Madeline Furlong

Oyster River Pages: We often think of ourselves as writing or making art, but the process often changes or makes us as well. How do you feel like your writing or art makes you?

Madeline Furlong: Art has made me a better observer. I first experienced this in high school when I took a painting class. I realized I’d never actually noticed where the lines are on a nose, or the exact color of a shadow. It’s similar in writing, because I am always looking for, or opening myself up to, a story. Someone says something and you immediately write it down because it’s a good line. Or you see an email from someone with a unique last name and make a note for a character. Or you’re in a funny and weird and slightly mortifying situation and you think—this could be a short story. But it goes beyond the physical observations, too. Writing makes you examine the world. You see thematic patterns of inequality. People are characters and the ones with power seem to be winning. I think I started out, like many do, wanting to tell some version of my own story, and became conscious that writers with privilege have a responsibility to be deliberate with what they put into the world, and strive to add value. Also, when I say “starting out” I’m being a bit deceptive, because really I am just starting out.

ORP: What do you hope readers or viewers of your piece take from it?

MF: For nonbinary and gender fluid folks who happen upon this story, I hope you feel seen. I hope this story affirms that your existence is beautiful and valid and worthy. For cisgender readers, I hope that “They” grants you access to the people behind this now-politicized identity. I hope it sparks empathy and compassion. And I want you to understand what is at stake. What I hope you take away is that a moment of affirmation can change a life for good, and a moment of dismissal can deeply damage it. The suicidal ideation, attempt, and completion rates are astronomically high for transgender and nonbinary folks. This is unacceptable. This is a national emergency. And I think that the best thing art can do is draw attention to urgent issues. People empathize with and understand those who are different from them through stories. This issue of gender affirmation, in particular, is very personal for me and my family, so if I can touch a single person out there and say hey, accept your kid, because not doing so has consequences you can’t even imagine, then I can retire now from writing.

ORP: Do you believe that hope is a luxury, a responsibility, a danger, or something else? Why?

MF: I think it’s all three. Any emotion beyond basic survival is a privilege, and hope is only afforded to those who can realistically see a better alternative. And it can be wielded as a weapon, offered up to make people accept a bad situation because here is at least the possibility of it getting better. But hope is also a necessity, one that only the bravest are able to feel. Cynicism is easy because it is safe. Hope asks us to put our hearts on the line, and potentially have those hearts ripped out. But you know what? We are strong enough to face the bitterest disappointment of our lives and survive. I wish I’d known that earlier. Brene Brown and Glennon Doyle talk about this and I think it's imperative in order to have brave, hopeful, vulnerable people. To understand that we are survivors.

ORP: Are there any artists, writers, or works of art (including music, film, literature, etc.) that you believe are fundamentally misunderstood? In a sentence, how would you rectify the misunderstanding?

MF: Taylor Swift’s reputation. I think it’s considered by many to be Swift’s worst album, laden with grating electro-pop revenge narratives. But it’s actually a tender, smart, and tightly-woven love story, one in which Swift trades in her sugary pop-princess tiara for a dark, sensual, and far more interesting queen crown.

ORP: Years from now, when historians look back on the art and writing of the early 21st century, how do you think they will articulate the zeitgeist?

MF: I think they will talk about our apocalypse anxiety. We’re not the first generation to fear the end of the world, but it feels especially acute for us. We’ve pushed technology and the environment to its limits. We’re overcrowded and overheated. Unchecked capitalism has stripped our country--and world--of its ability to care for its citizens. And you see that in art, this fear and dread and hopelessness. And now we’re living through a global pandemic that was exacerbated, in part, by the over-globalization of our world. So we weren’t completely wrong to fear an Armageddon. I do think there are tides in civilization, and while I don’t think this is the final wave, we are probably at a crest, heading toward change. Art can and should reflect that unease and discomfort. I indulge in it, too. I love a good zombie. But let’s not forget hope. At the end of The Handmaid’s Tale (the book), there’s a scene where a professor of history reflects back on the age of Gilead. I love that scene because it offers perspective. Our struggles are real and scary, but to quote a great film, life finds a way. The human race is a survivor.

Madeline Furlong is a native of the Pacific Northwest. She received her BA in Women’s and Gender Studies from Wellesley College, and lives, writes, and hunts zombies in Seattle, WA. You can follow her on Instagram @madsmooo. Read her story “They” in Issue 4.1.