Just Jack - The Artificer (Day 2)
A Queer Shadow Work Field Note
A few days ago, I introduced you to Just Jack, one of the voices that make up my Council of Shadows. He’s the inner critic who mutters like a grumpy old homesteader, convinced the only way to keep me safe is to keep me small. Jack is all obligation, no praise, the one more likely to hand you a wrench than a hug.
If you missed his first appearance, it was an interesting interview with my Inner Council.
(In case you missed it: Just Jack – The Inner Council Interview)
Jack may be mythic now—part artificer, part gruff gnome, but he grew out of something very real: a father-voice many queer folks will recognize. The kind of man who might love his kids, but only if someone like Geppetto, or God Himself, told him it was acceptable to. A man who might, in private, feel pride for a queer child, but would never risk saying it aloud without divine permission.
This is the essence of Queer Shadow Work: meeting not just the outright haters and abusers in our psyche, but the ones who hurt us through conditional love. The ones who taught us to stay small because it was safer than asking for the fullness of who we are to be seen.
And so, I went back to Jack. Not to yell, not to beg, but to hear him out. Here’s what happened next.
The Artificer
"Call me Jack. Not Jack-of-all-trades, not Jack Frost, just Jack."
I watched him arrive like a weather front, dragging winter with him.
He didn’t walk through the Southern Gate of Sheol—he manifested beyond it, staggering under canvas bags and swearing as he tripped in the dirt.
“Oh for crying out loud!”
And I knew immediately who it was.
He reeked of swamp muck and old metal. His boots were soaked. His pants clung with Sheol’s mire. He carried the stench of effort unrecognized, burdens unshared.
He glanced at me just long enough to sneer.
“You’d think your kid would have enough manners to help his old man.”
I bristled. I didn’t want to help him. Didn’t want to talk. This was my time—my morning ritual, my inner work. Not another guilt trap. Not another plea dressed as a test.
But he couldn’t leave it alone. Turning back one last time, he grumbled:
“When you write your whiney notes to your little friends about how cruel I am, you tell them my name. Jack, just Jack.”
Something inside me snapped and I took the bait.
“Just Jack. Got it.”
And with that, I closed the journal.
Why This Matters
Just Jack is more than just an old, clay-streaked inner critic. He’s the voice of an entire generation of men—fathers, teachers, preachers—who were too afraid to love us out loud. He’s the shadow of every “I’m proud of you” that got swallowed instead of spoken.
Queer Shadow Work isn’t about erasing these voices. It’s about meeting them, seeing them for what they are, and reclaiming the power they hold over us. Every time I look Just Jack in the eye, I reclaim a piece of myself that stayed small just to keep him comfortable.
Choose Your Own Adventure: Martha Marie or Prey?
Two more voices still wait at the edges of the mirror.
Martha Marie, the resentful homemaker, keeps muttering about laundry and legacy.
Prey, the seductive guardian of the Southern Gate, watches from the lake’s edge, always hungry.
The Council will meet again. But I’d love to hear from you.
Which voice would you like to meet next?
Whose wounds do you want to hear in their own words?