Two years ago I started collecting gems, minerals and fossils. I’m up to 60 or so pieces now, from every populated continent on Earth, each appealing for different reasons: some for where they’re from; some for when; many for the way they interact with light. I’ve handled every single one of these pieces. Except one.
When I tell you which, and why, you may think me a fool. I wouldn’t disagree. But the closer you examine most things, the more likely you are to notice threads you couldn’t see from distance. The one piece in my collection I’ve never touched is trinitite. This guy here:
Trinitite is soil that fused into a glass-like substance during the first atomic bomb ever detonated in New Mexico in 1945. After World War II ended, visitors to the bomb site found pieces everywhere of what they assumed was sand that melted from the heat of the bomb; some described it looking like a “jade lake.” They thought it was harmless, wore it as jewelry. Today’s theory is that trinitite formed after the desert sand was drawn up into the fireball, then rained down as a liquid and cooled. It is considered “mildly radioactive but safe to handle.” And yet I have never removed it from the plastic container it came in.
My fingers refuse, as if taking orders from a higher-level mind than my own. It’s the same for me saying “Bloody Mary” three times in a dark bathroom while looking at the mirror: I. Literally. Cannot. The literal totality of my corporeal and metaphysical selves locks up, the way throats do during drowning. I not only won’t say it, I can’t. Not even once. It’s an involuntary defense — mentally involuntary, anyway. The body is very much choosing what it knows to be safest. You ever walk by a very high height and instinctively pull away from the drop? It’s like that.
I’m writing something new, something bigger than ever before, using the Medusa myth as its foundation. In reading up on its history, I discovered a parallel with my gemstones, another set of differences threaded together by one commonality: in virtually every version of the Medusa myth — and there are several — she’s killed by someone far more powerful than she, despite doing no harm to them. She is always, however innocent, being punished — except in one version, where her punishment may be meant as a blessing.
The story most of us know centers on Perseus, born to Danaë, a woman who caught the eye of the king, Polydectes. The king throws a party to celebrate his engagement to Danaë, where it’s mandatory to offer him a gift. Perseus, young and disapproving, makes an off-hand remark about how his gift will be a Gorgon’s head. The king, hopeful to be rid of the boy and to jump his mom, jumps on the opportunity and holds Perseus to his word: he must bring him a Gorgon’s head or else lose his.
Perseus leaves the party, despondent — everyone who’s tried to kill a Gorgon has failed and died in the process — but soon he’s inexplicably given gifts from three different gods to help him in his quest. Hermes gives him winged sandals so he can fly. Hades provides a cap that makes its wearer invisible. Athena gifts him a mirrored shield he can use to safely see the Gorgons, as looking at them directly turns the viewer to stone. Perseus even receives a sword crafted by Hephaestus, the god of blacksmiths. It’s a scene you’d recognize from any James Bond film, when Q loads him up with all kinds of cool gadgets.
Unlike 007, Perseus hardly fits anyone’s definition of a hero. He’s agreed to kill a woman he’s never met and has no history with, simply to save his own skin rather than tell Polydectes he doesn’t approve of him moving in on dear old Mum. Not only is the quest cowardly, but being loaded up with weapons by the gods eliminates any danger Perseus might have faced. With Hermes’ sandals he doesn’t have to deal with the physical grind of traveling by foot or making a daring escape; once the deed is done he can just up and fly away. Hades’ cap means Medusa won’t even see Perseus coming — indeed, she’s asleep when he comes upon her — whereas his mirrored shield offsets her primary defense.
In addition, two of the three Gorgon sisters are immortal — curiously and inexplicably, only Medusa isn’t despite her parents both being epic monsters, as are her many siblings, including the Hydra, the Sphinx, Cerberus and the Caucasian eagle that dines daily on Prometheus’ liver. Perseus doesn’t know which sister is mortal, but the gods helping spill the tea. Perseus comes upon the sisters while they’re sleeping, at which point several versions of the story say Athena guided his hand on its killing stroke.
The modern Medusa myth is really a compilation of the greatest-hits versions of the story; in fact, some details became canon over time despite making no narrative sense, simply because the ancient storytellers, existing long before multiple copies of texts, made it their business to preserve as much detail as they could, even if that meant combining alternate versions. In several Perseus must find the nymphs to receive his weapons, which means dealing with the Graiae, another trio of sisters who share one eye and one tooth between them. Narratively this makes no sense — why wouldn’t the gods helping Perseus simply tell him where to find the nymphs? Why have the Graiae involved at all? We know why: because enough old versions contained the Graiae that they got rolled up in the canon. Comic books and religious texts do it all the time; it’s how Magneto is still a child of the Holocaust despite that making him 90 years old today and how one man’s Torah becomes another’s Old Testament.
In one version of the myth, Zeus kills Medusa. In another, she’s beautiful but turned ugly after arrogantly comparing her beauty to that of the Nereids, the sea nymphs. Some of the better known versions mix elements of these prior tales: Euripides has Athena kill Medusa; Ovid’s version, probably the most famous, is the first to include snakes, and features an uninterested Medusa chased into one of Athena’s temples by Poseidon, who rapes her there. Athena is enraged — at Medusa — and punishes her, first by making her ugly and ultimately leading Perseus to behead her.
Often when a god wronged a mortal, the other gods blamed the human. If the divine is the mark mortals measure themselves against, this may help explain the preponderance of assholes the world over who endorse evil as too big to fail and/or push the poor, huddled masses toward even poorer huddling, e.g. the Supreme Court granting the president and former presidents diplomatic immunity the same week they criminalize homelessness. Athena raging at Medusa instead of Poseidon would appear to be par for the course.
But the back story between the two gods suggests Athena may have had something else in mind entirely.
The story of the founding of Athens tells of a contest between Athena and Poseidon to see who would be the city’s patron. Poseidon struck the ground with his trident and suddenly there appeared an underground sea. This was his gift to the city, and as gifts go a spontaneous body of water is pretty unique, though unfortunately that water was saltwater, and thus of limited use to the Athenians, who reacted lukewarmly.
Next came Athena’s turn. The goddess knelt down and began digging with her hands in the soil. Seconds later the first olive tree sprang into bloom. Now this was a useful gift: not only were olives and olive oil in particular of many uses to the Athenians, the wood of the tree provided high-quality timber. Athena won the contest, and thus the new city was named Athens.
How did Poseidon take it? About how you’d expect, according to Apollodorus: “Poseidon in hot anger flooded the Thriasian plain and laid Attika under the sea.”
In the last year and a half I’ve lost 15% of my weight. There’s more to come, hopefully, but it’s probably not a coincidence that after years of stressing about it and dreaming of doing something about it yet never actually doing anything about it, I finally started getting physically healthier after escaping an abusive relationship and tackling some tough questions in therapy — namely, discovering the very meaningful difference between liking oneself and loving oneself. This is where trinitite, Medusa and me intersect.
In Ovid’s version of the myth, Athena makes Medusa ugly after she’s raped, presumably as punishment for being the object that defiled the goddess’ temple. But what if Athena saw the bigger picture? Poseidon raping a mortal didn’t endanger himself or his position in any way; he knew that. Raping Medusa in Athena’s temple was an act of desecration against the goddess herself. She couldn’t retaliate against the sea god directly; Zeus himself had come up with the whole Athens contest to keep them from getting into a fight. Their bad blood was no secret.
For humans, rape has nothing to do with attraction; for the gods, it pretty exclusively did. Athena didn’t generally make it her business to interfere in the lives of women who’d been violated, but Medusa’s perpetrator was a god. Athena couldn’t stop what happened, so she did what she could so it wouldn’t happen again. Maybe Medusa dying in her sleep was another act of kindness; as long as she lived as the lone killable Gorgon, other gods and heroes would surely continue testing her in the future. Small consolation, but some beats none.
For many years, not loving my body led to me mistreating it, which led to feeling bad in it and about it, which led to not loving it, mistreating it, feeling bad, etc. I now find myself on a different cycle: valuing my body leads me to use it and treat it well, which makes it feel healthier, which makes me wanna use it more, which keeps me active, which makes me feel healthier, which makes me wanna use it more, etc. There was no event or single spark I can point to and say, “That’s when I started taking care of myself.” It’s been more a combination of things unseen and unremarkable in and of themselves, though significant as an accumulation of mindfulness.
My trininite, my little chunk of horror, is surely no safer inside its cheap little plastic case than outside it. The same material used for packaging toothbrushes is not an effective barrier against radioactive isotopes. For now, though, it makes me feel safer. So I stick with it. Small consolation, but some beats none. Anyone who’s ever suffered the worst fear they can imagine knows it in their bones. A bit of plastic or a re-made face can feel light and safe as Kevlar to someone who knows what it’s like to have their form overrun against their will.
I’m struck by how more than one Medusa story dealt with her being transformed from beautiful to ugly. Like Perseus wearing Hades’ cap, Medusa’s ugliness was intended as a gift from above; like Perseus, Medusa’s gift made her invisible. His gift was meant to harm an innocent; hers, to avoid any more of that. Also striking: Medusa is only vulnerable when visible and only visible in reflection, in someone else’s eyes. I needed not only to accept vulnerability to truly see myself, but to embrace it. It took a safe environment with a gifted therapist for me to finally and safely see a truthful reflection of myself.
Trinitite can be green or red, depending on its original material; green indicates materials from the bomb’s support structure, while red means material found in copper electrial wiring. As old as it is, as unique as its backstory, even trinitite can’t fully escape its beginnings. Whether flaunting her looks or running from her tormentor, neither would Medusa. I still have a long way to go. But for the first time that I can remember, I’m not running from anything. Even without knowing exactly what it entails, I’m heading toward it.