Adrian L. Jawort, 40, Northern Cheyenne Two Spirit fiction writer
Billings, Montana
Adrian, sheltering in place in Billings, MT
Aside from your creative work do you have any additional source of income?
I do freelance journalism and have always done construction work as steadier income, but a lot of the latter dried up as people are cautious about spending money. I also do Native American-based educational lectures that gave me a little bit of money, but most of that has been voluntary. There's enough "essential" work to keep me out and about a couple days a week which makes one appreciative with nice weather when it hasn't been snowing—it is Montana so still snows in April!—but I’m sort of used to scraping by and living a transient starving artist lifestyle, so to speak, where most money made goes back into a labor of love.
Who do you live with and how do you feel about that?
I have a roommate that's also a fellow writer. It's divided living quarters and we’re both introverts, so sometimes go days without seeing each other! We're usually at peace with our quiet, so to speak. I have a daughter on the Crow Indian Reservation living with her mom, and it's very rural and isolated out there. She's bored and likes school, dance, and theater, so I feel bad she must put her childhood on hold.
How are you spending your time?
As typical as it sounds, I usually write at coffee shops, so it’s been harder to get in a writing zones at home. I rarely watch tv and don’t have streaming services, so I've been working on drag queen and cosplay costumes. I suck at sewing, so that makes it even more time consuming than I’d like!
How is the pandemic impacting you?
As a person in alcoholic recovery, one of my primary relapse 'red flags' is total isolation. There's a difference between introverting and just flat out hiding from the world. I've combatted that by being in said coffee shops, giving educational panels and speeches, giving readings, or lately doing performance art like drag shows and even getting into standup comedy.
Without all that, recovery becomes a challenge as a lot of us in recovery need that routine and physical communal safe space AA or any sober communal activity provides. You know life's been worse and you're a survivor, but to be alone for so long still starts sapping the shit out of you—especially when you’re single like myself. Although "One day at a time" stuff might sound like generic slogans to those not in the know, it really does carry you. Personally, I like to remind myself: "I don't know if I'll ever drink again, but I do know today I am not going to."
But what happens when today extends into 'longer' with prolonged isolation? You start justifying all the reasons why you could use again. No one would care. You're an adult. It's not illegal. No one would even know. Besides, who could fault you?
My specific thoughts become, "You haven't seen your kid in a year and a half since you came out trans. If there's a reason to use where no one would blame you, that'd be it.... Have a drink...turn on some music...wind down from this shit show. A lot of the local LGBTQ community wants to cancel you for that guerilla artistic stunt you pulled—for being too Native for their vanilla tastes. Your old friends are bigots who think you're a joke. You're an embarrassment to your family...."
And this thought process is what you fight alone, minute by minute, for hours, for days. Relapse just doesn't happen. That "Fuck it!" moment builds, and we must be vigilant of it.
What do you want to accomplish personally and/or professionally during this time?
I've written some provocative essays I've queried out, although I recently cut back on journalism so I could focus on fiction as I need to get my solo collection of short stories and novellas out into the world. There's a story in it turning into twenty thousand plus words based on the realities of coming out as Two Spirit/trans in red state America I'm pushing to finish. And yes, it's based on me.
I'd always deemed myself an artistic purveyor of unabashed and unapologetic truth, yet I hid from being trans under grief of a murdered brother, an alcoholic haze, and shame as I'd quickly look away from the mirror and see who I was inside. Having sobriety under my belt forced me to confront and reckon with being trans, so now I'm exploring a lot of that psychology via fiction. I wanted to come out in my 20s and even considered moving to do so, but never did because I was afraid especially after seeing a beautiful Native American trans woman my age embarrassed by police and followed by people who wanted to hurt her just for existing. I couldn't be as strong as her.
Although I wasn't naïve about it, as this is Make America Great Again land Montana, coming out years later still sucked on a lot of levels. Here I could be a good looking, tall, dark, handsome intelligent male once hired by a respected modeling agency, so why would one make themselves essentially taboo and draw such potential scorn? But being in recovery means being completely honest, so in art via literature I'm able to explore the hell out of that.
What kind of world do you want to see on the other side of this?
While this illogically became a political blame game of deflection in a particularly tumultuous election year when we could have united somewhat, it'd be nice if some people could stop gnashing their teeth and realize packing a around a gun won't defend them against a virus; and nor is using common sense and courtesy some sort of culture war conspiracy.
I saw this image the other day now seared in my memory. It was of a Covid-19 patient in a hospital bed with a nurse by their side in full protective gear. Except, they were on a hospital roof, and this patient—this person—was watching their final sunset.
To me it was a stark reminder of life being so fleeting, how we need to capture that beauty and cherish it. This dying person probably only wanted to least enjoy that moment with loved ones—with their son's, their daughter's, siblings, their spouse—and not feel so alone, but they couldn't risk getting others sick. I thought about the hero nurse who gave them that last simple sunset wish, and how I knew they were tearing up under that protective suit, only wanting to grip their hand without gloves, warming them with the gentle intimacy of human contact, thinking of their own family.
And when that sun finally disappeared, what were they feeling? To most of us, this is but a daily occurrence. To them, it became everything.
I want people to appreciate splashes and dashes of paint adding up that make this painting of life beautiful, and even acknowledge tragedies in that we may learn empathy and appreciation, to not be afraid to see with the eyes of a person seeing their final sunset, with each moment of its fading light growing more infinitely precious.
If I can help others at least contemplate what I imagine that person’s heart witnessed with words, then perhaps, maybe, I’ve done my job as an artist.
How can people find you and support you and your work?
My website is down, and I'm (we're) working on a new one to promote Native and indigenous artists called www.indigipress.com where we can sell anthologies I've edited and produced. Other than that, my Venmo is @AdrianJawort