I read ‘Wound’, a translated work of contemplative autofiction by Oksana Vasyakina a few months ago. It’s unlike anything I’ve read before. It’s part travel narrative, following the author’s reflections on her childhood, her sexual awakening (as a lesbian), finding love, and especially, her relationship with the mother whose ashes she’s carrying on the journey from Moscow to Siberia. She writes: “The wound is there not because she didn’t survive, but because she existed at all.” Vasyakina’s relationship with her mother was fraught: her mother had a series of abusive boyfriends, and did not protect child Vasyakina from them. Her mother passed from breast cancer, and Vasyakina reflects on the symbolism of breasts, motherhood, and her femininity versus her mother’s attractive, conventional femininity throughout. One of the more striking observation in the novel is the pressure to conform to different standards in the lesbian community. Finding the community after struggling with same-sex attraction in high school was difficult enough, learning and adapting to the underground new community was also challenging. As part of a Russian lesbian community, Vasyakina felt judged for her attraction to masculine women, when androgynous women considered the most desirable. Different standards, but the judgements around them remain just as strong. Outside of her reflections, the literal journey with her mother’s ashes is fraught, as Vasyakina struggles with her past and with paranoia about her mother’s ashes being lost or stolen. There’s a lot about her highly emotional, often paranoid stream of consciousness that reminds me of another lesbian novelist: Qiu Miaojin. Like Miaojin, Vasyakina’s writing style will be difficult for many folks.
CW: rape from the rapist’s POV. Vasyakina, or perhaps her stand-in, admits to assaulting her past partner during their first sexual encounter. This section is difficult because the narrator makes excuses for her behavior. Her reasoning is that she misunderstood consent. More offensive and triggering for a survivor would be Vasyakina’s narrative about not being physically attracted to her feminine ex-girlfriend, and the narrative that since she’s now the wife of a masculine-presenting (note: Russia doesn’t not legally recognize same-sex marriages or civil unions), she is unlikely to repeat her behavior as her new partner is of higher value to her. This reduction is clear victim-blaming. On the flip side, for Vasyakina to write so intimately and vulnerability, to admit something so horrible and contentious, is brave and bold. While I hope she reflects more deeply and empathetically (toward her victim), I’m grateful she included it. Also brave of Vasyakina to write this novel at all: as of 2022, it is a crime to write “propaganda” “promoting” LGBTQI+ content in Russia. I’m also grateful she took that risk and that this strange novel exists.