Tell Me I’m Worthless Commentary
SPOILERS AHEAD!
Okay, y’all, phew… buckle up. This one has me feeling much more mixed than I’ve ever felt about a book before.
Divisive and provocative, Tell Me I’m Worthless is Alison Rumfitt’s debut novel about a fascist haunted house terrorizing Alice, a trans sex worker, Ila, her best friend turned infamous TERF, and Hannah, the third wheel to Alice and Ila’s fucked up dynamic (I hesitate to use the word “romance” here.) We meet our characters in the wake of a traumatic experience inside an abandoned house, named Albion, sitting on land that has long been haunted. At the story’s beginning, we don’t yet know what exactly happened in Albion— only that it was bad and Hannah was never seen again. Alice and Ila hurt one another in the House and subsequently part ways until the House brings them back together again.
A graphic and violent book, I can’t recommend it to everyone. It’s a read that violates you. Some argue the violence— especially sexual violence— is too graphic and gratuitous, which isn’t an unfair take. Others argue that the graphic nature is necessary to truthfully address the violence of fascism itself. Again, not an unfair take. I lie somewhere in the middle. I can, on the one hand, appreciate the author’s ability to describe depravity as a vehicle for both agony and pleasure. On the other hand, there were a number of times I questioned whether or not I like this book— I still don’t have a clear answer.
As a non-binary person, I love seeing stories written by and about trans people. But, surprisingly, I had mixed feelings after I finished the book. I felt winded by the last page, disoriented, confused, and sad. I read others’ reviews online to see the text more clearly.
One thing I loved: Tell Me I’m Worthless unflinchingly captures lots of the less than glamorous aspects of trans identities for some— not all, like self-hatred and ingrained transphobia. (Trans people are not a monolith, and so not everyone has the same exact experiences.) As I read, I felt the story’s anger— righteous anger, in the face of gender violence, racism, and fascism. This anger I love. I relate.
AND, simultaneously, I feel some frustration with this book. What I love most are queer stories (written by queer people) about queer characters whose identities are not the sole focus of the story. Yes, one’s identities are present in all that they are and all that they do, but I like seeing those characters experience other conflicts, face other problems that have nothing to do with the character being queer and/or trans. In Rumfitt’s book, it feels to me like our trans characters’ lives were entirely and solely about being trans. In moderation, this kind of story is just fine, because there is something valid to the idea that our identities influence every single part of our lives. But the violence against our queer characters in Tell Me I’m Worthless adds to this problem for me. It feels like violence— similar to trans-ness— is all our characters experience. Violence is their fate, it is their singular destiny with little room for hope. Trust me, I see the intensity of harm done to queer people all over the world; it’s real and it’s fatal. And it should be talked about. When, however, the entire story is violent to such a graphic degree that suffering is all our characters know, the story also suffers. Some might call it trauma porn, which, once again, wouldn’t be an unfair take.
All of this violence is supposed to buttress the story’s exploration of fascism, legitimizing the gore to carry conversation about a gory ideology. For me, the theme of fascism floats in and out of the shallow end of the pool. There are moments when we really touch bottom on fascism’s violence, and there are other moments when the conversation feels surface. And so when the theme grazes the surface, the gore loses meaning.
One of the touch-bottom moments really stuck with me:
“We don’t need to dream that the Nazis won World War Two, the fascists are already here, on our streets, everyday, can’t you see them? They’re the man next to you in the shop. The woman smoking outside the pub. They’re all around us. They’re in the government. They won.”
I love this excerpt because it plays on two sides of the same reflection. It serves as a reminder to readers that fascism is already all around them, even if they don’t see it. But it also toys with fascism’s demand that we not trust one another, that we surveil one another closely, constantly hyper vigilant for treachery against the status quo and against the powers that be. Both exist at the same time.
Duality like that is central to Rumfitt’s story. The central conflict lies in that Alice and Ila have two very different memories of the same event, both victimized by the house and each other. The story’s arc is not to figure out which of the two stories is the “real” one, the “true” one. Rather, it’s to reveal to us the nature of harm.
Another thing I did appreciate about Tell Me I’m Worthless was the way the story talked about suicide.
The book frequently references both directly and indirectly Shirley Jackson’s famous haunted house story, The Haunting of Hill House, and takes on a similar ethos about the spirit of the home space— a sticky, otherworldly presence that harms those who live within. Tell Me I’m Worthless is a haunted house story, too, and likewise talks about suicide patterns in Albion. The House seems to draw people to it, then commits violence against them.
“Once someone kills themself in a place, it becomes hungry for more suicides.”
I appreciate this interpretation. The fascist house forces violence upon the characters, including self harm. The trippy experience inside the haunted house captures an incoherent side of fascism and of suicide— a forceful nonsense that crushes everyone. The Haunting of Hill House also plays with this idea.
While there were references to Shirley Jackson’s book that I enjoyed, there were also moments when the references tipped into the realm of copying, even reusing an old scare from The Haunting of Hill House. I only point this out because I have made similar errors with my own writing. I’m heavily inspired by certain pieces of media and, when I’m not careful, I end up trying to replicate other stories I love in my own stories. Only when I noticed this pattern (and how much time and energy it wasted) did I alter my process so that I wasn’t copying media that I adore. It’s so tempting to recreate the things you love! I really, really get that. So, I’m not annoyed by seeing this in Tell Me I’m Worthless. I am primarily reacting from a place of love for Shirley Jackson’s book. (I recently read the sequel A Haunting on the Hill, which was an example of good references balanced by new ideas.)
Many praise Rumfitt’s writing for its stream of consciousness style, evoked by long, run-on sentences that rely heavily on repetitive cursing and gore. I’m mixed on this. At times, I felt that the style really pulled me out of the story, especially at moments when I was really starting to get into it. At others, I saw the magic in the expression. Alison Rumfitt is a powerful voice, but that doesn’t make her everybody’s cup of tea.
Ultimately, if you’re a sensitive stomach type, reconsider this book for yourself. It’s the sort of book with the power to keep you up at night. But, if this sounds right up your alley, then you won’t find a better example of it. At least not from any recent horror I’ve read. If you’re unsure, I say give it a try and see. Personally, I’m glad I read it.