Lucy Sante is a Belgian-born American writer and critic who has written for the New York Review of Books for four decades about film, art and photography. Her books include Evidence, a haunting study of suicide and homicide victims, and Low Life, a portrait of early 20th-century tricksters and scammers, which led Martin Scorsese to hire her as a historical consultant for his 2002 film Gangs of New York.
You came of age as a writer in New York at a hugely vibrant and diverse time.
We didn’t have the internet but we had this vibrant street culture with people making music and movies, putting on plays and exhibitions, so you would run into interesting people all the time. Nan Goldin [the photographer and campaigner] was a bartender in this bar we all favoured in Times Square where all the bartenders were female artists. And when I first met [the artist] Jean-Michel Basquiat, he was homeless, living on NYU dorm floors before some of my friends took him in. I loved that it was possible to rent an apartment, buy groceries, the occasional record or piece of clothing, go to the theatre – all on a beginner’s salary working in the mailroom at the NYRB.
Tell me about being in a band with Jim Jarmusch.
I met Jim halfway through my first year at Columbia University. We’ve been friends for 50 years. I wrote lyrics for his band the Del-Byzanteens. We had big ambitions, got reviewed in the NME, but only lasted for one album.
Yet despite moving in such liberal-minded, creative circles you still felt unable to become Lucy.
Around half my friends were gay, but the gay world before Aids was very macho and drag was seen just as an adjunct to that world, which I wasn’t interested in for myself. What I had in mind, as far as I knew, didn’t exist: I saw myself as female but emotionally and sexually attracted to females and I had no idea how to make that happen. I was ignorant because there was such a lack of information about transgender matters then. Even though I was very well-informed on many subjects, I didn’t know how to inform myself about things such as hormones and the mechanics of transitioning until the internet came. Furthermore, I was ambitious and I knew that if I came out as trans even in the 90s, I would have been assigned to the trans desk and not allowed to move from it. I could not have had the kind of wide-ranging literary career I have had.
How do you feel about the current public discourse on trans issues?
It’s horrific. Obviously, we’re the easiest scapegoat in the world because we are widely misunderstood due to several thousand years of accumulated prejudice against the idea. Even people who are sympathetic don’t really understand unless they are trans themselves. One of the reasons I wrote the book is to try to convey how deep this misunderstanding is. And in the year between turning in my manuscript and the publication of the book, the debate around trans issues just went insane. It was already insane but recently this has redoubled. And every trans woman in America is now looking on in horror as we realise that the American people might well vote Trump back into office. Steps backwards for trans people would almost certainly be taken if that were to happen.
In your book you say coming out to your wife and your son was the single most difficult thing about transitioning. How did they react?
It wasn’t hard coming out to my son at all, actually. He’s completely straight but he’s known trans kids since he was 11. He’s of that generation that just accepts it. If I am going to a store or a bank and there are multiple clerks or tellers, I will pick the youngest one because I know they’ll be nice. And my son, well, I’ve been an empty nester for a month now after he moved to Boston for a job, but he was living with me from choice. So I guess he likes me. Coming out to my partner, though, that was extremely difficult because I knew that our relationship was doomed. We’re still best friends, still very much in each other’s lives, but I knew the romantic component of our relationship could not survive. So I walked into this knowing what the outcome would be.
What’s the best thing about your life as you’re living it now?
This secret that crippled me for 50 or 60 years has just been lifted from me. So I’m completely candid about absolutely everything. And the kind of social situations I used to squirm away from, I now walk into with great purpose and confidence. That really is the best thing.
