Book Review: A Year Without a Name
Kai Meyer | September 18, 2024
The memoir, “A Year Without a Name,” by Cyrus Dunham is a vulnerable meditation on gender, relationships, family and transition. In the book, Dunham wades through the heavy unknown of transition, the physical and emotional tolls and the luxury of a name.
In the prologue, Dunham says, “I might superimpose alienation onto every moment of my life leading up to self-acceptance as if denial and repression are not so powerful that they create their own truths.”
It is this outlook that frames Dunham’s inquisition into the self.
He captivates the audience through his intense questioning, scrutinizing the inherent privileges that have garnered him ‘this space to think.’ Viewing his life through the lens of meaningful relationships, Dunham grounds his questioning in scene, beginning with a lover he met in India: Zoya.
The scenes are descriptive and stirring, as Dunham reflects on his bodily discomfort and intense desire to be seen. It is this relationship that Dunham uses as a jumping-off point as a first acknowledgment of his transness.
Dunham strings time together through relationships, finding nuggets of truth within memories coated in repression. It is this idea that holds the very fabric of the story together.
Dunham said, “When I imagined myself a decade into the future, I saw something in the shape of a man, tall but lean, soft stubble on his face but hair nowhere else on his body. But the word “sister” hovered over him, neon, glowing.”
One of the core relationships that Dunham dissects is with his sister and dually, his identity as a sister. He describes some aspects of family so firmly ingrained, that they can seem more real than one’s own identity, such as sharing the pain of an older sister. Questioning the role of burgeoning independence within sharing that same pain.
Dunham’s sentences are silently cutting. There is incredible vulnerability and honesty within his words, yet they are delivered in a matter-of-fact tone. It is this dichotomy which makes the book greater than the sum of its parts. You can read a sentence once and feel a gut punch, then read it again, and again, and continue to feel the layered meanings within his words as they slowly seep further into you.
Dunham’s distinct voice is what makes the memoir so memorable. The text feels approachable and non-academic, yet it forces you to think in new ways. Dunham’s approach towards self-understanding is humble, grounded in the contemporary issues that many young queer people face. It is that relatability that allows the reader to bring the same questioning into their own lives and relationships.
I would highly recommend this book to anyone interested in learning more about the trans experience. Once you begin, Dunham’s urgency to find some semblance of self-acceptance will not allow you to put the book down. It is truly a stunning contribution to the growing canon of queer literature.
“Cyrus is a sign and he may not last. And still, I choose to be him now. I need to be him now. I choose to move towards something like manhood––a mercurial concept in which my belief flickers––because, for reasons I still do not know, it makes me feel closer to the earth, to everyone and everything else in the flood.”