An essay by Laurie Stone
The other day I read a story by Paul Bowles in Points in Time (1982), set in Morocco, where Bowles lived. The story takes place 150 years in the past and concerns a young Jewish woman who marries into the family of a Muslim man, smitten by her beauty. In order to marry him, she must convert to Islam. Shortly after the marriage, she realizes she has made a mistake. She is made the servant of the other female members of the family and told she cannot leave the house. Bowles writes:
When she remonstrated with Mohammed [her husband], saying she needed to go out for a walk in the fresh air, he answered that it was common knowledge that a woman goes out only three times during her life: once when she is born and leaves her mother ’s womb, once when she marries and leaves her father’s house, and once when she dies and leaves this world. He advised her to walk on the roof like other women.
She decides to leave, anyway. Her husband is shamed, and she is captured as an infidel and beheaded.
The story made me think about many things, including the beauty and threat of circulation as a concept and about the many calls we are hearing, many in contradictory contexts, for things and people to be removed from circulation. Among them are objects, such as the Confederate flag, called on to be removed from public spaces and relocated in museums. Calls for the work of certain male artists accused of sexual aggressions, such as Roman Polanski, to be deposited in archives and banned from public viewing. Calls for certain male performers, professors, writers, and editors, accused of offensive statements and behaviors, such as Lorin Stein, fired last year as editor of Paris Review for sexual harassment, to be removed from their jobs.
The desire to nail whatever bastard you can get your hands on as puny reparation for thousands of years of unpunished male violence has been driving #MeToo usefully and buoyantly since the election of Trump. #MeToo is not exactly a movement, and it’s not exactly organized. It has generally been depicted as Feminism: The Reboot, as it has gone about raising consciousness, like a giant leaf blower gathering dessicated scoundrels. These are the men, protected by handlers and money, who say to women, “Let me feel you up, let me fuck you, and, though I will make you feel like a worthless worm, I can make you rich and successful.”
This is ordinary sexism, a word too small, it seems, for the colossus of hate mongering and abuse it must carry on its bony shoulders. The women’s movement had been documenting the uninvited gropes and threatening mind games of male humans for fifty years, but it took a stolen election by a massive criminal with proud contempt for women to make feminism—or a version of feminism—palatable even to men. As each rodent has gone down, he’s squeaked, “This is business as usual. You’ve changed the rules! I call foul.” For the first time in a concerted way there are hairy consequences.
#MeToo has managed to reveal slime-as-usual practices in worlds that have pretended to be prettier than they are, among them the academy, broadcasting, and publishing. But #MeToo risks diverting its momentum with fuzzy thinking, and I want to focus on this here, in hopes of expanding its attention beyond the terrible things done to women of a sexual nature to other terrible things. In hopes of moving beyond the acts of individuals to the gender biases in institutions, among them religions.
#MeToo is thrilling when it exposes criminals and predators. It is chilling, however, when the target of a #MeToo campaign—for lack of a better term—has committed no crime or readily identifiable harm and has, rather, caused offense, or rattled some people, or triggered them, or made them feel an emotion they didn’t want to feel. Sometimes the emotion is arousal, but let’s put that aside for a moment. We need to look more carefully at category mistakes and keep in mind whether a call for punishment or decirculation in the name of feminism actually expands—or crimps—freedom for women. Here are some categories that ask us to think about circulation. The list is not exhaustive.
Objects that symbolize harm and spread harm. Confederate flags and Confederate monuments come to mind. These objects, celebrating the haters of the past and authorizing the hatred of racists now, have no place in public space, the way swastikas have no place in public space. What to do with them once they are collected? That’s the messy question. Document and destroy them? Install them in museums, as if museums and archives are places where objects and ideas can go to die? As if museums can speed the process of detaching these artifacts from social relevance? They can’t. Museums and archives are not going to drain the poison from cultural wares, nor should they be tasked with the job.
Counter examples are concentration camps and slave quarters as museums, which preserve the history of the oppressed rather than memorializing the accomplishments of those in power. Perhaps in our cultural moment we want histories that only express points of view from under the boot. Here’s to new kinds of museums with no obligation to established power that will want to assume this responsibility.
People who have committed crimes of violence against females and continue to make art.
In 1977, Roman Polanski was charged with rape by use of drugs of a thirteen-year-old girl. He pled guilty to a lesser charge of “unlawful sexual intercourse” and fled the US. As repulsive and cruel as these acts are, my feeling is this: punish the artist and leave the art alone. Banning art does not look good on a movement, ever. (Theoretically, even if a Confederate monument existed you could classify as art, it, too, might call for a particular form of display and explanatory label text. To my knowledge, this object does not exist.)
When you learn discomfiting facts about a person, you can’t look at their work the same way as before. It messes with your head, and you may feel so turned off, you don’t want to engage with it further. You could also find yourself turned off by work made by a person who did not do bad things. For example, I have always loved the work of Ricky Gervais, but right now he’s on my shit list because he makes a loud point of referring to the worst people he can think of as cunts. Ricky thinks there is nothing more debased in existence than female genitalia, and to that I say, “Go fuck yourself.” Still, I will probably watch his next Netflix performance, while publicly expressing my problem with him.
If you continue to engage with the work of an artist who has done bad things, what you have learned will produce a new reading of their work. It has to. At the same time, you can’t judge the work itself only by the qualities of the person who made it. Bad people make good art. Turning away from a work of art or the artist who made it is a personal choice. Advocating for its removal from circulation is a social choice. The motive is partly to punish the artist. Don’t let them earn more money and acclaim, since they are bad, the thinking goes. Some also argue that a work of art made by a person who does bad things contaminates the culture. This last notion is more contaminating of a culture than any work of art could be.
Art, for the most part, is more complex and mysterious than the person who made it. That’s why it needs to remain in circulation. Take Polanski’s Rosemary’s Baby, a film you could see as a feminist document in a certain light, a film in which John Cassavetes combines the solipsism of the New York actor with the ordinary inobservance of the coddled husband to produce a man who believably pimps his wife to the devil to get better acting parts. Polanski’s wit steers this film, perhaps because he knew he would have done the same thing as Rosemary’s husband, perhaps because he also identified with the targeted and isolated Rosemary. No more Rosemary’s Baby produces a duller, more shriveled world.
Some people argue that removing the art of men who do bad things to women will make more space for the work of women artists and minority artists. Nice sentiment, but that’s not how art works in the world. There isn’t a fixed-sized art pie, i.e., a smaller piece of production for you guarantees a bigger piece of art pie for me. Art moves in and out of fashion, sure, and the work of male artists has been more supported than the work of female artists, but removing the art of men is not going to help female directors get jobs, and it will not benefit the cause of freedom for women.
Firing men from jobs who do bad things to women or who promote men who do bad things to women.
I say fire away—if the men are criminals or prove themselves unfit for the job. Ian Buruma fits this description. He was fired last September as editor of The New York Review of Books for publishing a self-serving defense (with unchecked false statements) by Jian Ghomeshi, a man publicly accused of physical and sexual brutality by nearly twenty women, including one charge of overcoming a woman’s resistance by choking. Ghomeshi was acquitted at his trial, but Buruma made the wrong bet about the times he was living in, believing that Ghomeshi would be seen as a victim of social media rather than a serial abuser who got off without a jail sentence.
This is what Buruma said to Isaac Chotiner in a Slate interview about his reasons for publishing the Ghomeshi self-defense: “I’m no judge of the rights and wrongs of every allegation. How can I be? All I know is that in a court of law he was acquitted, and there is no proof he committed a crime. The exact nature of his behavior—how much consent was involved—I have no idea, nor is it really my concern. My concern is what happens to somebody who has not been found guilty in any criminal sense but who perhaps deserves social opprobrium, but how long should that last, what form it should take, etc.”
I have to say, the comment that grabs me by the pussy is this: “The exact nature of his behavior ... I have no idea, nor is it really my concern.” Whoa. Why is it not your concern since you gave him space to lie about it in your paper? All the things Buruma cares about are valid to care about regarding moral opprobrium and term limits on shunning, but not caring about what the man actually did and the women he did it to? Bye, bye.
Deposing men who do creepy and humiliating sexual things to women that are not crimes.
I have devised this category for Louis CK, although others no doubt belong here as well. In November 2017, Louis admitted to asking women who came to his hotel rooms if he could masturbate in front of them. He gained their consent. These women wanted to work with him professionally, and the ones who stayed felt they had to watch him jerk off as part of the deal. Louis said in a public statement he was sorry. After his admission, he was fired from his current jobs. A film he was in was shelved. And past episodes of his TV show, Louie, remain unavailable for streaming.
Last August, he made an unannounced appearance at a comedy club in New York City. The next day, on Facebook, a female writer weighed in that he had not sufficiently redeemed himself to get back on stage. I was struck by the peculiarly Christian concept of redemption coming into play in a case like this, and I was reminded of the long fissure in the women’s movement dividing women who see their role as moral reformers and women who advocate for the sexual liberation of all people. I place myself firmly in the second camp. About the matter of redemption, as far as I am concerned, human beings don’t fall and therefore do not need to be redeemed. We are not on a path with an ideal narrative arc of right living. We are not on a path, period.
Causing someone to look at your penis is a form of flashing. In private, though, it’s something people do all the time in ordinary sex, so the category of taking out your penis in your own hotel room isn’t actionable in itself. The room was not a public space. Louis flashed women who wanted to be in his orbit. They didn’t work for him, so legally it’s not sexual harassment. He wanted to see them squirm or submit as part of his excitement. He was a shit.
How long does he remain out of circulation? Is he ever allowed to earn money again as a writer and performer? Some people have argued his future earnings should fund the women he grossed out and other art projects by women. Maybe he will direct some money that way, out of a sense of obligation or positive public relations, rather the way after the Exxon oil spill in Valdez, Alaska, Exxon paid for animal rehab facilities there.
Some people have argued that Louis’s appearance at the comedy club wasn’t announced, and that those in the audience therefore had no choice but to see him—another instance of whipping of it out, as it were. It was argued that his premature return trivialized the harm he had caused the women he coerced and, in a sense, all women who have been harassed.
Indeed, you can see his appearance as a form of aggression, but there is also a tradition in comedy clubs of unannounced sets by stars trying out new work. In clubs, too, if you don’t like an act, you can walk out and come back. You’re not in lockdown. What people who complained meant is they wanted a trigger warning, even though comedy is the thing that lampoons trigger warnings and other forms of pre-emptive protection. Comedy is the thing that is supposed to take you hostage and unteach you how to feel. If you feel comfortable and safe in a comedy club, you are at some other kind of performance.
I don’t find sexist humor funny because the power position in comedy is the place of no power. Louis knows this some of the time. The way we all do. He can switch moods in startling ways, slipping between hilarity, embarrassment, failure, and yearning. Will he have anything to say that can move us if he passes over what happened to him? I think he could turn his experience into a subject for comedy if he were willing to struggle with it. How was he feeling when he flashed his cock at unsuspecting women? What did the looks on their faces tell him? How does he feel about the impact of all this on his daughters? To make this funny, he would have to put himself in the position he placed women in without portraying himself as a victim. A man like Louis, who thinks very hard about comic sources, should be able to get it done.
Louis is an artist, who wants to work. His art is interactive, and he’s got to show up somewhere, at some point. Some people have argued, No, he doesn’t have to show up anywhere. He has occupied enough real estate in the zeitgeist. I say to that, Well, I don’t want to see a single person in the GOP and most Democrats appear in public, but I don’t think you are going to help me with that.
You want to tell Louis about the pain his actions have caused? Tell him. Maybe he will hear you. You don’t like him? Don’t go see him. If you don’t like the films of Roman Polanski and Woody Allen, don’t see them, either. If you don’t like the people who fund their work, boycott them and protest outside theaters. You may be a minority voice, but it’s the way cultural change happens, not through banning artistic expression. How to help women speak publicly against abuse without being consigned to the role of scold or gravitating toward it? Through comedy, would be my bet.
Firing men from jobs in the name of feminism who blunder publicly in ways that are difficult to categorize.
On November 26, 2018, the day film director Bernardo Bertolucci died, the film critic David Edelstein posted on Facebook: “Even grief goes better with butter.” The quip captioned a still from Last Tango in Paris, depicting Marlon Brando atop a prone Maria Schneider. It’s from the scene in which Brando’s character anally rapes Schneider ’s character, using butter as lube. Schneider’s face is anguished, and her fists are balled up.
On November 27, the NPR show Fresh Air, where Edelstein worked as a contributor, issued this statement: “Today we learned about film critic David Edelstein’s Facebook post in response to the death of film director Bernardo Bertolucci. The post is offensive and unacceptable, especially given actress Maria Schneider ’s experience during the filming of Last Tango in Paris. The post does not meet the standards that we expect from Fresh Air contributors, or from film journalists associated with WHYY NPR. We appreciate the apology David posted, but we have decided to end Fresh Air’s association with him, and have informed David accordingly.”
Here is some background on Edelstein’s use of the word butter. Because in the film butter is used as lube, butter became a sex joke from the movie’s 1973 premiere on. I saw Edelstein’s post and thought, Wow, that’s really tone deaf and dumb. I remembered reading about Schneider ’s 2007 interview with the Daily Mail, where she described her treatment by Bertolucci during the filming of Last Tango. Writing in The Washington Post on November 26, 2018, Elahe Izadi lays out what happened during filming and the repercussions of those events, drawing on accounts by Schneider, Brando, and Bertolucci.
I summarize. Brando and Bertolucci were having breakfast before the filming of the rape scene and together devised the notion of using butter. They didn’t inform Schneider, who was 19 at the time. The rape was in the script, but not the butter. She did not know she could have called her agent and refused to perform something not in the script. She says her tears in the scene were real. After the movie, unprepared for the degree of public scrutiny she experienced, she used drugs and attempted suicide. She died of cancer in 2011.
In 2013, during a filmed interview, Bertolucci said he purposely withheld the use of the butter because: “I wanted her reaction as a girl, not as an actress. I wanted her to react humiliated.” He said Schneider hated him for the rest of her life and that he felt guilty toward her. In interviews Brando also said he had felt humiliated by Bertolucci. It was cold during the shooting of his one, full frontal nude scene, and his parts shrank. The scene was later scrapped. Schneider said she thought Bertolucci was in love with Brando and that originally her role was supposed to be played by a boy. Amid the ferment of #MeToo, Bertolucci’s manipulation of Schneider was revisited and widely condemned.
The association of butter and anal sex is not a problem for me now or in the past. Anal sex is about sex. The problem for me is not that a fictional scene depicted anal rape. The problem is what we now know about Schneider ’s experience at the hands of Bertolucci. This is what bears on Edelstein’s remark. Another thing. The reason butter became a sex joke has to do not with the anal rape of Schneider’s character but with a later scene. Brando’s character says to Schneider’s character, “Get the butter,” because he wants her to finger him anally, and she does. When I saw Last Tango in 1973, people had more to say about the second scene than the first, and this speaks to the times. A girl gets raped, oh yeah, that happens. A guy gets penetrated, even though he asks for it, well that spurred all kinds of anxious and titillated homocurious responses. It was also as if a generation of boys and girls, raised to have vanilla sex, were invited to a better party.
After Edelstein posted his quip, people on social media instantly let him know the joke was a bomb. The reason it bombed is that it made Schneider the target. It trashed her, given her experience with Bertolucci. It trashed all women who have been slimed sexually and emotionally by older men in the name of art. It insulted all women who have been slimed sexually and emotionally in the name of nothing but freewheeling sadism. So that would include all of us.
On November 28, Andrew O’Herir wrote a piece in Salon about Edelstein’s firing, in which he outlined attacks on the film critic, most influentially and sternly by actor Martha Plimpton. Plimpton reposted Edelstein’s bad joke on Twitter, calling for his firing and saying she had avoided any mention of Bertolucci’s death “precisely because of this moment in which a sexual assault of an actress was intentionally captured on film.” In fact, as Elahe Izadi makes clear, Schneider alleged no actual rape or “sexual assault” in her account. She felt violated by being excluded from decisions about the rape scene, and she felt the manipulation Bertolucci had engineered. O’Herir asks, “Does it make it all better if we conclude that Edelstein was making light of a fictional rape, or a fictional incident that might be rape? Definitely not, as he has acknowledged. Furthermore, it’s baffling that a person so deeply immersed in movies and media either didn’t know or had forgotten about Schneider’s comments, and Bertolucci’s subsequent half-apology.”
After Edelstein deleted his original post, he wrote again on Facebook on the same day:
Regarding Bertolucci’s death, I made a stupid joke here on my FB page that turns out to have been beyond stupid—grotesque. The first and only time I ever saw Last Tango was in 1977. I remembered the scene in question as part of a consensual, increasingly s&m relationship that ends with the woman being forced to shoot the man. I didn’t remember it as a rape and I didn’t know the real-life story about Maria Schneider. The line was callous and wrong even if it HAD been consensual, but given that it wasn’t I’m sick at the thought of how it read and what people logically conclude about me. I have never and would never make light of rape, in fiction or in reality.
Let’s pause for a moment. Isn’t there always a way to make a joke about something if you can figure out how to frame it? I think there is. The sanctimony of Edelstein’s mea culpa has the same tenor as the sanctimony in rebukes of him. How about we ditch all sanctimony. It’s not that feminism can’t take a joke. It’s that jokes involving feminism beat up people who have already been beaten up. There could have been a way to make excellent cracks about Brando’s cold-weather weenie and Bertolucci’s crush on him and include butter, had Edelstein thought in these terms. In that inattention lies the ease of trivializing everything that is not you, in Edelstein’s case a straight white male, and it’s breathed like air.
In a saner social moment, when taking offense was not actionable, Edelstein would have received a reprimand and been offered clear guidelines about the acceptable content of his posts on social media. His firing is an example of what I have taken to calling “sensitivity harassment.” Words can hurt, but to censor them and fire the people who use them has a far more chilling effect on our society than social interaction with these moments. What should be the reach of organizations to police the speech of employees when they are not on the job? How do you feel about a dismissal on the grounds of unspecified moral standards? How do you feel about an organization speaking for feminism when its real aim is to cover its ass for fear of pushback or simply to clean house of an otherwise bothersome employee? What specifically feminist positions and understandings does NPR expect from its contributors? I would really like to see these spelled out.
What offends you is always going to be my endangered devotion, and vice versa. You believe in God and want me to believe in God, for example. I believe religions promote gender discrimination. I don’t even want the power to make you stop believing what you believe for this reason: Repression and moral opprobrium from all political stances serve power and money. Power wants a populace that is frightened to dissent, whose members are in seeming lockstep agreement, and who will police each other so repression becomes internalized and reflexive. Then you have people you can control and sell ideas and things to. My first concept for this piece was to convene a round table of views on Edelstein. A surprising number of people I queried told me they did not want to risk placing themselves in the line of social media fire.
A society becomes changed not by fiat but when outmoded ways of thinking are tossed into dusty corners and forgotten, like the lives of millions of women and girls in the actual world, who have been destroyed because their existences caused offense. Nothing can be cleansed, and among things considered contaminants might be your ideas or mine. The ideas of feminists are among the first things to be erased when waves of social cleansing are enforced. That’s why, from a practical perspective, it’s a terrible idea for women and feminists to line up with censorship.
Everything exciting and challenging in the world is a mixture of terror and pleasure. Some sort of sexual feeling or erotic response or negative erotic response is part of every interaction we have with other people of all ages and even other animals throughout our lives. Let’s not pretend otherwise as a way to simplify our conversations about abuse, rape, harassment, and other unwanted attention that takes a sexual or erotic form. Seeking safety may be the most dangerous thing we can do. There will never be a solid, agreed upon notion of safety, and I don’t want to be protected from what you think it’s bad for me to know or do.
When you hear about another white, tone-deaf man losing his job because he caused offense, you do not need to care about the man. You need to care about the issue of circulation and things being denied that right. The circulation of the female body in public space, unguarded by male protection and permission to move, is among the most transformative social actions in the world.
Laurie Stone is author most recently of My Life as an Animal, Stories. She was a longtime writer for the Village Voice, theater critic for The Nation, and criticat- large on Fresh Air. She won the Nona Balakian prize in excellence in criticism from the National Book Critics Circle and has published numerous stories in such publications as N+1, Tin House, Evergreen Review, Fence, Open City, Anderbo, The Collagist, New Letters, Tri- Quarterly, Threepenny Review, and Creative Nonfiction. Her next book, Postcards from the Thing that is Happening, is a collage of hybrid narratives. Her website is: lauriestonewriter.com.
Good Talk: A Memoir in Conversations By Mira Jacob
New York, NY; One World, 2019, 368 pp., $30.00, hardcover
Interview by Tahneer Oksman
In 2015, Mira Jacob published her first book, The Sleepwalker’s Guide to Dancing, a sprawling, elegantly written novel about a young woman wrestling with grief, love, and the complicated ways our family histories and backgrounds never stop influencing how we see and experience the world. Four years later, Jacob returns with a second work, Good Talk: A Memoir in Conversations. The genre and format of this new book is radically distinct from her first; with Good Talk, Jacob has composed a visual memoir chronicling her life. Told in forty-three short chapters that shift back-and-forth between various backstories and the present, the book is made up of episodic snippets detailing everything from her Syrian Christian parents’ courtship and immigration from India to Albuquerque and her early experiences with peers, educators, and members of her family and community in New Mexico, to her journey towards becoming a writer living in New York City and meeting, marrying, and having a child with a white, Jewish filmmaker.
Jacob’s story is bookended with the candid, sometimes humorous, and often painful conversations she has with her observant, evercurious son, who is six years old when the book opens in 2014, against the backdrop of their Brooklyn neighborhood. In the wake of his progressively sophisticated and often difficult-toanswer questions (“What did Michael Jackson like being better, brown or white?”; “Are white people afraid of brown people?”; “Is daddy afraid of us?”), Jacob finds herself increasingly aware of what she describes as “the growing gap between the America I’d been raised to believe in, and the one rising fast all around us.” With the 2016 election before her, and her husband’s parents standing steadfastly behind a Trump presidency, Jacob invites her readers to witness her multiform attempts to contend, through conversation and dialogue, with the painful contradictions that surround her.
On a cold day in early January, Jacob and I talked, over tea, about this new book of hers that is, at its core, a frank address, from parent to child, expressing hope and helplessness in the face of a baffling, uncertain future.
Women’s Review of Books: With Good Talk, you’ve turned from fiction written in prose to visual memoir, with illustrations of you, your son, and other family members and friends in conversation, superimposed over photographic backgrounds. Could you talk about this collage-like structure and how it came about?
Mira Jacob: Partially, it was the conversations themselves that chose the format. My son was asking me a lot of questions about being brown in America, and I didn’t know how to answer him. It was really weighing on me. I kept trying to write an essay about it, but I froze up every time. We were already ramping up to the America in which no story could ever be bad enough, no feeling could ever be scary enough, where everything was something to be disproven. As many times as I tried to position us, I felt the gaze of the disbeliever. And I was exhausted by trying to navigate the space between what is hope and what is horror in this country, and trying to make that okay— specifically, for white eyes. It’s frustrating. I feel like I live in [that place between hope and horror]. I have been in that place for a long time. This is where a lot of us live. [The visual format] felt like a shortcut. I ended up drawing us with a Sharpie on printer paper and cutting us out. I cut out dialogue balloons. I put them on top of a Michael Jackson album and photographed it. Poof. I didn’t have to explain anymore.
WRB: What was it like to move from fiction to memoir as you were also moving into a visual format? How did these new modes of creating shape the story you were trying to tell?
MJ: I didn’t know I was making a memoir when I started. I kept calling what I was working on a “thing” in my mind. When I hear the word “memoir,” I get scared, thinking my life is not interesting enough.
I kept making these visual things, thinking, I’m going to tell these little stories from my life. These are just conversations. I made strict rules: I told myself, you can only set things up. You cannot talk about the feelings you’re having. You can only set up the scene and play out the dialogue and see how that goes. But I’m a metaphor junkie. A metaphor is basically taking an emotion and making it concrete for another person. When you can’t rely on your flowery senses, when you can’t rely on your metaphors, what do you develop in that place? I had to lean hard on action. On dialogue.
I realized later that I was going to have to talk about my feelings at some point. But the helpful part of realizing that later on was that I hadn’t exhausted myself before I even started.
WRB: While the book opens with, and is framed by, these conversations you had with your son, it also goes back in time to tell the story of your own coming-of-age in New Mexico, moving to New York City to become a writer, and falling in love and partnering up. How did you arrive at such an unconventional narrative scheme?
MJ: The book stemmed from an identity crisis—my identity crisis—which was brought on by America’s identity crisis. I wrote it chronologically, for lack of a better thing to do. Then I realized that I needed to build a through-line. The conversations with my son build momentum throughout the book.
When you frame a story around conversations, the reader has the delicious experience of eavesdropping. Even though these conversations might implicate readers directly, they’re still coming to it sideways. There’s a lot of freedom in that for me because sometimes I could just lose sight of the reader’s needs. I could just say what was happening. I could not feel an allegiance. I could feel like I didn’t have to make things accessible.
WRB: The book exposes tense, challenging interactions between you and your closest family members, including your husband and in-laws. The issue of exposure is something all memoirists have to grapple with to some extent. How did you approach this problem?
MJ: The years that I was making this book were the most terrifying and lonely couple years of my life. To expose your spouse means you’re actually pulling away to allow yourself the distance that you need to write what happened.
America is always already pulling at us. America has a fantasy about interracial couples, which is that if you’re married to someone from a different race it’s because you understand everything about each other, and you’re in sync. It’s a load of shit. It doesn’t take into account how complex life is. So, then the counterpoint to that idealized version becomes a deep distrust of interracial couples—this idea that one partner or the other doesn’t value themselves or their race. It’s fucked.
My husband is also a private person. He has his own creative life as a documentarian. Sometimes conversations got heated. But always, after, he would come back with, “You just need to write it. You just need to tell the truth. You can’t dodge what you know out of some loyalty to me. You have to write it, and then we can figure it out.” That was a gift.
WRB: In the book you include a direct look at prejudice—specifically colorism—within the East Indian community. Why did you think it was important to include this perspective?
MJ: When we talk about racism and prejudice in this country, it’s always about whiteness. Anyone of color becomes a monolith, like it’s “us against them.” But every brown is different. Every one of us has our people saying privately, “we’re better than them.” That’s how tribes function. I wanted to see what it would be like to look at my own tribe and my place in it, at times in which I had compromised and times in which I had not been my best self. And at times in which I had felt unloved and unseen.
People seem to experience “woke-ness” as an idea that there’s a place to get to, and when you get to that place then you’re on the right side of things. I find that exhausting. There’s also this idea that as a person of color, I’m always going to be on the right side of things. And that’s absolutely not true. The idea that you get to a place where you no longer have to interrogate yourself, where you’re on the “right side” of racism, of colorism, it’s a baffling falsehood. It’s laziness. You lose the chance to grow and change.
WRB: Did you have an audience in mind for your book? What kind of response have you seen until now, from the short pieces you’ve already published online on BuzzFeed, Instagram, and in other venues?
MJ: I’ve been surprised by how many people have found me and written me to say, “You just told the story of my family.” There is a world of unspoken “us” that gets lost in conversations about race. When I envision the audience for this book, I envision people who are seeing conversations take place around them and saying, “What’s next?” For me, all of this stuff has a lot more nuance than we are allowing ourselves in this moment. I don’t want the byproduct of these years to be that we stop being interested enough in each other to allow for the possibilities.
I know this book is going to make a lot of people upset because I’m not tying things up with a righteous tirade. Right now, we want our discussions of race to end with righteous anger because there is so much to be angry about! And some people will think the lack of that means I’ve let my in-laws off the hook. But the truth is more complicated. I’m horribly wounded. I feel betrayed. Also, I love them. I’m holding all of these things in my hands at once. I’m holding all of them together because my boy is made up of all of us, and I’ve got to find a place for his body in this country.
WRB: Your book ends with a letter to your son, titled, “The Talk We Haven’t Had.” The timing is early 2017. Why did you decide to end the narrative in this way?
MJ: I think what people so often look for in a book like this is a solution. People want the story to end well. I don’t have that kind of ending. The best ending that I could have was the most honest one, the one that was written for him above all others, the one that said, “I see you; I love you. We’re in this together. We’re in it.”
Tahneer Oksman is an assistant professor at Marymount Manhattan College, the author of “How Come Boys Get to Keep Their Noses?”: Women and Jewish American Identity in Contemporary Graphic Memoirs (Columbia University Press, 2016), and the co-editor of the anthology, The Comics of Julie Doucet and Gabrielle Bell: A Place Inside Yourself (University Press of Mississippi, 2019). She often reviews graphic novels and illustrated works for the Women’s Review of Books.
Interview with Megan Marshall By Joanne B. Mulcahy
Growing up, professor and biographer Megan Marshall practiced the piano or the harpsichord every day, a discipline that prepared her well for life as a writer. Marshall listens for rhythm and melody in language, her own and that in the letters and diaries of the women whose lives she explores. “A biographer,” she has written, “is like a good accompanist.”
In her most recent book, Elizabeth Bishop: A Miracle for Breakfast, she literally accompanies her subject, integrating her experience as Bishop’s poetry student at Harvard in 1976. Meanwhile, Marshall’s two previous prize-winning biographies innovate in other ways, expanding our framework for reading history and women’s experience. In The Peabody Sisters: Three Women Who Ignited American Romanticism, Marshall deftly blends the stories of the brilliant sisters who helped shape American education, the arts, and the Transcendentalist movement. She won the Pulitzer Prize for her next book, Margaret Fuller: A New American Life, which chronicles the story of this towering intellectual and social reformer.
An earlier book, The Cost of Loving: Women and the New Fear of Intimacy, investigated the challenges women faced in balancing family, work, and independence following the second wave of feminism. The questions she posed, which Marshall felt were initially misinterpreted, have only gained relevance. That probe sent Marshall into libraries and archives to explore how women had historically sought balance, a quest that solidified her interest in biography.
Joanne Mulcahy: You’ve been called one of the great biographers of women. What led you to that path?
Megan Mashall: Part of it was a fascination with women’s stories that goes back to my grandmothers, to whom I was very close. My mother’s mother lived through the San Francisco earthquake, and I loved hearing how she ran outside to find ash from the fires sticking to her bare feet. I loved her stories about life as a schoolgirl in Oakland, too. She was left-handed and her teacher tied her left arm to her chest so she would learn to write with her right hand. That fascinated me. I liked casting my mind back to the past.
My other grandmother was a children’s librarian and a storyteller. She was a font of narrative. I spent one afternoon a week with her in the library while my mother was at work. I became entranced with biographies for children. I remember reading about Amelia Earhart and Marie Curie, and the childhoods of these ultimately great women. I’ve always loved writing the childhood sections of my books. That’s where the reader can begin to identify. We all were children. What shaped this person?
I was a big fan of the “Little House” books, which are great models for historical narrative. They include so much detail of daily life, descriptions of landscape, and cliffhanger endings. While I was writing The Peabody Sisters, I read those to my daughters, and it helped to have Wilder’s voice in my head. I heard about the Peabody sisters in a history course at Harvard—one of the first women’s history courses taught there, and the only history class I took. In the 1970s, the history department faculty was all male, and the student body was 3 to 1 male [to female]. Whenever I “shopped” a history course at the start of a semester, the whole scene was too intimidating. I never got through the door. I wasn’t as brave as the women I’ve written about! But as an English major, I read biographies of Emily Dickinson and Gertrude Stein. If I were a student at Harvard now, I might major in history—the department is full of fabulous women historians. It’s true almost everywhere now.
JM: Because women’s lives have often been misinterpreted, do you feel you have to write against previous biographies?
MM: It’s different in each case. The Peabody sisters and Margaret Fuller were trivialized in some biographies, though not all. In their time, some perceived them as busybodies, or too egotistical or ambitious. That’s what I’m writing against more than later biographical interpretations. Some people found Fuller imperious, but how marvelous that she had so much confidence! I’m not a presentist, but I try to show what life was like for these women from their own points of view. That was an important challenge with Elizabeth Bishop, too. She was an extremely private person, and not well understood in her lifetime. Working from the subject’s interior is key, and writing that way has effects beyond shaping character. People sometimes tell me they never understood Transcendentalism until they read The Peabody Sisters. I never set out to define Transcendentalism, but I think readers experience what it felt like to have those ideas, to think them, along with my subjects.
JM: Could you talk about empathy in writing biography? Did you like all of your subjects? How do you approach them in a fair and balanced way?
MM: I really do like all my subjects! Sometimes they scare me—how can I grasp the lives of women who were so much more accomplished than I am? Elizabeth Bishop was difficult as a teacher. But I got to know her by reading her letters and immersing myself in her poetry, and I couldn’t help but admire and even love her. I’ve been lucky that the letters and journals of all my subjects have such authenticity. Fuller and the Peabodys were part of the Romantic era, when selfexamination and self-expression were highly valued; those were pre-Freudian times, and they wrote down things that people today might not. Bishop wrote honestly too; some of her friendships were most intimate on the page. Some people have asked, “Don’t you feel guilty reading these private letters?” But for the Peabodys and Fuller, letter writing was closer to publication—they shared their letters. Bishop was a great fan of literary letterwriters, saving hers to and from Robert Lowell and Marianne Moore and May Swenson. These letters were saved for a reason. I don’t feel guilty but I do feel a responsibility to use them respectfully.
JM: It’s an ethical question for biographers, the use of private documents.
MM: Establishing context is really important. I was concerned about Elizabeth Bishop’s letters to her psychoanalyst because certain aspects could easily be misunderstood. Once I realized how central they would be to my narrative, I wanted to find out about the psychoanalyst, Ruth Foster. Nobody had previously identified Foster—she’d died relatively young—but I finally found her. She’s a fascinating person who was heroic in her own way, a woman choosing to train for an innovative profession in the 1930s. She was from an upper-class Boston family, whose parents refused to send her to college. When she came into her own money, she pursued psychoanalysis against her family’s wishes, becoming estranged from them in the process. She treated artists and poor black families in New York, which they hated.
JM: I want to go back to an earlier book, The Cost of Loving, where you looked at what women who pursued professional life sometimes sacrificed in relationships. There are many connections between the ideas of independence in that book and your biographies of independent women.
MM: I’ve always been interested in how the desire for independence conflicts with social constraints on women’s lives. As someone growing up slightly younger than the leaders of the second wave of feminism, I was struck by some of the choices I sensed we were going to have to reckon with but weren’t prepared for. I felt a real urgency to address these issues, thinking “I have to finish this book soon, or it’s going to be too late.” But in the end, the book came out too early and was misunderstood. Susan Faludi called it part of the “backlash.” That wasn’t my intention at all—I wanted to encourage women to face some inevitable complications.
After the really wrenching disappointment over that book—no feminist wants to be accused of backlash!—I decided it was impossible to hit the zeitgeist. I thought back over the interviews for The Cost of Loving. Many women in their thirties kept telling me they were the first to face these conflicts. That didn’t seem possible. I started looking for a way to write about these choices through the eyes of women from the past. I envisioned The Cost of Loving a hundred years earlier. In the women’s history class, I had learned about Mary and Elizabeth Peabody as reformers, founders of the kindergarten movement. Then a friend who worked as an archivist told me there was a third sister, who married Nathaniel Hawthorne. The three Peabodys seemed to bring together everything that interested me. As I fell in love with their letters and diaries, I got farther from the idea of applying questions about the 20thcentury to women of the past. My childhood love of life stories kicked in. This was also the golden age of women’s biography, inspired by the second wave of feminism. Reading Nancy Milford’s Zelda and Jean Strouse’s Alice James and Paula Blanchard and Bell Gale Chevigny’s biographies of Margaret Fuller—all of that spurred me on. Then I had to figure out how to write about three people, which was very hard.
Writing biographically left questions about women and love and ambition as undercurrents, but the research helped me answer my own questions. I was married and raising kids while working on the Peabodys, and I learned from them about patience and commitment to family. Even before the sisters started having children, they were taking care of parents and siblings and friends through illness and hard times. They had a respect for what had to be done, even while doing extraordinary things. This was quite different from the Margaret Fuller style of “let’s throw caution to the winds and follow our hearts,” which became an attractive story for me in a later phase of life. We can’t all live that way, but we can all be inspired by “Let them be seacaptains!”
JM: I keep coming back to an idea from the biography of Margaret Fuller, the “fullness of being” that combines private and public life.
MM: Fuller did ultimately find fullness of being—in Italy, as a writer, revolutionary, lover, mother. For me, this has always been challenging, which may be the message of all my books—a comforting message, I hope, because we’re all in it together. There were long stretches of time when I felt hopeless about finishing the book. But I think The Peabody Sisters turned out to be a much better book thanks to all the experiences that came with being a mother, and that caused me to look to the Peabodys for inspiration and solace.
JM: You mentioned the timing of The Cost of Loving. How is this combining of public and private life for young women now, for your daughters?
MM: I don’t think it’s any easier. When I was writing and taking care of the kids, I stopped earning for some years. I don’t know if that’s possible for men or women or a couple with children anymore. People work around the clock. I was in Japan recently as a visiting professor. Some of the young parents I met there brought home for me how practically any other country has better childcare than we do. It’s guaranteed by the government in Japan, along with much longer maternity leaves. Here you’re facing a false set of choices that seem very personal or about your belief system. That’s all hogwash but very painful hogwash.
JM: In a piece in Literary Hub about your Elizabeth Bishop biography, John Kaag wrote that women writers take greater risks in using the first person. We can be seen as self-indulgent. I wonder how readers have reacted to the memoir part of the book. Do women take greater risks with the first person?
MM: Most readers have loved the memoir passages, which is what I’d hoped for. They can identify with me as the novice poet, and then get into Bishop’s life. Mostly it was male reviewers who were critical. There may have been a generational difference in response, too; younger readers may be more willing to accept a hybrid form.
About a month after the book came out, I read a review of a male biographer ’s book. The reviewer commented matter-of-factly, “His previous books have incorporated memoir into biography,” and went on from there. It was a statement of fact, no judgment. I can’t say that’s because the biographer was a man and I was a woman, but I was struck by that. Maybe it also had something to do with my writing about a female subject. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but it seemed to me that the male reviewing establishment was saying, “Well, she’s come this far but no farther.” I’d surprised them by winning the Pulitzer—Margaret Fuller was only the fifth biography of a woman written by a woman to win the prize in a hundred years. More than the criticism, I was struck by the tone, which was disrespectful and weirdly personal. You’d never think they were reviewing a book written by an experienced biographer.
I was so connected with that book that I took the criticism personally. But I am going to continue to follow my subjects’ examples and keep setting myself new challenges in the way I approach biography. One of the best things about writing is the way that books have a life in the world that you can’t predict—I think that’s the way books are most like children. At one point I thought, “I hope nobody sees The Cost of Loving for a while.” But the most amazing thing happened. When I came up with the idea of including my own experience as a student in my biography of Elizabeth Bishop, I worried it wouldn’t be possible. I’d thrown away all my poems from the class. Out of the blue I got an email from Millie Nash, a student in that class. She’d been visiting her daughter in Nevada, and at a library book sale, she came across The Cost of Loving. She couldn’t believe it was written by the same person who was in her class, because it came out so soon after we graduated. She asked the librarian to make sure the author was the Megan Marshall who’d written The Peabody Sisters. Millie bought the book and loved it so much she tracked me down. She thought it was amazing I’d had those perceptions early on. The book spoke to her about the issues she’d confronted as a professional woman and mother. I said, “Interesting that you should write. Do you happen to have anything left from our class?” Millie turned out to be an incredible keeper of documents: her own journals, all my poems from the workshop, and a correspondence and friendship with Bishop. I could never have written the book without her. So The Cost of Loving gave me a great gift in the end.
JM: Biography is archaeological. You dig up the shards and then figure out how they fit together. They may seem to be forming a square and then you discover a letter that changes the shape entirely.
MM: Yes. This is part of what the book on Elizabeth Bishop is about—the biographer and subject are in a kind of duet.
JM: Is there a difference between writing a feminist biography and simply a woman writing about a woman?
MM: I prefer to say that I write biography from “a feminist perspective.” The subject needs to take the lead, and most of my subjects didn’t have “feminism” in their lexicons. My feminist perspective causes me to pay attention to certain aspects of a life and influences the topics I look out for. But writing a “feminist biography” sounds as if the book will have an argument, and I prefer to let the life speak for itself. I’m choosing and shaping, and making my subjects heroic, each in her own way. But it is better for a reader to learn feminism from reading about a woman’s heroic life—often it involves struggling against constraints on women’s lives. Of course, a male writer could write a biography of a woman or a man from a feminist perspective. But there are also important (heroic!) aspects of “simply” being a woman writing about a woman’s life. That is a feminist act in itself. A woman writing is a bold person, and choosing to write about a woman is bolder still.
Joanne B. Mulcahy has taught at the Northwest Writing Institute of Lewis and Clark College for thirty years. She is the author of Remedios: The Healing Life of Eva Castellanoz and is currently writing a biography of 20th-century artist Marion Greenwood.
A Rebel in Gaza: Behind the Lines of the Arab Spring, One Woman’s Story By Asmaa al-Ghoul and Selim Nassib, translated from the French by Mike Mitchell
Los Angeles, CA; Doppelhouse Press, 2018, 224 pp., $28.95, hardcover
Reviewed by Hagar Scher
As a young girl growing up in Israel and Canada, I was fascinated by stories of World War II resistance fighters. I was particularly drawn to the story of Hannah Senesh, a young Jewish woman who joined the British Army and was parachuted into Eastern Europe to assist anti-Nazi forces. Senesh was eventually captured, tortured, and killed, and her story had a major impact on me, fueling my adolescent self-absorption. I spent hours imagining the choices I would have made had I been alive during World War II in Germany and Austria, where my grandparents grew up. Would I have put my life at risk to condemn injustice and save others? Or would I have made myself small in the hopes that doing so could keep me and my loved ones out of harm’s way?
Palestinian journalist-activist Asmaa al-Ghoul’s A Rebel in Gaza is a stirring account of bravery and resistance in our time. Her slender memoir paints a picture of a woman who has stuck to her convictions despite harassment, ostracism, verbal abuse, surveillance, physical violence, and death threats. Al-Ghoul’s unfiltered and vivid dispatches are themselves an act of courage, shedding light on the savagery of the Israeli siege of Gaza and decrying the rise of Islamic extremism and antiwoman repression in her beloved home.
“I wanted to be at the heart of stories of everyday life, of those that avoid the headlines, to present an account that might shock readers accustomed to the usual political clichés,” al-Ghoul writes in her foreword. “It is the heart that translates life and lays it on paper.” Written as a series of short, chronological chapters, A Rebel in Gaza pulls no punches in exposing the brutal everyday realities of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict that has terrorized the people of Gaza, but a large part of the book’s power resides in al-Ghoul’s refusal to relinquish joyous memories. She recalls the delight of sleeping over at her grandmother’s house, “especially when it was raining and the cooing of the pigeons woke me in the morning.” She writes about the hawker who sold barad, a luridly sweet and yellow lemon slush that figured prominently in my childhood as well. “Even when there was a curfew, during the occupation, the barad-vendor managed to get around the little alleys, out of sight of the army—and did we run to him!” She celebrates moments of happiness like getting her poem published in a Ramallah newspaper when she was just sixteen and winning a prize for a play she wrote, leaving her parents “shouting for joy.”
Al-Ghoul, who currently lives in exile in Europe, writes beautifully about the formative experience of coming up in an unusually crowded and confined space:
No one can relax in Gaza. The territory imposes terrible psychological pressure on people. Your family never takes its eyes off you, everyone’s talking all the time and interfering in your affairs … But despite all that, the greater pressure in Gaza makes you feel that people are watching out for you. They miss you if you’re away, and you miss them. Abroad no one is really concerned about you nor expresses such warmth toward you. I’ve been to America, Germany, France, Spain—all well-meaning countries, but they are oozing with indifference … Gaza wounds me and makes me suffer, and yet it is Gaza that draws me to it more and more every day.
I was born in Israel, and although I visit my parents, my siblings, and their families almost every year, I haven’t lived there since I was a teenager. For three decades, I have been a mostly silent participant in political conversations between people who have never lived in the region. I’ve gotten used to feeling sad detachment or hot resentment when people make strident proclamations, denouncing one side or the other, espousing clear-cut solutions that are anything but. The messy, muddled realities of everyday life which al-Ghoul insists on capturing cut to the heart, but they also lay the groundwork for her intersectional insights on the religious and nationalist politics of the Middle East. Her book feels like an invitation to connect at a level that transcends or, more accurately, runs deeper than our divides.
From girlhood on, al-Ghoul is chided for being “too strong-minded.” She recalls instances of being “smacked” for chanting the hypnotic call to prayer along with the muezzin, for not clearing the dinner table, for annoying her teachers in class. She writes eloquently about the times she has been harassed, questioned, and detained for refusing to wear a headscarf. Like many women and people of color, she begins to recognize a pattern, to see how each time she expresses her intelligence or questions authority or just moves through the world with physical confidence, she’s met by forces that seek to diminish, confine, and wound her. She writes:
I have also been told that in the history of humanity woman is the basis of life, the mother of the universe. Men have always feared her power and have disguised their “fear of her” in their “fear for her.” In order to protect themselves, they have confined her to the house and reduced her role to a strict minimum, making their religions perpetuate this structure of domination which wasn’t originally part of them.
Al-Ghoul’s relationship to her faith will strike a chord with all of us who feel alienated from and marginalized by dominant religious structures. When her family moves to the Emirates for her father’s job, she finds herself increasingly at odds with the “hard-line Islam” she is being taught in school. “Fortunately, I had my father to offset this,” she writes. “He would tell us marvelous stories about God, he would make us laugh, he didn’t force anything on us. ‘God isn’t the way they say,’ he told us, ‘He is the Merciful, the Compassionate. A person who gives up their heart to God is a Muslim, whatever their religion.’”
When the al-Ghoul family returns to Gaza in 1998 after eight years in the Emirates, she finds that her beloved seaside home is stricter than it was during her early years, “a society in the image of the Gulf.” She bears witness to the “so-called crimes of honor” that become more commonplace, backed up by legislation that upholds reduced sentences for men who murder their female relatives under suspicion of impropriety. In a particularly heart-wrenching chapter called “A Shameless Hussy?,” al-Ghoul recounts the story of her vivacious friend Imane’s conflict with her conservative father, a member of Fatah. When Imane’s father forbids her from attending college and she refuses to capitulate, he locks her in the bathroom as punishment. There, she drinks a deadly dose of cockroach poison.
Al-Ghoul uses these stories to make a crucial intersectional observation about the experiences of women in conflict zones.
The truth is that there is a profound correlation between “resistance” and “honor.” The “depraved” morals introduced by the occupiers are indeed seen as a permanent source of corruption for our society, which, as everyone knows, is “decent, moral and God-fearing.” The harsher the occupation is, the more resistance to the occupation expresses itself in a pathological hardening of attitudes in the manner of “honor”…. Resistance and honor are a regression which always means: the oppression of women.
Along with the many free thinkers in her family, al-Ghoul credits her love of books for allowing her to rise above rigid and regressive belief systems. Throughout her memoir, she name-checks writers who shaped her beliefs, including Milan Kundera (who “describes closed societies which repress beauty in all its forms”); Egyptian author Mustafa Mahmoud, a proponent of Marxism and moderate Islam; and Gamal al-Ghitani, who wrote the profound words “the migraine of liberty is better than the cancer of oppression.” Her ability to see through false dichotomies is evident in al-Ghoul’s writing and journalism, which is often perceived as a threat by the political establishment on both sides of the barbed wire:
Every time criticism of Israel was published … there was a massive and immediate counter-attack— as if there were a battalion of Israeli students keeping an eye on things around the clock. In Gaza, every time someone attacked the Islamist movement in one way or another, every time we called for a demonstration, dozens of people would rise up and respond as one, insulting and threatening us. The same mindset! That of powers that imagine they possess the truth and intend to silence any criticism.
A Rebel in Gaza is a beautiful and passionate dispatch from someone with profound insights into a region that remains ripped apart by statesanctioned violence and religious extremism. Like countless others in our time, al-Ghoul is exiled from the place that has shaped her into the extraordinary person she is, from the land that inhabits every corner of her heart and memory. Her book is a shot in the dark from someone who is no longer able to live in Gaza, but more than that, it’s a testament to the power of lived experience and to the importance of sharing stories if we are to shift our collective consciousness. I grew up less than 100 miles from Gaza, but I had absolutely zero concept of the place. Asmaa al-Ghoul has changed that:
We are the nation that takes the hardest knocks and that heals the quickest. We sometimes have wounds that go right to the bone, but we’re back on our feet the next day thinking about an outing, make-up, love…. We want to live our lives as we have lived through death—to the extreme. Gaza has always been rebellious. No one has ever been able to govern it for twenty years. It’s a crazy city, obstinate, addictive, I am her daughter, and I look like her. I am the one who won it, that war, and these are my children, the children of Gaza, because we’re still alive and I’m wearing a red dress.
Though our lives were shaped by two cultures at endless war with each other, al-Ghoul dares to build bridges, to pierce through propaganda, stereotypes, and bigotry, and to provide multicolored snapshots of a conflict that’s too often presented in superficial black-and-white sketches. Her stunning book celebrates women’s role in resisting hatred, in affirming life while oppressive patriarchal regimes perpetuate war and death. It’s a powerful self-portrait of a woman who refuses to cave, who, in fact, chooses to put on a ruby-colored dress and stand out from the crowd: a rebel from Gaza and for a more just world.
Hagar Scher is a writer and editor who lives in the Bay Area.
Reading the Entire Oeuvre of Dorothy, A Publishing Project
Reviewed by Stacy Lathrop
Following Twitter handles is a bit lazy, a bit wild, and a bit contrived—you don’t always know what you’re going to find. Much in the Twitter-thicket is repetitive, but sometimes you find something extraordinary. Sabrina Orah Mark satirizes our new social twitch of enlightenment-through-Twitter in her story “Tweet,” from her collection Wild Milk (2018). By what other means do we now know how to live?
And, yet, it was only by my repetitively scrolling through the ironic—often bordering on sardonic—tweets of a couple of independent booksellers that I first discovered the unique publisher Dorothy, a publishing project. Danielle Dutton and Martin Riker founded the St. Louis-based press in 2009 to spur a conversation about women’s experiences, more specifically those of women artists and activists, through an experimental, often poetic, and at times philosophical mix of new and translated titles and reprints. Each book is under 200 pages, costs $16, and they usually publish annually in October or November. (You can also get a whole set for a discounted price direct from the publisher.)
I decided to follow this developing conversation and read their entire world of books—eighteen in total— over the course of two months. To start me on my Dorothy journey, my booksellers/handlers zealously promoted Nell Zink’s debut novel, The Wallcreeper (2014), which received rave reviews from PW and Kirkus as well as a glowing writeup in the New York Times Sunday Book Review (as many Dorothy books do). The novel is about a couple who relocates from America to Berne. Just as the narrator, Tiff, found it difficult to put into words the bodily distress of a miscarriage provoked by her husband swerving to avoid a wallcreeper (a small bird) that he then adopts, I struggled to articulate my irritation with Tiff. Tiff had not wanted to become pregnant—it was just something that “happened” when she and her newlywed husband got drunk. It was that passivity that made it difficult for me to care about her pain.
As her marriage disintegrates, Tiff’s actions become more intentional, and the narrative becomes almost parodic. As I noticed in other Dorothy books, the narrator (who goes back to school for environmental studies) and the author start to blur, and the ideology behind the book becomes bigger than the relationships among the characters. Ultimately, I felt I was in a philosophical dialogue with the author, when I wished she had let me stay with a narrative that could flow naturally, wildly, like the Elbe River Tiff actively protects from dredging.
Meanwhile, the four Ravickian novels by Renee Gladman consider how the very act of writing and speaking fabricates events. Architectural structures mirror linguistic structures and in postapocalyptic Ravicka, language (and thus culture) is beginning to disappear. Natives of and visitors to Ravicka attempt to locate themselves after an unnamed crisis in the first book, Event Factory (2010). In the second, The Ravickians (2011), the characters begin to narrate the experience of crisis and dislocation, and then, in Ana Patova Crosses a Bridge (2013) characters attempt to connect the gaps in that experience. Ana Patova, an author, is attempting to get to her friends, other artists, in order to communicate and piece together their fractured reality. Finally, these Ravickians investigate the history that has been erased in Houses of Ravicka (2017). Gladman uses many architecture metaphors to scaffold her primary theory, which is that reality emerges through events and is not itself a concrete structure. The arc of the series shows how a disaster both destroys and creates, in that “recovery” requires recovering (re-finding, uncovering, and cohering).
Similarly, in some ways, Barbara Comyns’s Who Was Changed and Who Was Dead (2010), originally published in 1954, narrates a crisis like Gladman’s Ravickian novels— in this case, a flood and ergot poisoning spread by loaves of rye bread. A poisoning death in the Willoweed family provokes a visit from a doctor, who eventually marries another member of the family, illustrating joy and pain emanating from the same tragic event. Comyns (unlike Gladman) tenderly narrates each detail like a naturalist illustrating beloved flora and fauna. In Comyns’ hands, ducks swimming in drawing rooms, the miller drowning himself, or the butcher slitting his throat are not fantastic events, but natural consequences of the catalyzing catastrophe of the book.
The Time of the Blue Ball (2011) by Manuela Draeger (a pseudonym) continues the naturalism of Comyns in a series of interconnected fables centered around detective Bobby Potemkine. Translated from the French by Brian Evenson, these stories of musical dogs and flies, woolly crabs, baby pelicans, and a detective in love with a bat with long dark braids feel realistic. Draeger conjures a “post-exotic society” (Draeger’s term)— which marries naturalistic detail to absurd juxtaposition. This technique opens the reader’s imagination to another tangible world, one where fire was invented and destroyed by a woman (not “man”), where police are no longer needed, and where activists go to great lengths to free a pompous bureaucrat just to see him instinctively gobbled by their co-activist, a tiger. Originally written for children, these stories ask a reader of any age to remain alert to how narrow our perceptions are—and the possibility of much more expansive realms we could glimpse if we allowed ourselves.
Azareen Van Der Vliet Oloomi’s novel, Fra Keeler (2012), also reads naturalistically on the surface: the narrator buys the late Fra Keeler’s house in order to investigate the man’s death. Along the way, though, we begin to doubt the narrator’s reliability as he is interrupted in his investigation by chance events that consume his imagination—a mailman delivering Ancestry.com materials (a pestering he attributes to a neighbor woman); an old, frail man in a yurt who speaks of wars; and a hike in a canyon during which he imagines he is dead. By the end, we are left confused and in suspense about just what is happening—the narrative is as shattered as the skylight the increasingly paranoid narrator cracks after spying on the neighbor woman through it. In the finale, a detective interrogates our narrator (who sought himself to investigate the death of the man whose house he bought), but I won’t spoil what this portends.
Suzanne Scanlon’s Promising Young Women (2012), Amina Cain’s Creature (2013), and Joanna Walsh’s Vertigo (2015) are the most intimate and domestic of the Dorothy books. Each is a collection of short, harmonic stories that echo one another in impressionistic, painterly ways. Promising Young Women tells the story of Lizzie, an aspiring actress in her twenties who cycles through psychiatric institutions. Despite her grammatically broken sentences, the constancy of Lizzie’s mental state and its internal logic are effectively conveyed, which is why this book reminded me of a Cezanne. Somehow, by the end, it is Lizzie, our mental patient, who appears the most self-aware of all the characters.
Cain’s Creature conveys her characters’ consciousness through the everyday, often domestic, relationships narrated in each story. Like Mary Cassatt, Cain splits her consciousness and returns her reader’s gaze. In trying to understand these couples, she often reverses expectations, suggesting the “creature” is assessing the reader.
Walsh’s Vertigo, finally, evokes Monet. She suspends us between each familiar scene and each italicized thought about it. Her series of stories of the same family relating to the world in different places and in varied relationships leaves the reader slightly off balance, in vertigo, and forced to examine the effects more closely for what they might hide.
Joanna Ruocco’s Dan (2014), is a fabulist bildungsroman about how consciousness is more threatening to power than angry protest is. Dan is the name of the fictive town in which Ruocco’s character Melba Zuzzo, a bakery worker who is also a keen observer and lover of science, lives, and Dan is the masculine consciousness that authorizes what the town’s inhabitants may do. Melba, despite her best efforts, is unable to conform to the patriarchal rules of Dan—not because she’s rebelling, but because of her growing awareness. As she begins to see the man-made rules that undergird Dan, she fails to unconsciously abide by them. Femininity in Dan is defined by masculine authority, and Melba isn’t able to play the role of other to someone else’s fantasy. Tragedy unfolds after a seemingly “innocent” petting of Melba by the town’s powerful doctor, who diagnoses a growth in her ear as cancer (a metaphor for her listening and burgeoning recognition), and consequently puts her under surveillance. Both Melba’s job at the bakery and her rented apartment depend on playing by Dan’s rules. Her naïve inquisitiveness clashes with these conventions, and once under surveillance, Melba is doomed.
Unlike Melba, Marianne Fritz’s tragic character of Berta Faust does at one time aspire to a traditional feminine ideal—the Madonna. Translated by Adrian Nathan West, The Weight of Things (2015), awarded the Robert Walser Prize in 1978, struggles to understand the disaster of Nazism, using the narrative’s very German to suggest transformation, such as from Faust (also fist) to Berta’s married surname, Schrei (scream). Berta is largely narrated through the later, post-war memories of Wilhelmine, the Faust household’s petty and controlling maid—who is in many way’s Berta’sWalsh’s Vertigo, finally, evokes Monet. She suspends us between each familiar scene and each italicized thought about it. Her series of stories of the same family relating to the world in different places and in varied relationships leaves the reader slightly off balance, in vertigo, and forced to examine the effects more closely for what they might hide. Joanna Ruocco’s Dan (2014), is a fabulist bildungsroman about how consciousness is more threatening to power than angry protest is. Dan is the name of the fictive town in which Ruocco’s character Melba Zuzzo, a bakery worker who is also a keen observer and lover of science, lives, and Dan is the masculine consciousness that authorizes what the town’s inhabitants may do. Melba, despite her best efforts, is unable to conform to the patriarchal rules of Dan—not because she’s rebelling, but because of her growing awareness. As she begins to see the man-made rules that undergird Dan, she fails to unconsciously abide by them. Femininity in Dan is defined by masculine authority, and Melba isn’t able to play the role of other to someone else’s fantasy. Tragedy unfolds after a seemingly “innocent” petting of Melba by the town’s powerful doctor, who diagnoses a growth in her ear as cancer (a metaphor for her listening and burgeoning recognition), and consequently puts her under surveillance. Both Melba’s job at the bakery and her rented apartment depend on playing by Dan’s rules. Her naïve inquisitiveness clashes with these conventions, and once under surveillance, Melba is doomed.
During the war, Berta had been impregnated by a music teacher on leave from the front. (He plays Strauss’s “The Blue Danube”—that most famous of waltzes composed to lift Viennese morale following its post-war depression—to seduce her.) On returning to combat, the teacher sarcastically muses about the experience to Wilhelm— but in a spasm of guilt, makes Wilhelm promise to look after his unseen son, Rudolfo, if anything should happen to him. Wilhelm travels to the Faust household to announce the teacher’s demise. In honor of that war-wrought obligation, Wilhelm marries Berta, leading to the birth of their Little Berta.
Obedience suspends Wilhelm in ambivalence; the mindlessness and uncertainty of duty permeates the book. The book is deeply psychoanalytic, in that unconscious playing by the rules brings punishment as harsh as rebellion could. Berta, like Melba, was not successful in adapting to social expectation. Her suffering recalls the Madonna—she is saintly, passive, and complicit in her own pain. Her attempt to break out of this martyr persona rises to the level of Greek tragedy and is the inversion of the mother role.
Nathalie Léger’s Suite for Barbara Loden (2016), translated from the French by Natasha Lehrer and Cécile Menon, blends novel, biography, and film critique. Loden was the writer, director, and star of Wanda, a 1970 independent film set in the mining towns of Pennsylvania, depicting the existential crisis of a woman with limited choices for a better life. Léger narrates how becoming Wanda allowed Loden—before passive and a mirror of others’ desires—to piece herself together as a person, to become true to herself. In this hybrid work, Léger attempts to recreate this becoming for herself and her readers.
Léger describes the final scene of Wanda, in which Loden has Wanda take control of her senseless life. After giving up rights to her children and divorcing her husband, Wanda becomes infatuated with an abusive bank robber, later shot and killed during a robbery for which she serves as lookout. Wanda escapes and ends up in a bar, watching the replay of the robbery, until she hitches a ride with a man who sexually assaults her. Wanda cries out, hits back, and escapes through the woods to join the company of others who offer her a drink, food, a cigarette. Unlike Fritz’s Berta, Wanda, having reached her end without finding any answers in suffering, returns to humanity.
After the authoritarian existential crises of Berta and Wanda, the stories of Jen George’s The Babysitter at Rest (2016) jar us to adaptability and contemporary society. A young woman falls in love with an androgynous, lazy, often-drunk Guide who nitpicks every aspect of her life until emancipating her as a Host. (George is fond of totemic characterizations.) In another story, the Guide transforms into a (just as critical) ovulation machine that only promises bankruptcy. In the title story, a babysitter cares for a baby that will never age, becomes lover to its father who treats her as a child, a theme repeated in a later story of a student who becomes a lover to her Teacher.
Maturity in George’s stories is learning to navigate the expectations of powerful men as well as a managerial, consumerist society obsessed with infantilizing (and pathologizing) sexuality. Her characters learn how to use that very sexuality to survive life’s technologically animated indecencies.
Cristina Rivera Garza’s The Taiga Syndrome (2018) twists the compulsive obsession with external social forces as found in George’s stories into internal ones. Translated by Suzanne Jill Levine and Aviva Kana, the novel is a transformative retelling of fairytales about falling in love. Hers is a fairytale of falling out of love. The narrator is an exdetective who, traveling with a translator, is hired by an abandoned husband to track his wife and her lover who have fled to a far-away forest—Taiga. Deep in Taiga, the narrator and the translator discover the primitive metamorphosis of sexuality, both its cruelty and its ability to propel strange, new life forms. Sex, a form of communication, shows up as the dominant metaphor about the complexities of human relationships. Just as you can get lost in the forest in a Grimm’s fairytale, here, you get lost in Taiga—“the disease of language” itself.
The Complete Stories of Lenora Carrington (2017) by Lenora Carrington and Wild Milk by Sabrina Orah Mark extend Rivera Garza’s play with symbolism. These surreal stories reside more in the poetic imagination and mythic possibility than in the natural and personal experience. Mark’s stories satirize both domesticity and the political in indexical metonyms. A mother’s wild milk, for example, refused as unusable by her child’s daycare teacher, becomes that mother’s socialized guilt. In another story about all of the horrors that occur under American presidents, Mark suggests that citizens who care more for their own safety than others’ security are what enables the problems we lament. In another, a young woman desperately tries to identify her mother. After ruling out both Hillary Clinton and John Berryman, she is left only the maternal protection of a salmon-colored sweater to help her swim upstream.
It is Lenora Carrington, though, who perhaps reaches the furthest into the human condition, beyond our present, deep into our past and future. She, too, has a story about a mother and daughter. Her mother is a cow that tells her daughter there is no learning: human understanding is written in living iconicity that does not cast shadows. These humans, in Carrington’s tale, live in mythic consciousness; they do not subvert lore to prop oneself up, nor mark one’s identity in the logic of symbols. These humans are naked and no longer pretend to know who they are. They flow in the very timelessness of myth.
Carrington seems to say that it is only in letting go of our reflexive self-consciousness, taking leaps of faith in denial of omniscient intentionality, and permitting ourselves to be deeply wounded by cruel existence and sacrificed as sacred cows, that we may truly change.
To be sure, after taking in this eighteen-book conversation among Dorothy authors, I was changed. I also felt that same intimate discomfort I do when my friends and relatives push at sensitive places buried in my memory. I do not, however, wish to self-consciously protect those sensitive places but, like Dorothy, risk sharing them. Dorothy is publishing work that takes charge of language (as women) and deploys (as writers) myth in the service of change and its possibilities. Therefore, Dorothy creates a rich territory in which to communicate about women’s consciousness. Using narrative and far more than 140 characters, these novels convey a breadth of female experience and possibility more economically—and poetically—than the Twitter-verse, demonstrating that writing is so much more than a string of words.
Stacy Lathrop, MA, did her graduate studies in social sciences at the University of Chicago, her primary work focusing on social poetics, narrative, and the anthropology of policy. She lives in the Washington, D.C. area, and works in digital archiving and publishing.
The Summer of Dead Birds By Ali Liebegott New York, NY; Feminist Press, 2019, 104 pp., $17.95, paperback
Reviewed by Laurie Stone
The press release for Ali Lebegott’s new book, The Summer of Dead Birds, describes it as “a chronicle of mourning and survival, a vulnerable and honest document of depression and failed intimacy.” Would you read that? The press release imagines you are a sad lesbian, full of yearning for all the loves you have lost and loves you have yet to lose, plus dogs who will die on your couch. And it imagines you want your sadness to amount to something like wisdom, acceptance, or meaning, along with pet hair and lint. If you are this person, The Summer of Dead Birds is not for you. Read something else.
Liebegott’s book is about nothing but the narrator’s voice as it swings back and forth in time, and this focus is part of the wondrous accomplishment of the 84, plot-resistant, linked lyric poems that comprise it. Its publication (press release notwithstanding) is owed at least in part to writer Michelle Tea, head of the Amethyst Editions imprint at Feminist Press. Five minutes after Tea published her first book in 1998, The Passionate Mistakes and Intricate Corruption of One Girl in America, a memoir of growing up druggy and queer, she was gathering writers for anthologies, establishing RADAR, a reading series in San Francisco, and producing Sister Spit, a traveling troupe of writers and performers that has included Eileen Myles, Beth Lisick, Dorothy Allison, and Justin Vivian Bond. Why float around in your own private tide pool when you can populate a queer sea? Through RADAR and Sister Spit, Tea has collaborated with Liebegott, who is also a visual artist and probably best known as a writer/ producer of Jill Soloway’s TV show Transparent.
Ali, the narrator of The Summer of Dead Birds, is in fact a sad lesbian, who has lost love and is traveling with an old dog. A survivor she is not, though, and nor does she wish to be. The word survivor has lost all meaning from overuse. Plus, it describes nothing true. To Liebegott, survival is not a credential or a moral category. She doesn’t think we survive anything. We continue with the sum of our experience, or we do not continue. The Summer of Dead Birds doesn’t want to lift you up. It wants to excite you about the natural history of sorrow and to point out the similarity between freedom and grief. Driving alone, part exile and part escapee, Ali seeks “a humble beaten god / like a bad petting zoo goat / always shooed for gnawing the wall / a god like a bar buddy / with a flawed and sloppy past / knuckles fucked from punching walls.” A goat like Ali.
I lied about there being no plot. There’s a tiny one. The mother of the woman Ali is married to dies of cancer, and Ali’s shrink tells her, “Few lesbian relationships survive the death of a mother.” She’s so angry when she hears this, she determines to stay, except a year later she drives off with her Dalmatian, Rorschach. The book is their road trip. Not much happens except encounters with dead and dying animals that summon memories of other dead and dying things. The book is partly a love letter to the woman Ali has left and partly notes on ambivalence worn like a second skin.
Liebegott’s writing is startling in its observation of the outer world that is also an inner world, and, like a road trip, it unravels what you think you know. We come to love Ali as she lopes along, responding to small moments of need and confusion that expand in her attention to them. The first poem begins (Liebegott omits periods):
the birdbath is always half-empty / where we live, it can be dry in three days / this morning while I filled it / a bird the size of a dust ball tried to fly / never getting higher than an inch off the lawn/ a dove sat on a nearby branch / flapping its wings slowly and sadly / the way we numbly open and close a cabinet door / when there’s nothing inside to eat / finally, the dust ball gave up / fluttered inside a cinder block to hide / I feel guilty leaving the birds thirsty / Still, I didn’t fill the birdbath
Writing about the woman who is dying, Ali evokes the bardo of almost-dead, where significance goes almost unseen and where moments of seeming nothing become forms of everything: “you hated that she only wanted to watch cooking shows / while she was dying and could barely eat ... I was embarrassed she would waste any part / of her evaporating life discussing the flat tire / so I pulled up a chair to watch the cooking show, too” Elsewhere Ali recalls: “the laundry was made up solely of your mother ’s pajamas / the drawstrings became tangled around the agitator / I struggled to free them but they wouldn’t budge / this was the first time I cried, it didn’t matter if I freed them / your mother wasn’t going to live long enough to wear / them again”
Liebegott occasionally tosses in abstractions such as “soul” or “prayer.” Religious language, like the language of advertising, relies on signal reactions in the reader rather than creating a concrete moment we can enter. There are florid patches, too, that try to push emotion on you rather than earn it. Liebegott writes of the mother ’s cancer, “her own body abducted one cell at a time.” There is no abduction. The mother has a disease in which cells replicate indiscriminately, and it might have offered her more range as a writer to observe what those cells actually do.
Mostly the book is sly and surprising, melding sadness and comedy. Driving with Rorschach, Ali comes upon a scene of road kill, and in the way that anything dead feels like all dead things and in the way the stab of death stirs the excitement of sex, the moment is touching and absurd:
this land of flattened pigeons in Pompeii poses / wings upraised and trying to flap away from their bodies / two puffed-out pigeons seduce each other by dancing / and pecking the ground dangerously close to their / flattened brother / ... if my therapist were here I’d say, / I desperately need the inlove pigeons not to eat the flattened one
Liebegott brilliantly evokes the way, in anticipation of a moment, we look forward to looking back at it. “My most treasured things,” Ali says, “aren’t mine yet.” Along the way we learn that Dalmatians have spots all over, including on their gums, that dogs love grief because they get to walk more, and that Dalmatians are the only dogs that smile. (This may not be true.) The writing burns hottest when reversing expectation, most especially the cliché of the male loner searching for space out West. In Liebegott’s hands this becomes a comic and anxious ode to escape for its own sake: “what if,” Ali writes near the end of the book,
you leave knowing there’s nothing where you’re going / the hand out the window, the red rocks, all that / the hot wind blowing in the window, the back of your T-shirt / stuck to the seat, wet with sweat”
When asked in interviews why women don’t write more about the road, Liebegott says they do, only people don’t want to publish those books or publish women who write “authentic queer characters.” In a 2013 interview in the blog HTMLGIANT, she told Janice Lee she thinks about queer kids in libraries—like the queer kid she was—“looking for a book that reflects your experience and you can’t find one.... As a writer, I always try to put a little lifeline in my book for that reader. That, and category fuck as often as possible.”
Asked by Lee who she would rather sleep with, Dostoevsky or Van Gogh, Liebegott answered: “I think Van Gogh, but that might be ageist, because I think I’ve only ever seen portraits of Dostoyevsky as a balding man. Van Gogh had really bad teeth, right? I think Van Gogh, although they both seem like terrible problematic relationships, so either would do. It’s tough. But probably Van Gogh.”
Laurie Stone is author most recently of My Life as an Animal, Stories. She was a longtime writer for the Village Voice, theater critic for The Nation, and critic- at-large on Fresh Air. She won the Nona Balakian prize in excellence in criticism from the National Book Critics Circle and has published numerous stories in such publications as N+1, Tin House, Evergreen Review, Fence, Open City, Anderbo, The Col lagist , New Let ters, Tri - Quarterly, Threepenny Review, and Creative Nonfiction. She is at work on Postcards from the Thing that is Happening, a collage of hybrid narratives. Her website is: lauriestonewriter.com.
She Would Be King By Wayétu Moore
Minneapolis, MN; Graywolf Press, 2018, 312 pp., $26, hardcover
Reviewed by Amy Watkin
In the early nineteenth century, Liberia was known as Monrovia. It is one of only two countries in the world founded and colonized by a political power (in this case, citizens of the United States) for the former enslaved people of the same power. Monrovia is the heart of the “send them back” movement led by the American Colonization Society to help usher free black people “back where they came from,” ignoring the fact that not all enslaved people were from that nation.
In She Would Be King, Wayétu Moore dives into this history in a way that folds into the plot seamlessly. Readers need to know the history of Liberia, and Moore knows that many do not, since it has not been a part of Civil War and slavery units in American History lessons. Moore presumably shares the information at least in part so that readers can begin to comprehend the gray areas of power and skin color that existed there.
The first part of the book is divided into sections, one for each of the three main characters. Moore is masterful at leaving a bit of a cliffhanger at the end of each section so that readers clamor for more, before wrapping us immediately in the story of the next character so that we nearly forget the other characters exist (except for the clever parallels that Moore draws, particularly between the female characters that so deeply influence the trajectory of the plot).
In the early 1800s, Gbessa (pronounced Bessah)—our first main character—is a young girl growing up in a Vai village in Monrovia. Born on a cursed day with “oil-black skin” and red hair, Gbessa spends her childhood listening to villagers chant “Gbessa the witch” and waiting for her thirteenth birthday, when she will be taken to the forest to die because she is cursed. The day finally comes after Gbessa has made a friend, a boy named Safua, who is newly initiated into the Poro society of leaders and warriors and sure that one day he will be king. He promises Gbessa that he will spare her life. She is left in a cave in the forest, surviving on food Safua secretly provides until she learns how to be a part of the nature surrounding her. She saves herself, singing, “‘Fenge, keh kamba beh. Fenge, kemu beh.’ We have nothing but we have God. We have nothing but we have each other.” Meanwhile, Charlotte “Emerson,” an enslaved young woman on the Emerson plantation in Virginia, is very like Gbessa. Both young women feel persecuted yet invisible at the same time. Both commune with nature in particular ways, and both are kept from speaking their minds by forces larger than themselves. Charlotte fails to protect a younger slave and is forced by her slave community to live in an abandoned slave cabin. After months of solitary confinement, the slavers one day throw in a man named Dey.
It felt good to me to say his name. That night, when I was finally quiet, Dey held up the lantern beside the burlap sack as I lay down. He set it between us, so the light swayed against his jaw. Scars covered the round curves of his arms, his head pressed against his praying hands as he searched my eyes, in that musical way he did, and I was seen. He could see me. And I could see him. And finally, I knew. I knew who he was, deeply.
Part of this knowing, this deep-seeing knowledge of another human, comes from using that person’s true name. Being known means being called by your name. Charlotte and Dey’s remarkable union produces a son, known to others as Moses but only as June Dey to readers in an example of Moore’s emphasis on names. In this section the emphasis reminds us that masters conferred names on slaves, an important step in erasing one’s culture. Elsewhere in the book we see that names offer insight between public and private personalities, between personas that feel powerful under one name but limited under another. June Dey finds strength just at the moments when others would undoubtedly die, and must search for the circumstance in which his powers are put to their best use, as Moses or as June Dey. Very few characters know that Moses is also called June Dey, so readers who know him primarily as June Dey have a window into his abilities that characters who only know him as Moses cannot access. It matters what we call people.
Our third protagonist is Norman Aragon, born in Jamaica to a Maroon mother and a British father. We learn later in the book how Norman’s life coincides with Gbessa’s and June Dey’s, but Norman’s background and young life play a key role. Precocious and very attached to his mother, Norman is always too Other to be accepted by any groups on the island. Norman’s mother fantasizes about Freetown in Africa, the Sierra Leone city founded by former enslaved Americans, but conflicts between the Maroon people and British forces, between Norman’s mother and father, between magic and denial of magic, separate Mother and son, leaving Norman on his own.
With only books from his father and a gift for disappearing from his mother, Norman must find his way to the place his mother dreamed of.
Moore’s writing is a fascinating mix. On the one hand, this book is historical fiction carrying the full weight of the past for people of color that has been buried—or at least disregarded—by dominant cultures for so long. The novel also feels like speculative fiction, as Moore crafts parallels between this nineteenth-century world and our own. Characters might be in very di fferent circumstances in the twenty-first century, and yet themes of invisibility, white society’s disrespect for others’ cultural heritage, underestimation of the powers held by certain people of color, and the shame, abuse, and low expectations heaped on women are easily found today.
Moore’s book is also magical realism, or maybe just magic. Please believe me when I say that in this review I am giving you the skeleton of the story and leaving the magic for you to discover when you read it. Moore’s words were spellbinding to me, as surprising as they were enticing, as in this passage where the main characters, the magical forces, and the cultures collide and cooperate to conquer:
They were together now. It had begun. I dwelled in that hiding place with the three of them that night. However present the stronghold of loneliness had been on each of their lives, there lingered a hope that perhaps one day they would find others. In that moment, hope’s shell melted, and it extended its limbs and breathed, became real. Became true. Alike spirits separated at great distances will always be bound to meet, even if only once; kindred souls will always collide; and strings of coincidences are never what they appear to be on the surface, but instead are the mask of God.
While two of the three main characters are men, and scenes like the ones surrounding this passage read like the most sophisticated Marvel movie you’ve ever seen, it is clearly the gifts of women that readers and characters are to revere and follow. Gbessa herself is like a combination of Hermione Granger, Queen Elizabeth I, and Janie Crawford. June Dey and Norman Aragon both acquire powers and wisdom from their mothers and other women in their lives. As Gbessa concludes at one point, “perhaps everybody, in their own way, was either a witch or the king who loved her.”
The final section of Book One (essentially the first half of the book) is itself called Monrovia, and there we see the story of Liberia, and begin to learn why this country is the pivotal setting for Gbessa, June Dey, and Norman Aragon to meet. The plot I have revealed to you here is only really the first half of the book. I leave the rest for you to discover on your own, because you shouldn’t be deprived of the gasping, heart-filling journey that is to come. The wind is a character and sometimes narrator in She Would Be King, guiding, counseling, pushing, and comforting characters. I won’t spoil for you the joy of learning just who the wind is or what role she plays; suffice it to say that she has her work cut out for her, bringing together disparate characters from all over the world in this novel full of magic.
Amy Watkin is an Associate Professor of English and Women’s and Gender Studies at Concordia College in Moorhead, Minnesota. She is currently working on a historical fiction novel about Constance Wilde, wife of famed writer and gay icon Oscar Wilde.
Swallowing Mercury By Wioletta Greg, translated from the Polish by Eliza Marciniak Oakland, CA; Transit Books, 2017, 160 pp., $15.95, paperback
Flights By Olga Tokarczuk, translated from the Polish by Jennifer Croft New York, NY; Riverhead Books, 2018, 416 pp., $26.00, hardcover
Reviewed by Beth Holmgren
Recent political news about Polish women has been grim, driven by the relentless campaign of the ruling right-wing Law and Justice Party against women’s reproductive rights. The news about Polish women writers, I am pleased to report, is much more encouraging, especially for the writers who can engage directly with an English-language audience thanks to the skills and support of their translators.
Last year, poet Wioletta Greg’s first novel, Swallowing Mercury, was published in Eliza Marciniak’s spot-on translation and longlisted for the Man Booker International Prize. This year, the prolific Olga Tokarczuk (To-KAR-chook) won that prestigious prize for her novel Flights. The first Polish recipient of the Man Booker International Prize, which is given to the best work of translated fiction from anywhere in the world, Tokarczuk decided to share its cash award of 50,000 pounds with Jennifer Croft, who not only masterfully rendered the multilayered stylistic register of Flights into English, but also campaigned for its translation since the novel first appeared in 2007. A photo of an ecstatic Tokarczuk and Croft at the prize ceremony captures a landmark in women’s history and Polish literature. While the current Polish government would deny women control over their bodies and lives, one Polish woman writer and her American partner in prose have won the literary world’s respect and can reach millions of new readers with their stories and testimony.
The concern for broader accessibility has always been key for Polish writers. In this regard, the fact that Wioletta Greg’s Swallowing Mercury received a nod from the Man Booker is more surprising than Tokarczuk’s win, for its coming of age story foregrounds a provincial Polish terrain that may strike non-Polish readers as particularly bizarre. The fictional village of Hektary, the heroine’s hometown, blends a vibrant, unruly nature with traditional customs and pagan-like rituals that most of its Catholic villagers unquestioningly embrace. The protagonist and first-person narrator, named Wiola after the author, describes this world as she explores it with her cat Blacky: “I learned to climb haystacks, apple and cherry trees, piles of breeze blocks; I learned to keep away from limestone pits hidden by blackberry bushes, from hornets’ nests, quagmires and snares set in the grain fields.” After Blacky’s death, Wiola’s grief dissipates only when she wins a statue of Jesus at a church lottery, a totem which awes her friends as well as the women gathered at her home for a feathering evening (they are breaking up feathers to stuff pillows and duvets) and a deity to which Wiola earnestly prays, hoping that He can resurrect her cat. Wiola remembers how her grandmother and mother feverishly prepare for a “visit” from a picture of Our Lady from St. Anthony’s Basilica, washing walls, polishing furniture, and spraying flykiller— “‘We can’t have bugs nesting in the corners when the Most Holy of Virgins crosses our threshold,’ my grandmother kept saying.” Though Wiola never gets the chance to peer into the tulle-covered box encasing the icon, she is riveted by the spectacle of the curate and helmeted firemen who bear Our Lady into her home and set it down on the flowercovered altar her mother and grandmother have improvised.
Complicating these images of a village frozen in medieval time is the oddball modernity of 1980s communist Poland. This means that Wiola is more or less educated in a state-run school and can enter national art contests sponsored in the Soviet bloc, though her unintentionally smudged drawing of Moscow prompts a government official to interview her in person about her political views. The material vagaries of communist Poland also mean that Hektary’s state-owned power plant intermittently shuts off electricity, and imported luxury goods are only sold in special shops for those with foreign currency, despite Poland’s presumably classless society. Part of Wiola’s sexual awakening involves drinking with and spurning the advances of Natka, a sometime prostitute, and ogling the contents of Natka’s bathroom cabinet, in which “everything was unfamiliar: packages available only at a Pewex shop, with names like Dior and Lancôme. A perfume bottle labelled ‘Dolce Vita’ which looked like a crystal sugar bowl caught my attention. I sprayed my wrist. The scent of vanilla cupcakes and summer filled the room.” Yet we are propelled through Wiola’s curious and curiouser world by her pluckiness, dynamism, sense of humor, and keen eye for wildly disparate details. She is an obsessive collector, not only of images, but also of locally available art—namely vintage matchbox covers. And she is surrounded by family eccentrics. Her grandfather keeps tabs on the collapse of all the tile stoves he built back in the day, and her father is an avid taxidermist and one-time jailbird who fills Wiola’s home with zoology books and the detritus of his hobby and introduces her to one notable thief who comes over to play poker. Her father ’s atheism and interest in the natural world leaven her mother ’s piety and superstition. His confession that he still feels like “unripe fruit” at the advanced age of fifty hangs over the novel like a symbol of Wiola’s coming of age or, perhaps, all life. Indeed, Unripe Fruit was Greg’s Polish title for this sharp, fresh little masterpiece.
In contrast, Tokarczuk’s Flights largely steers clear of the provincial Poland that Swallowing Mercury explores—though, for the record, Tokarczuk began her career as a writer of fantastic prose about Polish borderlands. Flights covers a tremendous stretch of earthly space and time; it is no accident that its best sections are brilliantly conceived historical fiction. By guiding the reader with a first-person narrator who sometimes seems to overlap with herself, Tokarczuk adapts for her purposes a device used by such Polish predecessors as Witold Gombrowicz and Tadeusz Konwicki. It serves her as a means to engage directly with her reader and to establish “her” character as a specific kind of writer—an “anti-Antaeus” whose “energy derives from movement,” a refugee from training as a clinical psychologist who boldly declares that she is drawn to freaks and cabinets of curiosities. Because this Tokarczuk/not Tokarczuk fills pages with reflections on such topics as the self-sufficient worlds of airports and trains taken by those afraid to fly “where every millimeter of the way will be touched by the wheel,” it seems that Flights is all about the experience and ontology of the traveler. The novel’s Polish title, Bieguni (Runaways), underscores that idea, for it is bound to one of Tokarczuk’s most riveting fictions, the tale of a Russian woman who temporarily escapes her life of pain and toil by joining a sect of people living on the Moscow metro. These runaways stay in constant motion to elude an Antichrist of control, upholding their creed: “Move. Get going. Blessed is he who leaves.”
I contend that Flights is about much more. Tokarczuk herself gives us permission to make our own “meaningful shape” out of what she calls her “constellation novel,”1 and I take her at her word. This novel is compelling in the way it suddenly breaks out into demarcated fictions, demonstrating how the narrator is sometimes lured elsewhere: “Tales have a kind of inherent inertia that is never possible to fully control. They require people like me—insecure, indecisive, easily led astray. Naive.” Her tales dwell most powerfully on the human body—the marvels of its design, its significance after death—and she slips into the minds and voices of those who mapped it for science and preserved it out of reverence. The narrator whisks us back to the Netherlands in the late seventeenth century where the great anatomist Philip Verheyen meets his former student, Willem Van Horssen, who guides us to what the master has achieved. Verheyen has just finished dissecting that part of his leg that had to be amputated in his youth (at his behest the surgeon had preserved it), and he has discovered what he calls the “Achilles” tendon joining calf and heel. Van Horssen is stunned by both discovery and name: “Maybe Philip Verheyen has happened on the trail of a hidden order—maybe in our bodies there’s a whole world of mythology? Maybe there exists some sort of reflection of the great and the small, the human body joining within itself everything with everything—stories and heroes, gods and animals, the order of plants and the harmony of minerals?” Van Horssen later brings Verheyen the first copy of the anatomist’s masterpiece, Corporis humani anatomia, in which “the human body became some sort of mysterious procedure etched down to its very essence.”
Elsewhere, the narrator lets herself stray to the deathbed of the great Polish composer Fryderyk Chopin in mid-nineteenth-century Paris. Here, the composer ’s sister, Ludwika, is making sure Chopin’s explicit instructions are being fulfilled: a cast is made of his hand, a mask is made of his face, and his heart is removed for burial in his native Poland. It is characteristic that Tokarczuk’s historical fictions almost always feature a female protagonist, usually a wife, sister, or daughter fully initiated in the work of the family’s male “genius.” (Even Verheyen’s solitary post-surgery life is made comfortable by a kind, resourceful Flemish widow.)
Ludwika cannot bury her brother in Warsaw due to his connection with the 1830 uprising there against the tsar. Yet the body part that best symbolized his love of country can be repatriated covertly. This smuggling scheme requires that Ludwika carry the jar containing her brother ’s heart by means of a leather contraption hanging underneath her crinoline. One she has crossed the border into Poland, her traveling companion helps her remove the precious relic from between her legs: “Aniela, rummaging around in lace, drew out the jar safely and handed it to Ludwika with the gesture of someone handing a mother her newborn child. And then Ludwika burst into tears.” It is as if Ludwika has given birth to Chopin’s immortality.
Flights’s narrator voices the most moving plea for preserving the sanctity of a loved one’s body through three imagined letters of Josefine Soliman von Feuchtersleben. Josefine’s father was the famous Angelo Soliman, an enslaved African who rose to the status of courtier during the reign of Joseph II, Emperor of Austria. Though Soliman had been a well-educated Freemason, the husband of a white Christian woman, and a favorite of the emperor ’s in life, he was hideously degraded in death—gutted, stuffed, and displayed as a specimen of the “African race” in Joseph II’s cabinet of curiosities. With increasing desperation and fury, his daughter presses the emperor ’s successor, Francis I, to return her father’s mummy to her for Christian burial. Josefine’s final letter, written as she is dying, argues most categorically that “the human body is our greatest gift,” “forever sanctified” through a Christian god made man, and therefore most liable to sacrilege by evil rulers. She concludes by damning Francis I as a tyrant and usurper.
My review of Tokarczuk’s Flights delineates the constellation that burns brightest in my reading. But Tokarczuk provides many more stories and reflections for you to ponder as you fashion your own meaningful map. I strongly recommend that you explore both Greg’s vivid world in Swallowing Mercury and Tokarczuk’s dazzling galaxy in Flights. Their translators have already guaranteed you firstclass seats.
Beth Holmgren is Professor and Chair of Duke University’s Slavic and Eurasian Studies Department. Recent books include Transgressive Women in Modern Russian and East European Cultures: From the Bad to the Blasphemous, ed. with Yana Hashamova & Mark Lipovetsky (2016), and Warsaw is My Country: The Story of Krystyna Bierzyńska, 1928- 1945, a cultural biography of a Jewish girl who fought in the 1944 Warsaw Uprising and was interned in one of the only POW camps designated for women during World War II (2018).
The World According to Fannie Davis By Bridgett M. Davis
New York, NY; Little, Brown and Company, 2019, 320 pp., $28.00, hardcover
Lottery. Lotto. Jackpot. Mega Millions. About half of Americans see nothing but dollar signs in their eyes at the mere mention of these terms. Legal lotteries—the first modern enactment having occurred in New Hampshire in 1964—are not only widely accepted and factored into various states’ budgets, but they are also largely ubiquitous to the culture of the United States. You cannot pass through a supermarket, bodega, or now even an airport without seeing flashes of winning figures, jumpstarting a slew of fantasies of tag-popping shopping sprees, remote vacations, and the elimination of piles and piles of debt.
People can buy tickets and dream freely now, but it wasn’t long ago that players and vendors, many of whom were African Americans, had to remain in the shadows, the looming possibility of prosecution being a constant threat. The precursor to the Lottery as it is known today—the Numbers— was neither fancy nor legal but still drew enough revenue to do more than raise eyebrows.
The Motor City is the setting for Bridgett M. Davis’s The World According to Fannie Davis, a memoir recounting her life as the youngest daughter of the titular Fannie, the center of her world and a Numbers runner. The illicit nature of Fannie’s business forced a mandate of secrecy among her family, friends, and customers. Bridgett Davis was ready to keep silent about her family’s life outside the law until her mother Fannie’s death.
To Davis, always a writer, the only way to properly honor Fannie’s life and make peace with herself was to pen a memoir. Making the decision to disclose the details of her upbringing breaks a silence she had grown accustomed to maintaining. Disobeying the Davis doctrine in this way has given Bridgett Davis the freedom to shed any fear or internalized shame that she harbored growing up, and boast about the mother who supported her.
The World According to Fannie Davis is a time capsule of memories. Fannie takes center stage in the account, and rightfully so. Fannie’s customers, neighbors, and relatives (who visited the Davis home on both official and unofficial business) “moved in a planetary orbit around her, the sun.” The Davis matriarch was a source of strength, “blue collar bourgeoisie” middle-class status, and endless life lessons in the form of sharp commentary and living by example.
Fannie Davis was born and raised in Nashville, Tennessee. Her father, Ezra Drumwright, was an entrepreneur and member of the limited, fortunate class of black landowners. (Davis writes that these black landowners weren't so much uncommon as kept back by a combination of racial terrorism and illegal loopholes used to strip their land away.) Fannie’s mother, Caroline, ran her husband’s books, and, together, they raised nine children. The relative prosperity that the Drumwright family experienced allowed an intuitive, witty, and beautiful Fannie to grow into a woman who imagined steering her own success.
After getting married to John T. Davis and having five kids—Deborah, Dianne, Anthony, Rita, and Bridgett—Fannie Davis and her family packed up and moved north to Detroit, nicknamed “Hitsville” for being home to Berry Gordy’s Motown Records. Add to that the attractive job prospects of the local General Motors factory, and Detroit fit the bill for a new beginning, a “shot at the American dream,” as the author puts it. Access to this dream became the Numbers.
The Numbers in Detroit were complicated, as we learn. After leaving the reader in suspense for a couple chapters, Bridgett lays it all out. Winning Numbers digits—three digits, which later turned into four and five—were tabulated based on the results of the Detroit and Pontiac horse races, a different formula used for each digit. Reading this explanatory passage a few times, okay, ten times, it’s still hard to feel like an expert. However, the point is not for the reader to grasp these calculations, but to know that Fannie understood them, and “often knew the winning number before most.”
Bridgett Davis’s colorful portrait of her mother and the life she created for herself and her family of seven abounds with truths and praise. Bridgett’s view is at once childlike—looking up to Fannie in adoration and looking around, trying to make sense of the world that filled her days—as well as knowing. The stress of running an underground business was something that Fannie didn’t wear on her sleeve, but the kids knew. The author writes at one point, “We all collectively and viscerally understood the need to protect Mama from any undue stress. This led to my siblings and me keeping certain upsetting news from her, because we all knew she ‘had enough on her.’ We kept secrets from Mama to protect her.”
The reader is transported to their childhood universe, a time of questioning some incoming stimuli and absorbing others without knowing it. Like many families with multiple children, each kid in the Davis household had a role to play, the boundary and fault lines both becoming apparent on the pages of the memoir. Bridgett was the youngest child and less exposed to the vicarious worrying of the first-born. She was admittedly spoiled, but ever eager to help her mother any way she could. The author relished recognition from Fannie, especially as it related to her Numbers. Other times, the stress of the Numbers business crept into Fannie as she came of age, often using her diary to vent,
...it scares me. This has been a tough year for Mama. Sometimes I wish we weren’t in Numbers cause this way, we don’t get a steady paycheck. But then I ask myself do you want to give up your luxuries along with the Numbers? And the answer is “no.”
The benefits of a comfortable home life were apparent, too—and not just for show. Fannie used her economic strength to convey deeply philosophical lessons to her children. Bridgett was only ten years old when her mother bought her and her sister Rita each a diamond ring—purchased at a pawn shop; good as any other place—and with these gifts said, “Now you don’t have to get excited just because a man gives you a ring. You can get excited over how he treats you.”
“Balancing being a mother, head of household, and community figure was a challenge she met with warrior fitness while living in a societal atmosphere that was constantly demeaning her blackness and her womanhood.”
The writer artfully dovetails recollections such as these with descriptions of sights and sounds that make her world leap off the page and come alive to the reader. While at the family home, affectionately referred to as “Broadstreet,” Davis remembers constant activity starting from elementary school. Entranced by Fannie and her ability to run her own business, Bridgett writes,
I still see Mama checking her business: First, she’d check the numbers taken via phone and recorded in her notebook, red pen in hand. If she found a hit, she’d circle it in red. Next, she went to the business that had been collected ‘out in the streets’, i.e. picked up from customers by a runner, usually a friend’s son or family friend she employed. Those bets were written on small slips of paper known as tickets. For those, she’d wet her finger, and go through each ticket one by one.
Bridgett Davis charts a timeline of well-researched and embedded black history as the backdrop to her life in Detroit. There are innocuous events, like a wedding at which Bridgett’s sister Dianne met Smokey Robinson, and one instance when Diana Ross herself waved at Bridgett. Other times, Davis is appropriately heavy with her recounting that the 1960s and 1970s could be hell for black people, even up north, once she left the safe walls of the Davis’s home.
Shopping trips were laced with racial profiling; Bridgett’s beloved father couldn’t keep steady work at GM while unemployment for young black men was at a rate of almost 30 percent; black people were relegated to the inner-city sections of Detroit, kept out of majority white neighborhoods, cross burnings and other intimidation tactics lit up a reign of terror. A different kind of numbers accompanies the following passage covering the Detroit riots of 1967:
No Numbers ran that entire week, as looting, burning and violence wore on for five days. A combined force of nearly 17,000 officers, National Guardsmen and federal troops were sent in and by the time the uprising was suppressed, as many as 155,000 rounds of ammunition had been fired by law enforcement; 43 people were dead—30 of them African-Americans, including a four-year-old girl named Tonya, victim to a 50-caliber bullet fired by the National Guard; more than 7,000 people were arrested on riot-related charges.
Fannie’s only desire in life was to keep her family and everyone who mattered safe, fed, and provided for. Balancing being a mother, head of household, and community figure was a challenge she met with warrior fitness while living in a societal atmosphere that was constantly demeaning her blackness and her womanhood. Meanwhile, her Numbers operation itself was precarious in that it was always at risk of discovery—a reminder made clear by the countless raids on surrounding gambling houses by local and federal law enforcement.
Fannie’s books remained safe, but the next biggest threat to her purse was an impending state lottery. As Bridgett Davis explains, the state saw tens of millions of dollars in annual Numbers revenue as an opportunity to evade raising taxes on its citizens. Meanwhile, the black Detroiters who were Numbers big-timers had been supporting their own communities—namely funding civil rights initiatives though the prominent Detroit chapter of the NAACP.
“Legislators surely reasoned the state should capture all that money wagered, rather than leave it in the coffers of two of society’s most despised groups,” Davis writes. As Michigan prepared to legalize a practice that would transfer much of Numbers wealth to the state budget, the demonization campaign of black gambling “criminals” used to discourage Fannie and other runners and players like her, was drowned out by the wild success of the state lottery. “Well we already know that when white folks want to do something bad enough, they can just create a law to get away with it,” Fannie lamented.
Fannie and her family weathered a fluctuating income, mixed with numerous changes to the family dynamic and back to back tragedies, which, coupled with the eventual death of Fannie, emotionally unhinged our narrator. Her grief is raw as she searches for some kind of glue to keep her life in order—a role that her mother used to play.
The World According to Fannie Davis ends as a sendoff, Bridgett’s dedication to her mother and a defense of the happiness and security she was granted as a child, despite the means. She makes a compelling case for “making a way out of no way,” a common mantra for black people; she humanizes the hustle. This book will be a thought-provoking and inspirational delight for anyone searching for understanding in a world designed for only some to succeed.
Shirley Ngozi Nwangwa is a New York City-based writer passionate about giving marginalized folks a space to be heard. You can follow her on Twitter or Instagram @llovellin.
An essay by Anastastia Higginbotham
Learning to accept the truth about white supremacy, when you are white, is like learning to accept an unspeakable but widely known truth about your family. The family secret. The family shame. Everyone already knows, and yet, to say it aloud will ruin everything. Or so you’ve been told.
White supremacy is the very rich uncle who favors you. He’s not handsome but you fail to notice on account of how rich he is and how thoroughly he spoils you. As in rotten. As in rotten to the core. As in rotting inside of you, in your core.
This very rich uncle, who remembers you on your birthday and always sends presents, stole the money he used to get you those presents from Black and Brown people. He robbed them, your neighbors, the people who greet you “good morning” and nod kindly in your direction as you pass on the sidewalk. Your uncle framed them for his crimes. They’re in prison now, which has been a very good investment, because he owns that prison and has convinced himself he owns every life inside of it as well. He earns money from their phone calls home. He hires the prisoners out to work for Victoria’s Secret and Whole Foods and only has to pay them a few cents a day—a day!—which they can put toward paying down their phone bill debt.
He comes to you around the holidays. His favorites are Christmas and the fourth of July. He slides a wad of cash in your pocket and whispers, Buy yourself something pretty, honey. He means something from Victoria’s Secret and Whole Foods. He also means a house. He means you should buy lingerie and organic food and a house in the right neighborhood, where your kids can go to the right school. He says “right” but he means “white.” But he also means right.
White supremacy is a lying, thieving, raping, murdering uncle with ties to the mafia. But you don’t need to know that. Why are you asking such unpleasant questions? Haven’t I been good to you? What do you want, sweetheart? I’ll get it for you. Stop asking these worrisome questions. It makes you look old.
Uncle White Supremacy, who is also an arms dealer, drug dealer, and human trafficker, claims to know whom you can and cannot trust, whom you should and should not love.
You know what Uncle White Supremacy loves? Your pale skin, your blue eyes, your shapely legs. He’s been watching you since you were a baby. He always knew you’d be a beauty. How old are you now, 18? he coos. Oh, you’re only 14? That’s surprising. A beautiful young woman already. If you weren’t my niece, well….” Well, he would try to have sex with you. Or lure you into it, saying you lured him. Or possibly he would force it. And then lie. And say you’re lying. You’re delusional. He would never! His own niece? You women are crazy. He raped your mom when they were kids. She never told you? She told then and was not believed. She tried telling again but her family was furious at her. They shamed her and she finally did come to believe she had something to do with it, and so, stopped believing it ever happened. She no longer believes it happened. My own brother? He would never!
Uncle White Supremacy is disappointed when you don’t reply to his texts. Where were you? Answer me. You’re so pretty. Do you know how special you are? Do you?? You still haven’t told me where you were. He is disappointed you’ve been peeking in his books, studying his tax returns, tracking his investments. His lip twitches when he confronts you about it. His pupils constrict. He wants you to stop spending so much time with those friends of yours. The boys with their pants that sag. The girls with their big soft afros that take up space, their locks, and the others with their shaved heads and hairy legs. And that sissy boy you seem to like so much—which bathroom does he/she/it use anyway?!
He thinks it’s cute you go to those rallies for those people. Cute but dumb. Just goes to show how naïve you are. He thought you were smarter than that. The world is full of pain, honey, you think you can stop it??? That’s life. It’s real life and I’ve been protecting you from all that. This is the thanks I get? Oh, don’t look so pained. As I said, it makes you look old, and ugly. To be honest, I’m disappointed in you. I thought you had more sense.
Uncle White Supremacy places a hot hand on your thigh under the dinner table. He thinks you belong to him too. You don’t.
Anastastia Higginbotham is the creator of the Ordinary Terrible Things children’s book series, which includes Not My Idea: A Book About Whiteness (Dottir Press, 2018).