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Auditing the Diversity of My Son’s Bookshelves – VIDA-style

July 29, 2018 by Isla McKetta, MFA Leave a Comment

Every night my son gets to choose a bedtime book from his vast library—a library I’ve very carefully built to represent a world larger than he’s been exposed to so far. He’s a beautiful, bright, curious little white boy who spends a significant amount of his time in a class that’s 95% other white boys and I want him to know there’s more to the world. I can’t change the makeup of his class, but I can bring a wide variety of colors and cultures into our home and introduce him to some awesome female figures along the way. And I thought I was doing a pretty good job, but the other night he confused Love Is for Come on Rain (the only two stories on his shelves that star African American girls) and I realized I might have fallen into the trap of tokenism.

So I decided to count his books, VIDA-style.

I looked at the gender and race of main characters and also the gender and race of each book’s author and illustrator. It wasn’t an exact science—I found myself making some assumptions about both race and gender (some of which I was later able to clarify) and the counts are a little iffy (you try wresting a little boy’s books from his grasp) but the patterns are clear and I’m so glad I went through this exercise, because I learned a lot.

The Characters

Looking strictly at the race of main characters, I found a better mix than I worried I might have. There’s still a lot of white kids in there, but we also read a lot of classic books (read: books from a time when whiteness was presumed). I could certainly be doing better in the Black and Brown (a poor catchall I know) categories, particularly as I begin to teach my son Spanish. And the Asian characters come too heavily from a handful of favorite Asian author/illustrators to be truly representative of a larger world (more on that later).

**The Humans**
White	Black	Brown	Asian	Many
29	5	4	8	3

My favorite thing about this table is the “Many” category which I had to scrawl into a margin because of three books: Blueberry Girl by Neil Gaiman and Charles Vess (where the main character shifts race and appearance throughout the book), Love by Matt de la Peña and Loren Long (where technically “love” could be the main character but the rest of the book is so representative of so many lived experiences, it deserves massive credit) and Peace Begins with You by Katherine Scholes that follows a similar pattern.

Why can’t more books transcend race this way? It’s not the answer for all books, because getting inside specific experiences is important, but I believe it’s important to balance specificity with universality and the three books I just mentioned do a great job at universality (even if my husband does find my reading of Peace Begins with You to be a fantastic sedative).

I’m going to try harder here. Representing a variety of cultures is important to me because my own experiences living abroad taught me so much about being human. Representing a variety of races is also important to me because my little kiddo needs to see that people are people, and although I live in a city that is more diverse than the town where I grew up, it is largely a segregated city.

**Non-Human Characters**
Animal	Vehicle
51	9

I was surprised to discover just how many books we read that feature non-human characters. Unfortunately, the default gender for animal and vehicle characters seems to be male. Some of this is due to the English reversion to “he” as a generic pronoun (read: patriarchy) but some of it is just laziness.

Here I give massive kudos to Virginia Lee Burton, author and illustrator of both Maybelle the Cable Car and Choo Choo two stories about female vehicles. They’re fantastic stories and I’m happy to report my son loves them as much as he loves another classic Burton story, Mike Mulligan and his Steam Shovel (which also features a female vehicle). Another book we love that features a female character is Octopus Alone by Divya Srinivasan.

Does it matter that these characters are female? Maybe not specifically in these books, but it does matter that my little boy is exposed to the idea that females are also functional members of society in all the ways that men are.

Speaking of gender, the table below combines the human and non-human characters.

**Gender of All Characters**
Male	Female	Both	Indiscriminate
76	25	3	7

There’s no excuse for the results of my gender count. Even including the number of classic books we read. Yes, a lot of this is also due to the male animals and vehicles, but clearly I need to do better in selecting books. The “both” category comprises books like The Look Book by Chris Sickels where there are two main characters, one of each gender. And “indiscriminate” accounts for books like Love where there are many main characters, the main character is an animal that doesn’t have a gendered pronoun like Hoot Owl, Master of Disguise by Sean Taylor and Jean Jullien, or I simply can’t tell from the text if the character is male or female as in What Do You Do With an Idea? by Kobi Yamada and Mae Besom.

The takeaways here are that authors and illustrators can and should think about the gender of the character of their main characters. They can even get around gender if they want to. And I can do a lot better in diversifying the characters my son reads about. In terms of race, culture and gender. Likely sexuality, too, but we really aren’t there yet.

The Authors

Do the race and gender of authors matter? I believe they do. While I champion authors like Jonathan Evison who truly attempt to get inside the head of a character with a different life experience than theirs and to convey that experience with deep empathy, I also strongly believe that readers benefit from having access to a variety of voices (in this case in text and visually).

**Author’s Race**
White	Black	Brown	Asian
84	1	4	10

So the fact that almost all of the authors my son has been exposed to are white is a fail on my part. I can name the one Black author—Lucille Clifton—and the excellence of The Boy Who Didn’t Believe in Spring is argument enough for actively seeking out more diverse voices. It’s a gorgeous book that gets to the heart of male friendship better than anything else I’ve read.

Another fail is that (because I counted an author each time they appeared) I know that Dan Santat and Suzy Lee account for most of the Asian category. Shaun Tan and Kobi Yamada are nearly all of the rest. As amazing as these authors are, that’s only four voices to represent a wide variety of cultures.

**Author’s Gender**
Male	Female
68	33

I’m doing a little better on the gender front when it comes to authors, but clearly there’s work to be done.

The Illustrators

**Illustrator’s Race**
White	Black	Brown	Asian
87	0	3	13

Can I admit yet that I’m starting to feel a little demoralized? How can I not have one single book in my son’s collection that’s illustrated by an African American? And that this category is looking very white overall. The same note from above about Suzy Lee, Dan Santat and Shaun Tan still applies—fantastic illustrators that I might have overemphasized in my son’s collection.

**Illustrator’s Gender**
Male	Female
75	28

Where have all the ladies gone? Enough said. That’s especially disappointing because I’ve found that the books we have that are written and/or illustrated by women are much more likely to present characters that are not white and/or female.

What I’m Going to Do Next

Let’s be real, I’m still going to run out and buy Suzy Lee’s next book because I love her work. And I’ll probably buy all the Richard Scarry and Dr. Seuss my son can dream of (though we have more than enough Thomas the Tank Engine for a lifetime). But I’m also going to actively seek out books with more diverse main characters and those that are written and/or illustrated by women and people of color.

If you have any recommendations, please leave them in the comments. He’s nearly three, but he’s willing to sit for stories that are at least at a four- or five-year-old level.

My Recommendations

If you’re trying to diversify your little kiddo’s shelves, here are some of our favorites:

The Adventures of Beekle, the Unimaginary Friend by Dan Santat
Ask Me by Bernard Waber and Suzy Lee
Blueberry Girl by Neil Gaiman and Charles Vess
The Book of Mistakes by Corinna Luyken
The Boy Who Didn’t Believe in Spring by Lucille Clifton and Brinton Turkle
Choo Choo by Virginia Lee Burton
Come on Rain by Karen Hesse and Jon J. Muth
A Different Pond by Bao Phi and Thu Bui
Hoot Owl, Master of Disguise by Sean Taylor and Jean Jullien
Love by Matt de la Peña and Loren Long
Love Is by Diane Adams and Claire Keane
Maybe Something Beautiful: How Art Transformed a Neighborhood by F. Isabel Campoy,
Theresa Howell, and Rafael López
Natsumi! by Susan Lendroth and Priscilla Burris
Now by Antoinette Portis
Octopus Alone by Divya Srinavasan
Old Turtle and the Broken Truth by Douglas Wood and Jon J. Muth
The Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats
This Beautiful Day by Richard Jackson and Suzy Lee
Wave by Suzy Lee

Those are affiliate links, so if you buy from Powell’s you’ll be supporting a great bookstore (and also my book-buying habit).

Carmen Maria Machado, Paige Cooper, Siri Hustvedt and What We Expect of Women Writers

April 14, 2018 by Isla McKetta, MFA Leave a Comment

The recent “describe yourself like a male author would” meme is a reminder not just that there’s a whole lot of bad (read: thoughtless) writing out there, but that we love to apply categories to understand the world. This completely reasonable coping strategy for our overloaded brains comes with a danger, though, of not only dismissing some potentially great work because the author is male, but (more importantly) of failing to question and confront what’s expected of us as women writers. Don’t get me wrong, I love myself a rainy afternoon with the comforts of Austen and Wharton, but (brilliant as both are) it’s writers like Siri Hustvedt, Carmen Maria Machado, and Paige Cooper that are pushing me to be my best author (and self). Here’s a small subset of what they’re teaching me.

Smart is Sexy

I’ve long admired Hustvedt’s writing and was very excited when A Woman Looking at Men Looking at Women arrived in time for a lengthy convalescence earlier this week. But the best thing I did for myself was to not read all 500 pages in one go. Instead, I’m going to savor her signature intelligence. So far I’ve read about the differences in modes of knowing between scientists and artists and the contextual coding (and unconscious bias) in how we view art which has led me to question everything about how I encounter arts of all kinds and to better appreciate the instinctual approach to my work that’s been evolving over the last decade.

Hustvedt wonderfully spans the line between wonky academic and literary powerhouse and though her essays are my favorite of her work, her fiction is flat out great, too. She has a keen eye for observing the world and isn’t afraid to say what she thinks, no matter how that sits with contemporary conversations.

I’m only 24 pages into A Woman Looking at Men Looking at Women, but up next is an essay on Louise Bourgeois (one of my favorite artists!) and I can’t wait to savor every last word.

Sexy is Sexy

If you haven’t already read “The Husband Stitch” by Carmen Maria Machado, do it now. It’s okay. I’ll wait.

Actually, I couldn’t wait, I went back and read it again, too, because this story, and the book it’s collected in, Her Body and Other Parties blew my fucking mind. Machado’s writing is very intelligent and beautiful, but the thing that stretched me in all the right ways is that it’s really unapologetically, lusciously sexy. So much so that when I shared “The Husband Stitch” with a friend at work, I had to go back and blushingly mention (for the sake of HR) that I’d forgotten just how sexy it is.

“That night, I wash myself. The silky suds between my legs are the color and scent of rust, but I am newer than I have ever been.” – Carmen Maria Machado, “The Husband Stitch”

It’s freeing to read this kind of writing, both as a writer and as a woman. There is enough lust in these stories to rival the wildest Harlequin, but it’s the combination of that lust with an achingly acute awareness of the constraints we are subjected to and that we subject ourselves to that makes Machado’s writing so astounding. Like Wharton she showcases society’s unwritten rules with lines like “scoffing is the first mistake a woman can make,” “pride is the second mistake,” and “being right was the third, and worst, mistake.” Also like Wharton, she shows us what happens when we refuse to obey. But unlike Wharton, Machado’s characters trample all over the rules and not only own the consequences of their rebellions but revel in the journeys and the outcomes.

I learned so much from the exactness of descriptions like “a crack that passes through her lip like she is dirt that has never known rain,” the ways Machado breaks the fourth wall, and most of all, from her willingness to morph form to suit her own purposes as with “Inventory.” Seemingly a catalogue of a woman’s lovers, this story unfolds to contain much, much more…

“One woman. Brunette. A former CDC employee. I met her at a community meeting where they taught us how to stockpile food and manage outbreaks in our neighborhoods should the virus hop the firebreak. I had not slept with a woman since my wife, but as she lifted her shirt I realized how much I’d been craving breasts, wetness, soft mouths. She wanted cock and I obliged. Afterward, she traced the soft indents in my skin from the harness, and confessed to me that no one was having any luck developing a vaccine.” – Carmen Maria Machado, “Inventory”

Machado is not writing genre fiction (whatever that is). She’s writing exactly what she wants in order to tell the right story at the right time.

Weird and Intense is Sexy, Too

Another writer who demolishes the prejudicial line between “genre” and “literary” fiction is Paige Cooper. The stories in Zolitude are dense, rich, and wildly intelligent. This is not a bedtime book (trust me), not only because of the often chilling plotlines, but because you won’t want to miss a single detail of Cooper’s intricately crafted stories lest you discover, too late, that the women you’re reading about have become animals (or that they always were).

Cooper’s stories cover a wide range of subjects, and she fully immerses herself in each. You’ll find a deeply detailed plan for the quotidian details of colonizing other planets in “Pre-Occupants.” “La Folie” upends stereotypes with the story of a white woman who’d been sold into slavery for the benefit of her sister and the lengths she’ll then go to in order to save that sister. And “Thanatos” takes us to the limits (I hope, though I’m not that dumb) of medical science with the stitching together of two bodies to form one (improved?) whole. There are also vampires, tortured (and torturing) geniuses, and a librarian.

All of these wild stories are wrapped in perfectly wrought and unusual images like “her hair is a trash tide over her head” and “he deletes truth like weather deletes history, imperfectly” paired with spot-on maxims like “it’s not heroism to crawl into someone’s grave with them.” The writing is sometimes sexy, always intelligent and intensely weird (in all the best ways).

I’ll admit I got lost in the density of Cooper’s pages. I liked it.

How a male author would describe any of these women probably depends on the male author. I won’t start pigeonholing them and I think I might finally be ready to stop pigeonholing myself, too. Let’s go write some cool shit.

To expand your view of women writers (or just read some really good work) pick up copies of A Woman Looking at Men Looking at Women, Her Body and Other Parties, and Zolitude from Powell’s Books. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.

Rediscovering Greek Myths with Fates and Furies by Lauren Groff

April 10, 2018 by Isla McKetta, MFA 4 Comments

Sick this weekend and more than a little desperate to read something that would not further irritate my fevered brain, I pulled Fates and Furies by Lauren Groff from my to-read shelf. Though I cursed Groff when I could not put down the book to fall into a much-needed nap, something I should have expected because her earlier novel Arcadia had kept me up at night, I was also grateful because it’s been too long since a full-length novel incited me to read with such hunger. I even skimmed the last sixty pages as my husband read to my son in the other room—hoping with each new section break that they’d go through one more round of exploring darkest Peru so I could live inside this book until the very end. Fates and Furies also got my brain moving on some topics I care deeply about: marriage, the myth of the lone genius, and Greek mythology.

Writing about Marriage

I had a creative writing teacher who told me once that there were no novels about happy marriages. I begged to differ but looked around and struggled to find any. His point was about how conflict makes a story, mine was that conflict is not the only thing that makes life interesting. Fates and Furies may be the final answer to our conversation—we were both right, in a way.

When we first meet Lotto and Mathilde, newly married and freshly fucking on a beach, everything is right in their pair. Throughout the first half of the book as we explore the life of this charmed boy and his quiet wife it seems as though the tempest is outside their relationship. He, an adored first son, loses his father early and his overbearing mother has trouble letting go until he does something teenagerish and she sends him away to try and charm another part of the country. Lotto suffers, yes, but he always seems followed by some glance from the gods that shields him from the very worst. Mathilde is part of that shield.

I won’t say what causes the shift in the second half of the book, but I will say that I haven’t been as rocked by a change in point of view since reading Jonathan Dee’s Palladio. To put it gently, we suddenly begin to see Mathilde’s side of the story and I’m so embarrassed to say (and yet it is so telling) that I hadn’t realized how absent she is as a character from the first half. Help meet, yes, wife too, but never a person in her own right. I don’t know which is more shocking, that she is a full, rich, fascinating character or that she was able to stay behind the scenes so long.

The Lone Genius

But we do love ourselves a lone genius, don’t we? Especially if that genius is male. Norman Rockwell toiling away in the barn making culture-shaping images while his wife tends to the kids. Hemingway working his way through all kinds of wives never failed to stop halfway through a sentence each night and get up to finish that sentence the next morning. And then there’s Salinger lingering in the woods with a nymphet acolyte. Of course they aren’t alone but their work exists on the backs of people whose contributions will never be acknowledged. It’s a trope I’ve studied carefully as I tried to model my own success, one it took me far to long to realize is bullshit. Yes, someone has to clean the toilets and pay the bills and wipe the butts, but failing to be a part of those activities is failing to understand (and participate in) essential parts of life.

Which makes me mad at Mathilde. Because as much as Lotto was a beloved, coddled boy, she continued to infantilize him through adulthood. Don’t get me wrong, Lotto should have grown up on his very own accord, but that’s on him. Mathilde wasted her life cleaning up after Lotto and I think she did it out of penance. The backstory to how Mathilde became the person she is is deeply saddening, but she could have been so much more. Maybe I’m just worried because I have my own beloved, coddled boy and I want very much for him to grow up to be a strong individual and if he finds a strong partner who’s also a strong individual, so much the better.

The Magic of Greek Myths

Something else I want for my boy is to have a strong understanding of Greek myths. I was raised on them and I have tomes to share with my son when I think he’s ready. To me, they are as important as the Bible to understanding the underlayment of our culture.

But my idea of an ideal education may have been shaped by some 19th century novel or other and making in-jokes about Sisyphus to my coworkers is often a futile effort—no matter the caliber of the private schools they’ve attended. So I loved how rife Fates and Furies is with allusions to these wonderful stories, from the obvious (a play based on Antigone) to the less so (a mother sitting forever at home as though that home were Mount Olympus). I’m going to blame my illness for the fact that it took me so long to understand the knowing asides were like the classic Greek chorus or the gods looking down from on high (or both), but I loved the effect before I got it and even more so after.

And when I realized on the last page which mythological character Mathilde was, it changed everything for me. And I wept.

To immerse yourself in Fates and Furies, pick up a copy from Powell’s Books. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.

How The Immigrant’s Refrigerator by Elena Georgiou Could Save the World

February 17, 2018 by Isla McKetta, MFA Leave a Comment

I had the privilege on Thursday night of moderating a discussion between three authors I deeply respect: Micheline Aharonian Marcom, Rebecca Brown, and Elena Georgiou. On the stage at Elliott Bay Books in Seattle, I asked Elena about her recent collection of stories, The Immigrant’s Refrigerator, specifically about how she’d managed to fully explore the humanity of every character in the book. Turns out I lucked into something because she said that was the kernel of what made her write the book, that long ago in her London-centric life the experience she’d had of reading The Song of Solomon and getting so inside the life of an African American family in the faraway U.S. had shown her the power of words to inhabit the experience of another. We need that right now.

Here’s why you need to go read The Immigrant’s Refrigerator and then buy a copy for a friend who might not buy one for themselves.

Reading Builds Empathy

You’re a reader. You’ve probably seen the studies that say reading literary fiction builds empathy. If you’re like me, you read a summary of the study, felt good about yourself and went on your reading way. Trouble is that I didn’t really change what I read as a result of those studies. I just kept empathizing more and more with the people I’d already been reading about.

Reading=good. Now let’s take it one step further.

Exposing Ourselves to the Other

I’m proud of the fact that I usually read stories about people who live far away from me. What I’m too often missing in my reading list, though, is stories about people whose life experience is not that of a middle to upper class intellectual-type. I read about countries I’ve visited or lived in that I miss or countries that remind me of them. Occasionally I lament that I don’t read enough about Africa, but I haven’t mended my reading ways.

The Immigrant’s Refrigerator pushed me into reading about all kinds of lives I’d never considered exploring. And I loved every page of it. I picked up the book because I wanted to be prepared for the event at Elliott Bay. What I was not prepared for was entering—on the first page—the life of a man who makes soup for children who are riding atop trains to cross into the U.S. from Mexico and to those who’ve returned. “Gazpacho” is emblematic of the rest of the book in that it’s compact, revolves around food, and drops the reader deep inside the experience of another.

Georgiou does this again and again in the book. From the life of a Northern Irish rent boy in New York City to a Somali refugee who’s terrorized by an intended act of kindness by an employer, to a lonely baker who finds connection and companionship with a refugee from Niger, Georgiou fully realizes the widest range of experiences I think I’ve seen together in one book. But you almost don’t realize how disparate the events that got these characters to their moment on the page are, because rather than playing to any of the expectations we’ve already set about what the other is, the stories in The Immigrant’s Refrigerator focus so deeply on the characters’ human commonalities. This makes it easy to empathize with all of them and the result is as beautiful as the writing.

As easy and pleasurable as The Immigrant’s Refrigerator is to read, it’s not a facile book filled with happy glossy images of what people could be. Some of the stories I ended up loving most were the ones I initially resisted because the characters were too tetchy or far from my own experience (or too close to experiences I’ve tried to leave behind). One of these was “Pork is Love” where a rural Vermonter challenges his Nigerian pastor to preach a sermon about pork fat. Throw those three elements in a story and you could feel very much like you’re in a blender, but with Georgiou’s approach of reaching first for what is human, she finds unexpected light and darkness in both characters and ways of weaving them together that surprised, delighted, and challenged me.

Step Three: Changing the World

Easy peasy, right? Of course not. But if you need a refresh on looking beyond your bubble (and I think we all do right now) take a few hours to sit with The Immigrant’s Refrigerator and remember the things that could bring us together. It’s the only act that can truly put us back on the right path. The challenge I’ve set for myself right now is to look inside of people whose views I disagree vehemently with and try to understand what they most want. Usually it’s things like a better life for themselves and their family, freedom from fear, a genuine moment of feeling seen. I can relate to all of those, and we can build from that.

Acknowledging the humanity of the people around and across from us is a gift we can give them, and it’s a gift we can give to ourselves. It’s the smallest and biggest step toward rebuilding our society and it’s time we take it.

I’m going to go read The Song of Solomon now, you go pick up your copy of The Immigrant’s Refrigerator from Powell’s Books and then recommend this book at your next book club. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission. Bonus points if we change the world along the way.

Why Poetry? For Matthew Zapruder, for Me

February 10, 2018 by Isla McKetta, MFA 1 Comment

I’ve been going on and on for about six years about how I don’t know anything about poetry. This repeated admission has been a laying bare of my insecurities and a spur to jump into this abyss I feared so much but could not resist. And in truth, I’ve been writing poetry now, consistently and improvedly, for over three years, but I still hunger to know more and to work through this feeling that there is something I am missing.

So when I first heard Matthew Zapruder mention his (then forthcoming) book, Why Poetry? at a lecture, I knew I had to have it. Now that I’ve consumed the book, though I’m sure I’ll return to it again and again, I have a better understanding of what I was afraid of about reading poetry, the things I’m getting wrong about writing poetry, and the reasons I can’t stay away.

A Little Machine for Producing Discovery

“[I]n the course of writing, the poet eventually makes something, a little machine, one that for the reader produces discoveries, connections, glimmers of expression.” – Matthew Zapruder, Why Poetry?

How irresistible is that quote for anyone who enjoys tinkering of any kind? Despite all my tinkering with words, I continue to wonder, “What is a poem, anyway?” I was once told (somewhat scarringly) that something I’d written wasn’t a poem but simply a list of words strung together. Reading Zapruder, I had to admit those words I’d hated to hear might have been right. Why Poetry? examines the core of what transforms words into poetry from so many angles that it’s impossible to summarize, but unlike the prescriptive poetry lessons so many of us were subjected to in high school English classes, Zapruder’s approach is so curiosity-based and full of love for the form that Why Poetry? is a delight to read.

Movement of Thought

What really flipped a switch for me in Why Poetry? was the idea that poetry is a movement of thought which allows the reader and writer to produce and explore new associations and ideas. It’s not something I’d really noticed about the poetry I’ve been reading all these years and, yet, as I’ve been reading poetry since finishing Zapruder’s book, it seems key.

Though I’ve accidentally followed a train of thought in the way Zapruder describes in a few poems, honestly the ones that have felt most successful, I’m excited to explore this concept more. I’m not wholly convinced that without this factor, a poem isn’t just words strung together, but I can’t wait to see what feels right in my writing.

Being Myriad

“A poem does not exist in order to get a single message across, or to privilege one idea above all others.” – Matthew Zapuder

Maybe one of the most freeing things about reading Why Poetry? was the idea that in a poem I could be conflicted, complicated, myriad. This is one of the things I struggle with most in everyday conversation—the inability to communicate the layers of truth in an idea and the places where I know I contradict myself and what that all means. The idea that I could inhabit and explore all of these layers at once is incredibly freeing. It’s like looking into my closet and realizing that there isn’t one character I have to be that day, that instead I can choose any combination of things that I love and just be in that outfit, that moment.

Seeing Connections Others Do Not

“The ear of the poet is not merely attuned to sonic music. It is attuned to the music of ideas in words, the latent resonances, the ones always waiting in etymology, the pasts of words, our individual pasts, and our collective memory.” – Matthew Zapruder

Though I come from a long line of successful punsters, nothing has made me more attuned to language than having a young child who’s learning to communicate with words. Just recently, he was telling my husband that his Batman-obsessed friends were all playing with the Batmowheel. A few years ago I would have simply thought that was cute, but now that I’ve been paying closer attention to words, I see the logic and beauty of the associations he’s making and I’m paying closer attention to my own. I used to be a lot better about this kind of seeing, but I steered away from it when I sensed the power it had to manipulate understanding. Which brings us to…

“Coming Back to Language, to Naming”

“The energy of poetry comes primarily from the reanimation and reactivation of the language that we recognize and know.” – Matthew Zapruder

When I first really started getting serious about poetry, I began by reading it in French and Spanish. I did it because I was scared of many of the things Zapruder identifies are wrong with the way we teach poetry (especially the insistence on symbolism). What I also achieved, though I was not aware of it at the time, was the defamiliarization of language. In Verlaine I heard mostly the sound of the words. In Lorca and Neruda I found words that I understood with my childish Spanish, which sometimes involved seeing most clearly the false cognates. I did not learn much about the strict structure of poetic forms in either language, but I was learning to look at words and to hear them.

“To live morally, to avoid self-delusion and even monstrosity, we have to think about what we are saying, and to avoid euphemism and cliché.” – Matthew Zapruder

Reading Zapruder, I was also reminded of that fear I’d encountered before of the power language has to obfuscate true meaning. I’m thinking of how difficult it becomes to fight against a wrong idea once a strong (but wrong) label like “Patriot Act” or “Pro Life” is applied. In essence, because of my own fear of the power of language, I’d stepped away and let others, who don’t have the same principles, make what they wanted of language and life. Zapruder (and poetry) are of course not arguing for the misconstruing of words, instead the idea is to bring us back to real meaning or even to understand the evolution of language. I can get behind that.

Slowing

“Reading poetry has the salutary effect on me of forcing me to read, and think, at a different pace than the rest of my life demands.” – Matthew Zapruder

I am as guilty as everyone of letting myself get wrapped up on a life full of work and social media, entertainment, and family. Unfortunately, in that order. And I’ve always been guilty of the sin of skimming, especially when reading poetry. I loved this emphasis on slowing and inhabiting, and reading Zapruder’s words here reminded me of the simple relief of focusing on the passage of a single breath. I’m looking forward to mending my ways a little and making more space in moments for words.

Shedding Airs

Something else I’m all too guilty of is applying a poetic mood to my work. A false one. Zapruder says he often sees his students “presenting their poetic qualifications” by being “deliberately obscure and esoteric, because it is a shortcut to being mysterious.” At least I’m not alone? I guess my poetry newbie insecurities show rather obviously in these moments. Which is okay. As long as I learn when this particular way of using language feels authentic to me and when to edit it the fuck out.

Dreams, Strangeness and Being Known

“[T]he true difficulty—and reward—of poetry is in reading what is actually on the page carefully, and allowing one’s imagination to adjust to the strangeness of what is there.” – Matthew Zapruder

The poetic airs, too, have been a shortcut to inhabiting my own strangeness. Not that I’m the enigma I sometimes believe myself to be, but that by frosting my ideas, I can simultaneously be “interesting” and not reveal my true self at all. One of my deepest struggles is this push/pull of being known, and although I’m aware of the hollowness of the game—as long as I don’t share the unvarnished me, I cannot be rejected, but I also cannot be loved for who I truly am—I don’t always stop myself from hiding. Despite how lonely it makes me feel.

“George Steiner defines every speech act between two people as a kind of translation, a negotiation between what he calls ‘the external vulgate and the private mass of language.'” – Matthew Zapruder

“The poem also reminds us of the dual nature of language, how each word means something particular to a person, and how we are also somehow not locked into those personal associations.” – Matthew Zapruder

Does this mean I should blarp all of me, unedited, onto a page and call it poetry? No, and there are some early submittals I’d rescind right now if I could. But it does mean that I can (and must, really) explore honestly my experience of being human. Sometimes that will be messy, sometimes clear. Sometimes it will be both. But I have to stop fighting it because it might be the best chance I have to become the fullest version of me. And I get to do it in the private dialect that until now I never had any reason to believe anyone but my husband would ever understand.

“What I thought was my principled resistance to meaninglessness was really a fear of, and attraction to, a new life.” – Matthew Zapruder

Am I a Poet?

“[T]hat choice to be ready to reject all other purposes, in favor of the possibilities of language freed from utility, is when the writer becomes a poet.” – Matthew Zapruder

Yes. I am a poet. Sometimes. Zapruder helped me see that as much as I’ve been fighting this thing, it really is something I cannot not do. I’m not sure I’d pass that final litmus test above just yet, but I’m willing to consider it as I tinker. And there was one last little tidbit in Why Poetry? that made me feel like I was on the right track:

“Poetry has always existed and always will exist, because there will always be the need to say that which cannot be said.” – Ralph Angel

“Saying that which cannot be said” are the words from an artist statement I wrote long ago that still feel truest to me. In both senses of the word.

To discover your own path with poetry, pick up a copy of Why Poetry? from Powell’s Books. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.

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