On the dedication page of No Offense: A Memoir in Essays, Jackie Domenus writes, “To all the queer and trans folks who have bitten their tongues until they bled: this book is for you.” In this powerful and timely collection, Domenus defends and celebrates identity and love with an unflinching voice. The essays are both urgent and timeless, offering a compelling analysis of queer and trans identity at a time when the LGBTQ+ community is increasingly under attack. 

The opening essay, “Tom Boy,” explores the question of where identity comes from and how even when a person has the good fortune of having supportive parents, it is still a continuous and uphill battle to confront and resist the confining societal conventions around gender roles and the oppressive heteronormative views of love and partnership.

No Offense is a layered examination that instills hope by offering a bold, cathartic blend of personal essay and cultural critique laced with biting humor. By examining representations of and reactions to queer and trans people during pivotal moments, such as wedding planning, OBGYN appointments, and the Pulse Nightclub Massacre, Domenus reveals how language has the ability to  both harm and empower.

I spoke with Jackie Domenus over email and Zoom about transitions during times of transition and how prioritizing community can be a beacon in unsettling times.

Cassandra Lewis: I love the title, No Offense. Can you tell us what it’s in reference to?

Jackie Domenus: Most of the essays in the book have to do with uncomfortable comments, conversations, or questions I’ve faced that the other person didn’t recognize as microaggressive or homophobic. So the title is a play on the idea of saying “No offense but…” before saying something that is, in fact, offensive.

CL: In the moments of heightened vulnerability that you share throughout the book – going to the gynecologist’s office for the first time, wedding planning with your wife, responding to other people’s reactions to the Pulse Nightclub Massacre, there doesn’t seem to be anything “micro” about these tremendously offensive encounters. What prompted you to write this book?

JD: The funny thing is, those encounters were “micro” to the other person/people involved, and that’s exactly why I wrote the book. A nurse at a gynecologist office being shocked I’ve never had penetrative sex with a man, a seamstress assuming my soon-to-be wife and I are best friends as we’re standing next to each other in our literal wedding dresses, a politician saying “we reap what we sow” after forty-nine Latine LGBTQ+ people are murdered at Pulse—these were just little blips in these folks’ days, things they likely never thought about again. But for me, and for queer and trans people everywhere, these moments are consuming. They’re constant reminders that we’re not treated equally. While there’s obviously an apparent hatred for LGBTQ+ folks exasperated by the current political climate, there’s also this strange assumption that marriage equality magically fixed everything. I wanted to write essays that would call attention to the fact that it’s not fixed, that the “subtle” moments of hatred have not-so-subtle consequences, that there is still so much more work to do.

CL: One of the discoveries that resonated for me was your experience of feeling at home with the term “queer.” You wrote, “I was learning that LGBTQ+ people were a form on a clipboard, like the ones they give you at the doctor’s office, and cis-het people had the pen. They decided which boxes to check off, and you had better accept and fit into your box because if not, they’d be uncomfortable. What seemed to matter most was their comfort, not mine.” Would you talk more about that skewed power dynamic and the role of labels?

JD: Queer and trans people are the minority, and straight cis people are the majority, right? So, we’ve been conditioned to see “straight,” to see “cis,” as “the norm.” LGBTQ+ folks have always been less represented in the media, especially for kids growing up in the early aughts like me. It used to be even more dangerous for people to be visibly “out.” We’ve also now been declared the enemy by conservative politicians. There’s a power dynamic that has always been there, but that feels more prominent now, where if your sexuality or gender doesn’t fit neatly into a box that a straight cis person can understand, you’re dismissed, you’re an attention-seeking weirdo, or you’re the cause of society’s downfall. In my opinion, that reaction (and really the overall current political attitude toward LGBTQ+ people) is fear-based. People who are deeply unhappy with their own lives and terrified of what they might find if they think critically about their own sexuality or gender, don’t want to see queer and trans people happy or claiming an identity that’s not “traditional.” They’re threatened by it.

CL: Exactly. And now this extreme hostility is heightened on the national stage with another Trump presidency. How does this impact your forthcoming book?

JD: One of the strangest feelings that I have had post-election, that I guess I wasn’t really anticipating, is this very serious feeling of deja vu, or like we’re hitting restart, or whiplash, almost, because a lot of the essays in this book either took place during the first Trump presidency… Think about how much harm it’s causing when we are talking about not allowing a Representative to use the correct bathroom, and watching what it’s like for queer and trans people to literally watch their human rights be up for debate on a political stage.

CL: You wrote, “To be a queer person planning a wedding is to come out a million and one times, at least.” Can you expound more on what it’s like to have to defensively come out so many times especially when it interrupts what is for many others a time of happiness and celebration?

JD: I think of it as an extra fee or a hidden fee that comes with being queer and/or trans. When you pay a bill, you have the actual cost, which is overpriced and annoying—that’s the typical, every day bullshit all people have to deal with, regardless of sexuality or gender. But then there’s this hidden fee at the end of the bill if you’re queer or trans, this notion that everyone feels like you owe them an explanation. So, if you’re planning a wedding as a cis-het couple, you have to stress about money, dress fittings, the guest list, etc. But if you are planning a wedding as two femme presenting women, you have to deal with all of that PLUS coming out as queer over and over again because people will assume you’re just friends. If you are a straight cis guy going clothes shopping, you have to deal with inflated prices, finding the right size pants, waiting in line. But if you are a nonbinary person shopping in the men’s section, who uses the women’s restroom, you have to deal with all of that PLUS people demanding to know whether you were assigned male or female at birth. Unless you are surrounded only by other queer and trans people, it’s nearly impossible to just exist without explanation. So, moments of happiness and celebration always come at a cost, they always have a qualifier.

CL: It seems like part of the disconnect comes from some people not sharing the same experience of what’s at stake. You wrote about a text exchange with someone who didn’t understand, “how his presidency jeopardizes my entire existence.” How can we effectively communicate what’s at stake? 

JD: I am still searching for the answer to this. Unfortunately, I think that the current political climate has made people so incredibly divided and hostile that there’s no room for right wing folks to even make an attempt to understand LGBTQ+ people’s fear or pain without mocking it. Trump’s rhetoric over the last eight-plus years has managed to suck the empathy out of people. That text exchange occurred during the 2016 election, and still I have people in my life who claim to love me, but who support politicians who believe I shouldn’t be allowed to have control over my own body or raise kids. What they see as “at stake” is the economy or gas prices and for them, that trumps basic human rights for the people they “love.” I have yet to figure out how to effectively communicate this to a person who has lost all of their empathy. In many cases, I think they’re too far gone. So instead, it feels more important to connect with other marginalized groups, to bridge gaps and come together for common causes. I’d rather build and strengthen community with like-minded individuals who actually care about basic human rights at this point than try to convince someone not to vote for people who want me dead.

CL: As you wrote, it has never been easy to come out as queer. In the foreword, you mention, “the type of queer I was in 2014 when I began writing some of the essays in this book, is not the same queer I am today, in 2024.” Why is it important to acknowledge and examine these key moments of change in a person’s life within specific cultural and historical context even as our identities continue evolving?

JD: For me, it felt crucial to acknowledge this in the foreword because many of the essays in the book are based on instances that occurred when I was still a newly “out,” femme presenting, lesbian woman. The sort of homophobia I experienced then is very different from the kind I experience now, as a more masc presenting and gender nonconforming queer person. I think it’s equally important to examine the sexist microaggressions that occurred as a result of my partner and I both having long hair and “feminine” clothes, as it is to examine the transphobia that occurs now anytime I enter a public restroom. There is no universal queer or trans experience. We may all encounter similar circumstances, but our identities, as well as cultural and historical contexts, are constantly evolving. Acknowledging and analyzing that evolution is crucial to understanding ourselves and garnering understanding from others who are used to seeing things in the binary or in absolutes.

CL: How does this time of turmoil impact you in your current experience of identity, and as a queer writer about to transition into a published author? 

JD: In a way, it feels like a really shitty sequel. During Trump’s first presidential campaign, I was newly “out.” I was acclimating to an identity I had repressed for so long and learning how to live authentically as myself, at a time when he was inciting hate for my new-found community. Many of the essays in the book take place during that era. Of course, he ran again in 2020, but this go-round in 2024 feels like the real sequel, not just because it feels more feasible he could win, but because I’m once again in a moment where I’m embracing my authentic self as my identity has continued to evolve. This time, as I settle more comfortably into “they/them,” as I approach my one-year anniversary of top surgery, the right’s fear mongering and hatred have returned ten-fold.

There were moments during the 2016 election where I broke down and wished I wasn’t me so I wouldn’t have to endure such alienation, so I wouldn’t have to face conflict with “loved ones.” And though I know now that I’m not the problem, that they can’t make me hate myself, I do feel tired. I feel tired and sad that the country has witnessed Trump demonstrate his vitriol over and over again and half of the population still votes for him. For all of these reasons, it feels like a scary, yet completely necessary time to become a queer, published author. It’s dangerous to exist as an LGBTQ+ person right now and it’s dangerous to challenge “the norm,” which is why it’s also vital. 

It’s like a T-shirt that the Human Rights Campaign would make, but I keep saying, post-election, our existence at this point is resistance. Literally, right? Just sheerly existing in the world: having a life, having a family, going to work every day, waking up in the morning. Continuing to live authentically is now the fight. 

CL: Relating to another layer of transition and how community can be a beacon, I admire how your publisher, ELJ Editions, was able to persevere by quickly finding a new distributor after Small Press Distribution collapsed in 2024, leaving hundreds of independent presses in the lurch. I remember asking you about this at the time and you described how committed they are to their authors and how much you valued the sense of community. How did this experience form your impressions about the changing publishing landscape, our roles as writers, and the importance of prioritizing community?

JD: First of all, Ariana Den Bleyker, the founder and publisher of ELJ Editions, is one of the hardest working people I’ve ever encountered. When SPD shuttered unexpectedly, she made a commitment to the authors she had already signed through 2025 that ELJ would figure it out and that our books would be published. She kept us updated each step of the transition, she was transparent about decisions she was making for the press, she literally went into personal debt to make it work. Obviously, no one should be forced to go into debt to keep a press afloat, but witnessing all of this has really shaped my appreciation for small, independent presses in a publishing landscape where value is often placed solely on “The Big Five.” Small presses are publishing work that is just as worthy and important and beautiful, so it’s been really refreshing to see so many folks rally around them recently. 

As writers, I think our role is to contribute to the literary community by writing, but also by supporting one another. Buying each other’s books, sharing posts, donating to small presses—all of these seemingly small gestures ultimately keep the community thriving. I’m really enjoying connecting with folks in the literary community in order to promote No Offense, whether its reviewers, local bookstores, or asking other writers to participate in a reading/event. Working with a small press may not afford you a budget for a publicist or a cross-country book tour, but it allows you to form authentic and genuine connections with folks in the community who are usually more than willing to support however they can.

CL: What are you working on next?

JD: In the rare moments where I’ve been able to focus on generating new material instead of formulating a plan for launching No Offense, I’ve been writing toward the theme of “control.” Control has always been a major facet of my life whether it be pertaining to sexuality and gender, or mental illness, or grief. I’m always chasing control or it’s showing up in unexpected ways, so I want to dig into those moments and impulses and see what I can find buried beneath. My goal is to ultimately hold a magnifying glass to why “we,” as a society, crave control and further explore such implications on LGBTQ+ folks and other marginalized groups. Hopefully it will lend itself to a second essay collection!