Victorian Bad Boys and the Satisfying Murder of the Angel in Your House

I first read Mrs. Dalloway in my late twenties, after the idealistic phase of early adulthood and before I had much perspective on life. Virginia Woolf’s novel follows an older woman, as she prepares for a party she’s throwing that night. Through stream of consciousness, the reader learns of her early interactions with some of the guests at her party. As a youth, she had three love options. (Well, if we’re being honest, she only had two.) The person she seemed to feel most affection toward was her friend, Sally Seton. As a woman in the late 1800s, of course, this match would have brought her poverty and ruin. Her other two options were male: Peter Walsh, a passionate man whose neediness would have driven any woman up the wall by year-two of marriage; and Richard Dalloway, a nice—although a bit boring—man who was kind and had the means to support a wife. The latter was particularly important to women of that era, as it was unusual for them to secure financial independence.

As a woman in the 21st century, who had the privilege of earning a Ph.D., living on my own, and owning a car, I recognized Mrs. Dalloway’s plight but did not directly relate to it. I felt bad that she could not marry Sally. Peter just reminded me of bass players I used to date. I can understand the initial appeal of that archetype: broody, dark, artistic. In my experience, though, those traits eventually morph into whininess and immaturity. That type of man becomes tedious and a relationship with him, laborious. 

Given that new same-sex marriage laws were over a century away, I think that Clarissa made the right choice. Not only did she make a good business deal (an aspect of marriage that we oft forget in contemporary times) she chose someone who gave her space and respected her independence, which Clarissa deeply cherished.

However, when I taught Mrs. Dalloway, a few years later in an intro to lit class, my 20-year-old students had a very different reaction. They glossed over the whole bisexual aspect of Clarissa’s narrative and zeroed in on what they considered a crime. In their words, she had chosen money over love, and for that act, they could feel only disdain. I couldn’t figure how they could not appreciate Clarissa’s decision. From my point of view, she saw beyond her moment of passion for Peter (which she admits, years later, still burns) for a relationship that made her happy with a man whom she also loved (although perhaps not as hotly as for Peter). What I understood, then, was the limited perspective of the very young. It’s definitely not due to a lack of intelligence. I think that, only with time, does one truly begin to understand happiness. Clarissa played the long game. She found a man who loved her, and, perhaps more importantly, gave her space to love herself. Had I read Mrs. Dalloway earlier, I don’t think that I would have understood the finer nuances of love and happiness. I, too, would have lamented the loss of the bass player…uh, I mean, Peter Walsh. 

Recently, I taught Woolf’s “Professions for Women” (taken from a speech she delivered to The National Society of Women’s Service in 1931) which is another work I haven’t read since grad school. I remember liking it and experiencing some kind of “girl power” reaction to the notion that women need space (see her essay, “A Room of One’s Own”) and independence (in the form of a salary) in order to truly reach their creative potential. I read it now at 43 years old, six years shy of the age that Woolf wrote it. The first thing that struck me about the speech is that she begins the way women often begin now: she justifies her work. Don’t get me wrong; I think she does so in order to shine a light on the patriarch’s misgivings regarding the expansion of “women’s work” beyond the domestic realm. Even so, it rattled me. I could hear my own voice in her sentiment, how many times I had to prove I was doing no harm in my work. I was just going through grad school. I like poetry; I’m good at teaching. I can make a living at the latter. I also had to prove that I was intelligent—more so than the men around me, just to break even—but also appear that I was somehow not intimidating in that respect. I had to show deference without presenting as “available” to some of my male professors, while at the same time, not “act like a bitch.” (I confess that I often chose to disregard the latter, when pressed for time.)

What struck me the most was Woolf’s description of the “Angel in the House.” In Victorian times, the poet Coventry Patmore, dreamed up the Angel in the House image as the perfect woman who essentially sacrifices everything for her man, while maintaining her beautiful smile. Damn, I would bet money that if I told a group of intro to lit students that the Angel in the House was created five years ago, they’d believe me (at least the women would, and I’ll bet, many of the men). 

Virginia Woolf suffers with this bitch’s…uh…angel’s voice in her head claiming backwards garbage like “My dear, you are a young woman. You are writing about a book that has been written by a man. Be sympathetic; be tender; flatter; deceive; use all the arts and wiles of our sex. Never let anybody guess that you have a mind of your own. Above all, be pure.” One thousand memories come to mind of times when that voice was not only in my head but speaking right in front of me. I remember one male student claiming that I was not “being very nice” when I told him that his thesis statement lacked an argument. My former female boss once told me that, despite the clear policy allowing me simply to decline an administrator’s unreasonable request on behalf of a student, I should, instead, play email tennis for days until the other party “believed that they’re the ones who are telling you it’s a bad idea.” Virginia Woolf states that “Killing the Angel in the House was part of the occupation of a woman writer.” Although sometimes the Angel in the House is impossible to ignore (especially when they are your flesh and blood boss) I agree that the ghost of any such angel needs killing, even in 2018.

Near the end of her speech, she addresses the women in the audience, telling them that she has stressed her professional experiences because “they are, though in different forms, yours also.” In 1962, biologist Rachel Carson published her book Silent Spring, which warned of the harmful affects of (now banned) DDT. The onslaught of criticism often included “rebuttals” that claimed that a woman without children couldn’t possibly care about humanity’s future, and therefore, her study is bunk.

Now, we live in a time that is moving very quickly. Women are standing together more often, and the world is propelling forward. Nevertheless, I feel disappointed that Woolf’s speech resonates with me now, nearly 90 years after she gave it. However, I am heartened that the closing of her speech expresses the same hope that I feel for the future of my female students: “But this freedom is only a beginning—the room is your own, but it is still bare. It has to be furnished; it has to be decorated; it has to be shared. How are you going to furnish it, how are you going to decorate it? With whom are you going to share it, and upon what terms? These, I think are questions of the utmost importance and interest. For the first time in history you are able to ask them; for the first time you are able to decide for yourselves what the answers should be.” 

After the 2008 election, Oprah Winfrey asked prominent feminist, Gloria Steinem what she thought about republican party’s questionable vice presidential nominee, Sarah Palin. Steinem’s response reminded me of why I so admire her intelligence and thoughtfulness. I expected her to criticize Palin, but instead, she said that it will be interesting to see if Palin recognizes all the different ways that she had been used during that election. I never forgot that response and have often thought about the different ways that women are used on a daily basis. Sure, everyone gets used, but for women, it cuts down to the bone of our existence. The heart of the argument that excuses the mistreatment and manipulation of women claims that we’re not as human as men. We don’t deserve the same rights and privileges because, by nature, we are less worthy. It’s taken me into my 40s to get a clearer picture of the verbal gymnastics I had once mastered just to get my foot in the door, the physical agility it’s taken to maneuver around men’s wandering hands, and the alertness to outwit their stalkings. I honestly cannot imagine spending my energy toward those life-draining tasks any more. Age is a privilege. I’m a bit more tired, physically, but as a consequence, it affects my willingness to shoulder other people’s crap. I have too much writing to do to justify managing both.

Of course, at times I still do shoulder the nonsense. I’m still deciding how to furnish my room and with whom to share it and under what terms. And I’m living in an exhilarating time of rapid change, just as Virginia Woolf was. I wonder what she would think of us now.  

Samhain and The Art of Being Weird

Halloween has always been my favorite holiday for two reasons: costumes and the fact that it in no way involves my family. Back when I used to go home for the holidays, I lamented November 1st as I packed away my wigs or wings and ate the last of the pumpkin seeds. Soon, I knew, would come the descent into family conflict and inevitable loneliness. However, I felt much better once I simply stopped going “home” for the holidays. I began enjoying Friendsgivings, Christmas potlucks, even holidays I spent alone. One of my favorite Christmas days was during the first year of my Ph.D. program in Mississippi. I spent the day merrily hanging pictures in my new apartment, eating stuffing out of a mug (sorry, Southern Californians call it “stuffing”), and watching movies on my comfy futon. I didn’t even mind the gloomy winter weather.

During the last few years, I’ve paid more attention to seasonal changes and my physical environment. I moved to Birmingham, AL in 2014, and although I now live in the middle of the city, I find myself surrounded by more wildlife than I ever experienced in the rural town of Northport, AL. I have enjoyed the turn of each season and walking around my yard to see what has bloomed, or in the winter, what has hidden itself away till spring.

After studying the seasons and the nature around me, for a couple years, I recently felt inspired to read about Pagan holidays, which very much revolve around seasons and, more to the point, farming. In addition to farming rituals, such as canning what one will need for winter, celebrating Samhain involves honoring one’s ancestors on October 31st. It is believed that the “veil between worlds” is thinner on that day, and therefore, it is easier to hear messages from the beyond. This holiday is rather internal: remembering the past and preparing for the scarcity of winter.

It’s hard for me to imagine what it was like to live off the land. Most of us don’t need to can food (nor would most of us even know how) because we can drive to a grocery store that supplies nearly all types of food year-round. As for ancestors, I originally liked the idea of observing a day that honors them. However, as the 31st grew near, I felt a stressful gloom. I decided, finally, that I have enough trouble with my corporeal family. I honestly don’t even want to know what my ancestors think of me.

So, Samhain came and went. I dressed as Mother Nature for Halloween and my wife as a woodland creature. We went with some of our neighbors to take their kids trick or treating. I love the street we live on. It feels like the good kind of familial, a healthy family that knows one another but gives them space to be who they are and grow, as they will.

I think part of the problem with ancestors is that they’re not here, moving forward with us in the same way. As in winter, they’re living the part of the cycle that’s invisible to us. Perhaps their spirits are still here, but we can’t hear them anymore than we can see the green grass, hibernating until warmer weather. For instance, my grandmother and I were very close. She died when I was in my late twenties, several years before I started dating women. In my mind, our relationship remains where it physically ended. I never disappointed her by marrying a woman, and I know that, at least when she was alive in the flesh, she would have been disappointed. There is so much about my grandmother that I love. She taught me how to crochet. We read poetry together. Most importantly, she knew how to make me laugh, especially when I was overwhelmed with the grief of home life.

Who knows? Maybe she would have evolved with the times. Maybe not. It makes me feel a little weird sometimes, having two relationships with the same person—one in my memory and one that I currently cannot prove I’m having. The latter I experience when I feel my grandmother’s presence or the delight I used to know when I visited her Hollywood apartment or when a hummingbird flies so close to me that I can see the glint of its feathers.

However, I don’t think I know anyone who doesn’t feel weird, especially when it comes to family. The School of Life recently released a good video that explains one reason that everybody feels weird and disconnected from others. (To watch, click here.) They hypothesize that, because no one ever fully reveals themselves, people think they are the only ones who feel or think “weird things.”

That most people feel weirder than others is perhaps the weirdest part of weirdness, especially when family, friends, and society do everything they can to trim us down to what can be considered “normal” (by weirdos). And, back to Paganism, as much as nature helps ease my own feelings of disconnect, I see no evidence that societies of old did much better in connecting, loving, and honoring one another. Maybe that’s why it is easier to honor the dead: they are no longer around to disagree or to disrupt the image you’ve assigned them, be it benevolent or otherwise.

I don’t really know if there’s an art to being weird, but there certainly is art about weirdness. Today, I will leave you with two poems. The first is Lucille Clifton’s “i was born with twelve fingers.” The second is a poem that probably everyone can relate to: Philip Larkins’ “This Be the Verse.”

Blessed be, y’all!

Click here to listen to “i was born with twelve fingers”

Click here to listen to “This Be the Verse”

Historical Persona Poetry and the Challenge of Authority

This month, I am pleased to introduce guest blogger, Kwoya Fagin Maples, author of the new poetry collection, Mend, which I just pre-ordered on Amazon. You should, too! 

Historical persona poetry is poetry written in the voice of someone or something else other than the writer. It is unique in that the voice recalls a particular history. The scenes and situations may be imagined by the writer, but they are based on real people and events.

In Turn Me Loose: the Unghosting of Medgar Evers, Frank X Walker writes in the voice of Medgar Evers’ murderer, (Byron De La Beckwith), De La Beckwith’s wife, Medgar Ever’s wife and even the bullet that killed Medgar Evers. In Brutal Imagination, a poetry collection by Cornelius Eady, Eady writes in the voice of an imagined black man who was created by Susan Smith to cover up the murder of her own children. In this case, Eady uses an imaginary person/character who never existed to reveal the real story of Susan Smith, and to highlight the injustice and effects of the accusation. More recently, Jeanie Thompson explores the rich life of Helen Keller in The Myth of Water.  I could list others, but these books were my chief companions for my own collection of historical persona poetry.

My own collection, Mend, tells the story of the birth of gynecology and the role black enslaved women played in that process. It is based on a case of medical experimentation that occurred in Mt. Meigs, Alabama, between 1845 and 1849. I didn’t set out to write such a collection. I was simply intensely stunned by the story when I encountered it. More than anything, the lack of information and records about the women is what compelled me to write about them. The first poem I wrote for Mend came in the voice of a traditional “speaker” of a poem. It was suitably titled “The Door,” and later, my editor chose it to be the prefatory poem for the book.

Doubt was my loudest enemy the entire time I wrote this collection, particularly because it was historical persona poetry. I wasn’t writing in my own voice. I was trying to imagine the experience of people who existed in a different time and circumstance than myself.  I couldn’t help asking, who was I to write this story? Did my blackness and my gender alone authorize me to tell it? The answer I gave myself was no. After writing “The Door,” I stopped writing and conducted research. It was a year before I would begin writing poems again. I poured through hundreds of slave narratives and read several books surrounding the case, including Harriet Washington’s Medical Apartheid, which related several cases of medical experimentation conducted on people of color in the United States. Anarcha, Betsey, Lucy, and the other unnamed women of Mt. Meigs were not alone. I found that medical experimentation was commonly practiced by doctors and slave holders. In her book, Washington uses the term “medical plantations,” arguing that what yielded for these doctors (instead of a traditional crop) was advancement and wealth in their respective fields. (The poem I wrote in direct response to this idea is “What Yields,” an eleven-sectioned sonnet corona.)

After spending so much time in research, when the poems came again for the book, they came in the voices of the women themselves. I still had doubt to fight—at every turn— but the unfairness of the story and it needing to be told pushed me forward. Some poems I wrote came in scenes that surprised me— tender scenes of catching lightning bugs and nursing newborns. There were also poems where the women pointedly held the doctor accountable and criticized his actions. Ultimately, the poems don’t just reveal the devastation of what happened to the women. I wanted to explore who they were as humans, and it became my purpose to display an array of human emotion. We are all complex beings.

Ultimately, I made a decision, not about who I was as a writer, but about who these women were to me. They were my elders. They wanted to tell me a story to remember. Like my own family members who make me still my body and listen, they called for my attention.  I made an effort to give it.

Mend is available for purchase at all major book sellers including Amazon. To purchase directly from the University Press of Kentucky, click here: bit.ly/MaplesMend.

Kwoya Fagin

KWOYA FAGIN MAPLES is a writer from Charleston, S.C. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Alabama and is a graduate Cave Canem Fellow. In addition to a chapbook publication by Finishing Line Press entitled Something of Yours(2010) her work is published in several journals and anthologies including Blackbird Literary Journal, Obsidian, Berkeley Poetry Review, The African-American Review, Pluck!, Cave Canem Anthology XIII, The Southern Women’s Review, and Sow’s Ear Poetry Review. Her most recent poetry collection, Mend, was finalist for the AWP Prize and is forthcoming from University Press of Kentucky. Edited by Lisa Williams, Mend tells the story of the birth of gynecology and the role black enslaved women played in that process. This work received a grant from the Rockefeller Brothers Foundation.

Maples teaches creative writing and directs a three-dimensional poetry exhibit which features poetry and visual art including original paintings, photography, installations and film.

 

 

 

 

Conjuring Autumn

This summer, my wife and I took our belated honeymoon to Iceland. (In the above photo, a group of us left our kayaks to climb a glacier.) The weather was in blissful contrast to late July in Alabama. We giggled as we packed our thermals, which neither of us had ever owned. (She is from Mobile, AL, and I am from Southern California. Even when I lived in Flagstaff, AZ, the snow storms, which are actually significant, usually melted within a few days. Despite the cold weather, the Arizona sun kept the place from looking like the midwest and me, from Seasonal Affective Disorder.) 

Visiting Iceland felt like going to a different planet, in the best way possible. During the first week, after we returned to the south, I dreamed every night of volcanic rock and steam, glaciers, black sand, and the Blue Lagoon. By and by, the south’s version of hell (also known as August) crept in, and I began to feel dull and antsy. I recall when I first moved to Mississippi, and my fellow grad student and I were walking across campus in late August. My skin felt like it was on fire but somehow, also wet. “What’s wrong?” asked my southern friend. “I feel like I’m in a little, jar of mayonnaise,” said I. 

Needless to say, I am looking forward to autumn, and I believe that if you really want to banish something, like August in Alabama, you should praise it first. Here is a poem from a wonderful anthology, that I bought in Iceland, called Icelandic Poetry, translated by Bernard Scudder.

I have taken a picture of the poet’s name so that I won’t mess it up! I was unable to find much information, so if anyone knows more about this poet, please tell me.

In the Love of the Sun

IMG_2902

You
with the fingerprints of the wind
on your skin
and the love of the sun
on your forehead

upon her touch
the roses burst into bloom
like red kisses
in the garden

you bring me one
I feel it touch my soul
eyes and hands

hot 
so hot 
like your presence

The next poem is my favorite by James Wright, “Beginning.” For a long time, I had thought of this poem as taking place in autumn, which shows you how much I know about farming. The darkness and peace always made me think of the weather getting cooler. However, I now know that wheat is harvested in August, at the latest. I do not relate as much to this poem as I used to, for I would never voluntarily leave the air-conditioning in August. Regardless, I’ll never get over the line “The moon drops one or two feathers into the field,” nor will I ever recover from the last two lines, which knock me over every time I read it.

Beginning

The moon drops one or two feathers into the field.
The dark wheat listens.
Be still.
Now.
There they are, the moon’s young, trying
Their wings.
Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow
Of her face, and now she steps into the air, now she is gone
Wholly, into the air.
I stand alone by an elder tree, I do not dare breathe
Or move.
I listen.
The wheat leans back toward its own darkness,
And I lean toward mine.

—James Wright

And now, let us invite autumn to arrive as soon as possible! Below are the poems “Autumn” by Rainer Maria Rilke and “Eating Alone,” one of my favorite Li-Young Lee poems, which isn’t specifically about autumn but satisfies in its cozy, lonely tone.

Autumn 

The leaves are falling, falling as if from far up,
as if orchards were dying high in space.
Each leaf falls as if it were motioning “no.”
And tonight the heavy earth is falling
away from all other stars in the loneliness.
We’re all falling. This hand here is falling.
And look at the other one. It’s in them all.
And yet there is Someone, whose hands
infinitely calm, holding up all this falling.

—Rainer Maria Rilke

Eating Alone

I’ve pulled the last of the year’s young onions. 
The garden is bare now. The ground is cold, 
brown and old. What is left of the day flames 
in the maples at the corner of my 
eye. I turn, a cardinal vanishes. 
By the cellar door, I wash the onions, 
then drink from the icy metal spigot. 

Once, years back, I walked beside my father 
among the windfall pears. I can’t recall 
our words. We may have strolled in silence. But 
I still see him bend that way-left hand braced 
on knee, creaky-to lift and hold to my 
eye a rotten pear. In it, a hornet 
spun crazily, glazed in slow, glistening juice. 

It was my father I saw this morning 
waving to me from the trees. I almost 
called to him, until I came close enough 
to see the shovel, leaning where I had 
left it, in the flickering, deep green shade. 

White rice steaming, almost done. Sweet green peas 
fried in onions. Shrimp braised in sesame 
oil and garlic. And my own loneliness. 
What more could I, a young man, want.

—Li-Young Lee

Well, that’s all I’ve got for this month, folks! If you are a lover of hot weather, don’t worry, the fire shall return! I’m indifferent regarding the whole pumpkin spice phenomenon, but for pumpkin spice-lovers—cheers! And a happy upcoming Mabon to all!

P.S. If you are interested in more Iceland photos, my wife has included many of them, including some delightful short videos, on her blog, Notoriously Episcopalian. 

 

But That’s Not My Name

Growing up, the only other people I knew with the name “Shanti” went to my church (which I wrote about in “Christians and Buddhists and Pagans, O My!”). People always pronounced my name correctly there, but everywhere else, it was touch and go. For some reason, many people want to call me “Shanty,” which is an actual word that means “poorly built shack.” I’ve always found it strange that someone would assume that’s what my parents named me; however, we do live in a country that allowed a teenage boy to legally change his name to “Trout Fishing in America.” Meanwhile, in France, the law does not allow anyone to bestow names on children that may result in mockery. For instance, the names “Nutella” and “Strawberry” were nixed in 2015. Go France!

The mispronunciation of my name got more complex, as I got older. Once a man asked my name, and when I replied, “Shanti,” he clarified, “Shanita?” 

At a previous job, a co-worker called me a record-breaking number of variations of my name, over the course of several weeks. “Shantaqua,” “Shantell,” “Chantal,” and then, one day, “Shania!” I had grown accustom to responding to any “Shh” sound that came out of this guy’s mouth, and so I turned around. He proceeded to ask Shania on a date. 

This year, I started working on a book of poems about Star Trek: The Next Generation. I wrote “What’s in a Name: Picard Calls Lt. Barclay ‘Broccoli,’” (first published in Valley Voices: A Literary Review, V18, N1) after watching the episode “Hollow Pursuits.” Lt. Barclay, a nervous, annoying Starfleet officer, secretly nicknamed “Broccoli” by the annoying Wesley Crusher, has no friends and bad holodeck manners. 

On a side note, I don’t think anyone should have been allowed to conjure images of people already alive, while on the holodeck. I always found it interesting how STNG managed to thoroughly disinfect holodeck indiscretion plots. No amount of sanitation makes it less creepy to me, though. And to my recollection, only the dudes did it, and I thank the TV gods that holodecks don’t exist in other sci-fi shows, like the reboot of Battlestar Galactica, because that would have gotten nnnaaaasssty! 

Anyway, in my poem, I wanted, first, to identify with Lt. Barclay’s name issue, by sharing my own struggles with interpretative pronunciations. However, I also wanted to address the creepy way he used the holodeck to fulfill fantasies regarding the ship’s crew. In “Hollow Pursuits,” Barclay’s addiction to his holodeck storylines are further exasperated every time he clashes with Commander Riker or shies away from the attractive Counselor Troi. To make matters worse, after Picard does his darnedest to stop people from disrespecting Barclay, he slips and calls him “Broccoli.” 

In the last stanza of my poem, I wanted to focus on the darker aspect of the episode: how he dehumanizes his fellow crew members by rewriting them as flat characters who can never evolve or leave the parameters of his narrative invention. I also wanted to tie that idea to the way women, in our time, are similarly dehumanized to harmful and troubling effect. Women are often first considered sexual objects, but then, if any further dimensions are added to the woman, she soon becomes stereotyped as evil or undeserving, despite any reasonable notion of reality. In the poem, I liked the idea of entwining simple name mistakes with the much bigger problem of removing someone’s depth, which leaves them an easy target, and easily subjugated, at least in the mind of the objectifier.   

If you have any good mistaken name stories, anything cool to say about STNG, or anything generally cool to say, please reply in the comments!

To hear the audio version, click here:

 

What’s in a Name: Picard Calls Lt. Barclay “Broccoli”

I tell them my last 
name is pronounced 
“Why-land,” as in, why
is it pronounced that way?
But my first name stumps. 
They want to call me 
a broken house, some old
lady by the riverfront. They claim 
that some say it 
pahs-ta, some pass-ta, 
but I say, think 
of your favorite 
Sean or Shawn,
that man or woman 
who held you close, 
told you how clever 
you were the day you fixed
the water heater.
Now, give that person 
a cup of tea. “Shawn-tea.”

It’s different 
for Broccoli.
Even Picard 
screws that up.
Barclay’s nickname,
and creepy holodeck
programs, left us
zipping up our tops
higher than ever,
but I get it. Suspicion 
makes sense until they need you 
on the bridge.
Trust’s a virtue until they call you 
“Broccoli.” 

But your holodeck fantasies 
were blunt. Deanna’s your babe; 
Riker’s your bitch.
In my day, a poet named
Lucille Clifton once claimed
it’s only a matter
of time before a discussion
about women turns 
to witchcraft. You can see 
it, right? How my clear plans, 
in a world of men, well-lit
streets where all 
red riding hoods make it
safely to grandma’s, 
seemed dark to them?

Say Cheese, America!

Happy 4th of July, everyone! Today, I find myself remembering the year I spent overseas, after I had graduated from college. One of my English roommates told me that he could always spot a group of Americans from across the room. When I asked how he could tell, he took a slow drag off his cigarette and smiled slightly. “White socks and white teeth,” he said. 

There’s much about America to discuss, besides our sporty ensembles and bleached teeth, but today, I’m going to share one of my favorite poems called, “History with a Smile,” by Paul Hostovsky. I’ve linked the poem below. 

Today’s blog is short, as is the history of our country. 

https://bestpoem.wordpress.com/category/paul-hostovsky/

Screenshot 2018-07-04 17.02.22

Women and Demons

A few months ago, I wrote about the way I’ve been remembering Star Trek: The Next Generation’s Security Chief, Tasha Yar (“Well, It Used to Be: Thoughts on Evolving Perspectives”) as a much stronger character than she was actually written. I’m glad to look back and see how narratives about women have improved. Even in the year between the release of Wonder Woman and Black Panther, I see a shift from using women’s strength as a punchline (Wonder Woman) to expressing it as a simple fact (Black Panther). 

The other day, I watched the first episode of Picnic at Hanging Rock, an Amazon Prime series based on a novel that, I admit, I have never read. The show seems ripe for drama, with a seemingly overstrict all-girls finishing school in 1900, run by a mysterious widow, played by Natalie Dormer. 

SPOILER ALERT FOR EPISODE ONE AHEAD:

In the first episode, I felt creeping dread as I watched the young women get sexually harassed, assaulted, and generally treated like a decorative side dish. (Although I didn’t mind that one of the girls stuck a pitch fork in that jerk’s foot.) It’s not that I’ve never seen or read this type of narrative (and it is, indeed, a valid narrative that is lived by many women, even in 2018) but I’m tired of it. 

I believe that words cast spells. While I do think it’s important to recognize the wrong direction, it is equally important to steer the ship toward the desired destination. So, imagine my relief, when I learned that the true villain in Picnic at Hanging Rock appears to be just some sort of demon. Somehow, it was a great relief to me that the dark and drunken force that lures the vulnerable teenage girls into…well, wherever they are…was not another misbehaved dude who needs anything from sensitivity training to a prison sentence. Demons, I can handle. Maybe, later in the series, the demons will reveal their misogyny. I don’t know. I may or may not finish the series; I’ve recently gotten into Samurai Jack. I’m a bit TV flaky, these days.

This month, I offer you two performance pieces: Sarah Jones’ “Your Revolution” and Joy Harjo’s “A Poem to Get Rid of Fear.” Both poems describe moving forward in a new and improved direction. Enjoy!

UPDATE: I finished Picnic at Hanging Rock last night. Apparently, it was inner demons and the relentless patriarch and corsets. Fair enough.