the rest of the living world. Trans bodies, because they have been deemed as unnatural, enable us to conceptualize living organisms and ecosystems beyond the nature/culture divide. They offer, in this regard, a perspective not often associated with, but strangely similar to, small farming with its arrays of tentative interactions with local ecosystems. In contrast, the global discussion of environmental disasters, such as megafires, exposes the ways in which Western forms of biopolitical control require us to abstract ourselves from living ecosystems, thus deepening the environmental crisis.
Transecology offers the tools to conceptualize and assert the spatial and relational dimension of organisms and ecosystems. The experience of transness has taught us to stay with the trouble, but also to engage with corporeality in ways that enable us to make room for non-human organisms and ecosystems, not (only) as forms of meaning and representation, but as companion species. Ultimately, transecology is a lesson about bodies in space, attuned, branching, adjusting, and growing in any way they can, territorializing and making kin. It also amounts to make a case for the creative transversality of human and non-human connections, of bodies and affects.
Leaving the city does not mean moving away from noise and nuisance into a pastoral idyll; it
isn’t a matter of going to live in the countryside, it’s about going to live in a minority. As soon as nature is denaturalized – no longer a continuous flat area, a one-room stage setting, a background against which human tribulations are played out - ... then the cosmopolitanism of many species becomes overwhelming, almost unbreathable, overwhelming for the mind: human beings have become a minority.
- Baptiste Morizot, Ways of Being Alive
Red Sun
On the morning of June 7th, I woke up to the red sun, filtering an orange glow through the bedroom shades, a pervasive sense of doom. The bird-people was silent, except for a redwing here and there. I had this familiar feeling of doom, the one you get when you finally receive proof that what you have been dreading all along has arrived. Still I got up and went about what I used to do every morning, no matter the weather and how I felt: I went to tend to the chickens.
Outside, the air was thick. Wrong colors, wrong smell, absolute silence. The grey cat went out with me, the black cat was nowhere to be seen. As I walked towards the pen, there was suddenly more depth to the silence. This was when I should have been hearing the chicks calling me. I opened the pen, walked towards the coop: come on, I said, it’s not that bad, we’ll all be alright. But the silence, still. I hastened to open the coop, and here they were, their bodies rigid against the wooden door: two of them, feathers everywhere, bodies twisted, contorted, having bled to death. I yelled, went out of the pen and in again, opening the other door to confirm what I already knew: there were no survivors. Whatever predator had passed through had been after all of them, together and one at a time: a small-scale massacre perpetrated on my sweet, beautiful birds. I sat on a bench near the vegetable garden, looking at the red sun rising behind the maple tree. The grey cat was looking at me for cues. The smell of smoke pervaded everything now, and the light was a pure sense of sorrow. Science says that this type of light is an effect of diffraction, but myth will tell you that losing your shadow means that you are in it deep.
The environmentalist rallying call “we are not protecting nature, we are nature protecting itself” articulates nature, like queerness, as a “we.” Yet this “we” opens a conceptual gap: nature, by definition, is precisely what distinguishes itself from us, a global, objectified “it,” grounding the existence of a plurality of subjectified “I”s”: “Nature is defined by the absence of Humans and Humans are defined by their ability to have overcome their nature.” (Descola 2022: 13) [1] Yet those of us who have been deemed unnatural know from experience how loaded and volatile the nature/culture divide can be. As anthropology and Indigenous studies have shown, nature, as a concept, far from offering us a way out, is what put us in the deadly thrall of global capitalism and its insatiable hunger for destruction. “The great illusion of modernity,” anthropologist Philippe Descola (2022: 14) asserts, relies on a split: the separation between Humans and non Humans, between culture and nature, which itself branches into series of hierarchical divides, may be best visually represented by the infamous evolutionary tree, legitimizing colonial extractivism and exploitation of resources and people alike (Steinbock, Szcygielska, and Wagner 2021; Hayward and Gossett 2021). Nature, as a concept, allowed human and non-human organisms and ecosystems to become “objects of scientific investigation”; it also turned the non human world into a commodity, at times plundered, at others, romanticized, as a “supplier of goods … and of metaphors… and [as a] sanctuary removed from urban life” (Descola 2022: 14). Despite the premise that Nature is what is not us, it is also the very notion that sustains the exclusion of many of us, along the lines of fracture of race, gender, class, sexuality, abilities, and body types.
On the morning of June 7th, I was trapped at the intersection of two events, one global and the other hyper local, both exemplifying the trap of the nature/culture divide and its deadly conceptual, political, and material implications. Each of these events could fall in the (erroneous) category of natural disasters: the wildfires raging in Québec, a few hundred miles north of where I live, and their plume of smoke stretching over half a continent; and the fatal intrusion of a racoon in my chicken coop. I was told afterwards that the simultaneity of these disasters was a mere coincidence. I almost believe it sometimes, or at least I pretend to. In the end, though, it doesn’t make much difference, since both events tore the fabric of what I could call, for simplicity’s sake, my life, but what I will describe here as the way in which my trans body and I try to inhabit the world. I feel, politically, physically, affectively, and intellectually, under attack as much as this thing we call nature. But can it still be called “nature” when we side with it against the global capitalist endeavor of extraction, exploitation, and destruction that gave it its name?
By looking at them more closely, the two June 7th disasters give us a clearer idea of what “nature” stands for. Predators, wildfire season: both episodes of destruction can be named in ways that inscribe them in permanence, in the universalized realm of the natural. The self sustaining boreal forest with its phoenix-like cycles of ashes and growth, on the one hand, and the predictable kill-or-be-killed instinct of non-human species, on the other, offer reassuring proof of the reliability of the great outdoors: wilderness – an exteriority. Forest fires and deadly fangs are, unlike my trans body, an epitome of the natural realm. Pinecones crackling in the hot wind, seeds nesting in the embers, beady-eyed creatures hunting at the edge of the forest – these are the old ways, Mother Nature taking care of herself. A needle of testosterone in my ass – here comes an utterly different set of images, and one that might be associated with the demise of Mother Nature. (Take away the gender binary, and see what remains of the idea of nature.) Yet there is nothing natural in the unseasonable heat and drought that caused the Québec fires, nor in the survival of an utterly defenseless bird laying a daily egg for years at a time. No more than my testosterone injection sets me apart from organic life.
“The transsexual body is an unnatural body,” Stryker writes in opening of “My Words to Victor Frankenstein” (1994: 238). This puts me in an awkward position: for as I long as I can remember, nature (and here I’m using the word in its romanticized meaning) is where I belonged. The human world didn’t agree with me or didn’t find me agreeable. Abusive parents, bullying schoolmates, inhospitable schools and hostile teachers: unnatural, I retreated to the woods, a troubled child longing for a full-blown series of miracles (turning into a boy, the disappearance of school, spending my life outdoors). Nature was my go-to place and what I loved the most. Over the years, I have found my position as a queer/trans nature lover/environmentalist/dilettante farmer to be almost impossible to navigate socially or professionally (then again, sociability has never been my strongest skill). As I went from being a popular science writer in Southern France to a trans studies scholar in North America, I transitioned from a place (rural France) where my gender incongruity was politely ignored at best, to another (an East Coast college town) where insects are referred to as “bugs” and are only discussed as targets for extermination. Amongst my American colleagues, I often feel like the queerest thing about me is the fact that I live on a small farm – something which could be described as a homestead, even though the term is flawed. [2] Though my academic peers expect us to spend my summers between the Parisian Marais, and the Italian Riviera (“Going anywhere fun this summer?”), my partner and I stubbornly remain on our seven acres, talking to chickens, stacking firewood, growing veggies, and making humble attempts at land restoration. (With some success, if the growing numbers of species of birds and butterfly we see every year can be trusted.) This essay is, among other things, my attempt to address my own splits and to make my position intelligible. This is also an attempt to draw the map of a transecology in using my own coordinates, since I believe that the concept of transecology, like queerness or nature, works best when it is deployed in the first person.
In attempting to conceptualize a transecology, I am indebted to those who have made room to articulate a relationship between transness and the realm of the non-human, such as Mel Chen, Eva Hayward. But more specifically, this essay aims to explore and assert two main lines which I believe could make the concept of transecology a crucial tool for ecocriticism and trans studies. First, the fact that transecology should enable us to reach beyond the nature/culture duality and the series of dualities related to it. Then, transecology should aim to assert the centrality of living bodies as spaces of relationality. The invention of nature which sustained Western universalizing humanism led directly to the biomedical discourse presiding over the invention of trans, both discursively and biologically (Gill-Peterson 2018, Awkward 2022). Trans, then, comes as a transversal, queer, interruption of this model, an offspring of the nature/culture divide, burgeoning in unintended ways. Our bodies impose themselves as liminal, or interstitial, spaces between nature and culture – which is why we should aim at denaturalizing nature instead of naturalizing ourselves. Freaks or cyborgs, we find ourselves blamed on both sides—as errors of nature or abuses of culture—, a position we share, incidentally, with domesticated species of plants and animals. Farm animals, house and garden plants, the crops and flocks of agroindustry and backyard farming exist, like us, in the borderland: the realm of endless entanglements between nature and culture.
Nature recedes in the distance when we get close to the dwelling places of these beings we consider as “natural;” watched more closely, Nature becomes “them” instead of “it.” A single oak tree, for instance, owns many wonders: leaves, attached and fallen, mossy bark and caterpillars, twisted branches to climb on, the possibility of a nest in a hole—so many things to touch and look at, to come back to. A body, like mine: branching out and making world out of what is within reach. At some point, “they” becomes us again, an embodied us: bodies in space and in relationality, or bodies as space and as relationality. In the same way, trans bodies, Sage Brice (2018: 14-15) argues, are made of and by frictions, a material form of relationality which is contiguous to, but not the same thing as, the relational essence of gender. Transness teaches us that bodies are not isolated, impermeable units, but porous, as human and nonhuman organisms and ecosystems are. A transecology should build on trans experience and forms of embodiment in order to articulate a branching, dynamic, and creative transversality of bodies and affects. [3] Trans, after all, is really about frictions and crossroads more than it is about the safe passage evoked by the word transition. Trans is about having to stay with the trouble, an invaluable skill when it comes to facing what is coming at (all of) us.
The New Reality: Scalable Lives, Unscalable Destruction
By June 7th, the trouble had been brewing for a while. Both in Québec and in the Finger Lakes area, which is home to our tiny attempt at farming, it first took the form of a drought, which, by mid-May, had taken over the entire North-East (Henson and Masters 2023). Here, the drought wasn’t spectacular. That is, if you weren’t paying attention. It was after all spring, so the water table wasn’t affected yet, and city gardeners happily watered their plants and enjoyed the sun, or better yet, they paid neighborhood kids to water their garden while they were flying around the world. For farmers, it was a different matter. On May 18th, the dry and warm weather combined with freezing temperatures to destroy a fair amount of the region’s wine crops (Cazentre 2023). Meanwhile, miles up north, fire weather, which usually happens between mid-summer and early fall and sets the condition for the systemic fires of coniferous forests, was already turning into a weeks-long spell. By late May, the fires had extended into Ontario and Québec. The June 7th smoke plume was the remainder of almost 500,000 hectares of forest, most of them lost due to the man-made disastrous rise in average temperatures (Henson and Masters 2023). Towards the end of June 2023, we were told that red suns and hazy skies were the new normal. “Easterners are still adapting to the reality that sooty skies can be a repeated hazard,” stated a June 29th Washington Post article (Dance, Selig, Livingstone, Cappucci 2023). “Still adapting,” that is, as opposed to West-coasters whom we should assume to be perfectly at ease with the “new reality.” The rhetoric of adaptation, here, coupled with the exhortation to be realistic, leaves a particularly bitter taste. Tapping into the post-evolutionary trope of the survival of the fittest, this performative statement wants us to turn our back on nature (as a specific set of places, organisms, phenomena) while we still believe in the natural (laws) at the foundation of (White, heteropatriarchal) modernity. Nature, though unmentioned, is deployed here as permanence, an old trick to carry on with the destruction (as in any Wild West narrative).
Reading the Washington Post article plunged me into a state of claustrophobic despair. I don’t want to stay indoors. Just to be clear, I’m not suggesting here that we all march down the streets and inhale as much toxic air as we can as a form of protest. Rather, I am asking why the injunction to stay indoors remains unnoticed, as opposed to, for instance, the injunction to stop all social activities, work remotely, and wear masks in all public spaces. (Again, I’m not saying we should have refused the latter injunction, I’m saying that it was, for good reasons, all everyone talked about for months). The first problem, here, is the fact that we know very well that either of these instances don’t involve all of us and leave behind (in the suffocating, atmosphere) many professions, along with homeless and poorly housed people, as working remotely and being able to stay indoors is a privilege. The second problematic aspect of the injunction to live indoors, apart from the obvious, can be best described as a question of scalability. Anna Tsing describes scalability as the constitution of independent, replaceable units meant to foster capitalist expansion (2019: 144). The pixel, the sugarcane clone, the plantation or factory worker, the factory-farmed animal are all scalable units, the value and use of which relies on their replicability and their stability – as opposed to any living organism, a scalable unit isn’t susceptible to change and only serves a single purpose (Tsing 2019: 150). Scalability, like the nature/culture split, is about biopower: not only efficiency, but control. Ultimately, this all comes down to bodies – your body. The injunction to live indoor considers your body as a scalable unit, functional (for accumulation purposes) and detached.
Philosopher Baptiste Morizot argues that the current environmental crisis should be apprehended as a relational crisis. (2022: 14) More precisely, it is about shared spaces and living together: our way of inhabiting the world “amounts to denying others the status of inhabitant.” (2022: 17) This isn’t only about epistemology: terms such as “outdoor activities” and “recreational spaces” foster practices that turn the non-human world into a grey-green abstraction (“the environment”, “the Planet”) to which we can only relate through a vague sense of loss.
Ultimately, the injunction to stay indoors is an injunction to give up on the world. How are we to interrupt the ceaseless waves of destruction if we have no unmediated relation to what is being destroyed? How will you miss the birds if you can’t hear them? How will you take a stand for creatures that have no common ground with you?
A scalable life is a life in which you only relate to non-human beings, indoors or outdoors, in compartmentalized, need-fulfilling ways: eat your vegetables, hug a tree, own a pet. Nature becomes a recreational space dedicated to meet (a White elite’s) specific needs: physical activity and whatever spiritual rejuvenation you want to throw in the mix. Describing a mountain as recreational space, or any time spent interacting with its non-human inhabitants as an outdoor activity, transforms life itself (human and otherwise) into scalable functions: if worse comes to worse, you can always drive to the gym. Contrary to what it may seem, the recreational use of non-human bodies and ecosystems doesn’t oppose the colonial plundering of resources legitimized by the invention of nature, it complements it. This is the chicken-and-egg colonial bind: describing nature as an empty space empty turns it into a disposable resource, while the human population inhabiting it are described as a lower form of humanity, and also made to be disposable (Hayward and Gossett 2021). For Westerners, the consequences are another form of biopower which keeps our bodies controlled by isolating them from the rest of the world, no matter how connected and informed we picture ourselves to be.
My point here isn’t that all of us who are privileged enough to start their own small farm should do so. Rather, I’m arguing in favor of creating unscalable ways to inhabit the world, and of finding organic models to inhabit it with instead of against. The opposite of scalability is not diversity or uniqueness but connectivity and multiplicity: numerous and indefinite solutions, processes, people, species, materials… coming together. Such as, for instance, in a birds’ nest, or a human-made stone wall: a bird’s nest won’t fall apart if you remove a few of its components – in fact, it will probably look exactly the same – but each of these random components has been arranged in relation to the others. In the same way, builders of traditional stone walls form an organic relation to the land in which they make use of “what is given rather than being subjected to any preexisting design” and “in which each set [of walls and terraces] is uniquely adapted to the needs of the house or the village” (Vidalou 2017: 37). [4] Which makes them the exact opposite of the scalable suburban home, a non-place operated on engines controlling its air temperature and humidity, meant to provide the same functions and produce the same aesthetics from the desert to the boreal forest and to enable its inhabitants to entirely ignore the non-humans they share a space with. Stone walls, on the other hand, have evolved to form their own ecosystems: they provide living quarters and terraced gardens to human populations and they also host a number of co-evolving species, from lichens to reptiles, rodents, and birds. No scalable units, here, but interwoven bodies: a functioning living world, constantly refashioned by its inhabitants.
My Bodies and I
In order to address the relational crisis, Morizot argues, we need to “repopulate” the world, and to make visible the non-human around us (2022: 17). Trans people have a long-standing familiarity with the politics of visibility and invisibility and with the economy of what counts, or not, as a population. To the danger of invisibility and erasure are tied to the erratic process of being read, and the ways in which normativity (what is taken to be natural) shapes the way in which you relate to others (bodies). The amount of facial hair you need to grow in order to be read into another gender category (from butch woman to weird teenage boy, say) is as unpredictable as the number of twigs needed to build the perfect nest. Passing, that is, being assigned to a gender whether we want it or not, presents us with a process that is both definite and unscalable (approximate, dependent of an indefinite number of elements, some of them imperceptible). Industrially produced hormones, for those of us who choose to or are able to access them, are designed, controlled, and distributed, for the production of scalable gendered bodies (Preciado 2013). Yet the ways in which a given substance will grow on you, or you will grow on it, vary greatly. Granted, your body will change in ways pertaining to the coded signs of the gender binary (facial hair, skin texture, muscle mass). But this will happen on a totally random timeline (it took me more than two years on HRT to pass consistently as male), and it won’t give you a cis body. On testosterone, for instance, your hair will sprout and recede at a different pace and shapes, body fat and muscle mass will move around and adjust to joints and bone structure, as happens in a cis body.
Technologies of gender reassignment are branded as solutions to a medical issue: they are intended to make us (look) natural. But what actually happens is that our bodies have to invent themselves – the ways bodies do, or the way stone walls build themselves. Furthermore, if our (insufficient and under threat) access to HRT doesn’t create an army of properly gendered, grateful and Ken-and-Barbie-lookalike trans folk, it is also because the creative process of the body on substances is paired with its affective and political counterparts. Many of us don’t align with gender norms any more while taking hormones than we do without out them – simply, we stray away in different shapes and forms. As far as cis-normativity is concerned, industrially produced hormones didn’t solve the trans problem, they made it worse. They emboldened us to exercise our creativity, profess fluidity, paint our fingernails in black, and territorialize all sorts of in-between spaces.
Transness teaches us that bodies are capacious and contentious sites, susceptible to rapid and disturbing changes, and that there isn’t any definite line distinguishing matter from affects, self from perception, inner and external world. Trans bodies expose how bodies are always bodies in space, attuned, not evolving towards resignation and scalability, but branching, adjusting, and growing in any way they can, territorializing and making world. The domesticated, wild, and feral species and ecosystems I encounter on and around my small farm may not be as glamourous as those you get to see on screen or on guided tours and international travels, but they are mine: they are the ones I may be able to help, and the ones who help me. They are the ones who feed me and are fed by me, or feed on me. I hike with them, swim with them, sit down and listen to them. They wake me up in the morning and keep me company at night. I touch them and they touch me; I walk on them; I know how they smell; they know how I smell. They are, truly and all of them, companion species. Nature is what you make of it, or with it: a network, if you like, an organism of organisms. You make yourself a body with the world: the ground beneath your feet, the spider webs you graze in passing, the scent of dogwood flowers that follows you around.
My chickens, of course, started their lives as scalable units. As much as I would have loved to acquire them on a farmer’s market, they were ordered online, months in advance, and hatched on demand. But once we let them out of their boxes, they grew into beautiful animals, full of enthusiasm and fiercely temperamental. They developed friendships, enmities (cats), consistent and inconsistent habits (napping under the bushes in the summertime, or on the porch in the winter). They argued fiercely over roosting and nesting spots, established scavenging routes, gained some wisdom and lost some feathers after encountering a fox, bullied the smaller birds at the feeder. Kevin, for instance, was a Long Island Red, a breed reputed for its reliability as a layer. Kevin did indeed lay some eggs, but lost interest after a few months (instead of the advertised three years) and invested his energy in following us around in the hope that we would dig up something interesting. In other words, Kevin became a sort of gardening pet, which wasn’t at all part of the plan. As to the reason why Kevin was referred to in male pronouns, who cares? My point here is that industrially produced units became individuals, not in isolation nor because of some inner essence, but as bodies in space, branching, plugging themselves in, taking part in multiple processes and interactions, most of which unbeknownst to them.
There are a good number of reasons to keep chickens: eggs, company, pest-control, soil fertilization, interest in ethology, and sheer sense of humor. The fact that you enjoy watching them rolling around in the dust and making crazy noises doesn’t prevent you from depending on their egg production. You can play with your cake and eat it. To us, it was connected (in more ways than one) to how we want to inhabit the world. The sound of chickens clucking out of pure joy, having dug a perfectly sized hole and shaking the dirt out of their feathers after rolling in it became something more than a background noise: a form of conversation. But this is just an example; again, I’m not advocating for small farming as a way of life, I’m making a case for companion species as bodies, calling for a dynamic sense of connectedness: a branching process, a striving, a way of inhabiting the world together. Companion species allow me to grow another body, or rather, to grow my own body into a world.
Dealing with Disaster
Transecology, then, is neither an ontology nor epistemology, but a practice. Of course, it is possible to draw a series of similarities between the trans-human and the non-human - as a trans man I can easily relate to a chicken who won’t lay eggs. Or I can easily relate to an animal bred to be defenseless, and for whom bickering is the sole form of resistance. But more importantly, it is about learning to live with the chicken and with the raccoon that killed it – a transecology goes beyond nature to lead us into other ways of inhabiting the world of the living. A transecology favors dynamic models of intricacy and approximation: the bird’s nest, the stone wall, bounds attuned to places and temporality. This is about doing rather than being; and this isn’t, either, about epistemology. To pass, to be read: this is about life and death, or the kind of life you’ll get to lead. Similarly, a transecology should learn lessons from the violence coming at us and make room for non-human organisms and ecosystems, not (only) as forms of meaning and representation serving our own agenda. We trans people have a long experience of dealing with disaster. Cameron Awkward-Rich and Hil Malatino are teaching us to stay with the trouble, the trans negativity. This, unfortunately, is the ultimate requirement for a trans ecology. Any theory that deals with non-human living creatures and ecosystems needs to be able to face despair.
My chickens were killed because of thousands of years of evolution, and of the old feud between the creatures of the forest and the creatures of the farm. They were killed because they were selected, and produced, to be unable to protect themselves and sometimes the forest outsmarts the human creature in charge of their protection. Or they were killed because the drought and the red sun had made the raccoon careless. Was it our raccoon, the one I saw over the years by the oak tree, or was it another one? Or was it a possum? The signs are inconsistent. The predator, probably as distressed as we were by the cold night and the pungent smell of smoke, came by our house, uprooted a cilantro plant, rummaged through a bag of soil on the porch, and finally found its way to the chicken pen, climbed up and down the 6 feet-high wire fence, found a way inside the coop between two disjointed planks – the panic and the alarm cries must have erupted long before that, but we didn’t hear a thing, maybe because we had closed our windows to the cold and smoky night. And so, the little stranger got in and drank all the blood, ate some organs, some flesh, and disappeared. Again, a common enough tragedy. My world has become smaller for the loss of my bird-people, but this is a loss I could bear if, well, there was any hope regarding other losses. The red sun keeps rising, but the air conditioning is on, the engines keep firing (planes, lawn-mowers, motorboats on the lake, cars, cars, cars, ATVs, more lawn-mowers, more planes, people need their summer fun), and I feel trapped, trapped, trapped in a sea of destruction, as trapped as a small green caterpillar I saw this morning, hanging in midair, caught in a spiderweb by the pond.
Notes
[1] All translations of Descola are mine.
[2] The myth of homesteading as a sustainable way of life was created, and persists to this day, in an ideological move to obscure the capitalist infrastructures of American colonization and agroindustry (railroads, land speculation, stock market and its control on livestock and crops…). In suggesting self-sufficiency, the model of the homestead negates the agricultural, social, and environmental value of the commons. Small farming, on the other hand, provides us with a range of practices meant to emphasize and foster relationality between humans and non human both.
[3] On the concept of transversality and its relevance for trans studies and ecocriticism, see Weil 2018 and 2021.
[4] My translation.
References
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About the Artist
Mat Fournier is the author of Dysphoric Modernism: Undoing Gender in French Literature and Quand la nature inspire la science. He has also published in Journal of Postcolonial Writing; Simone de Beauvoir Studies; L'Esprit Créateur; Transgender Studies Quarterly; and in edited volumes such as Deleuze on Children; Transecology; and Deleuze, Guattari, and the Schizoanalysis of Trans Studies.
Citation
Fournier, Mat. 2024. “Red Sun: Transecologies Beyond Nature.” TSQ*Now, Transgender Studies Quarterly 11, no. 4. http://www.tsqnow.online/post/red-sun
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