Julie R. Enszer's Blog, page 16

On Work

I believe in work. I believe in doing the work that presents itself. The work that is in front of you. I believe in cleaning the sink and the toilet. I believe in the dignity of that work. I believe in packaging books carefully into plastic sleeves or boxes. I believe in responding to every email, returning phone calls, and proofreading. I do not always do each of those things, but I believe in them.

I believe that work in and of itself has dignity. I believe that the labor of the world brings us closer to the world: taking out the garbage, shredding papers for recycling, sweeping up dog hair and the carcasses of frogs and lizards in the lanai (the true natural born killer in our household is Vita). I believe that work reminds us of the value of rest and the joy of play. Every day there is more work to be done. The world begs for more work from all of us, cleaning, organizing, fixing, returning, trimming, watering, building. There is always work to be done, always work that presents itself. It has value. It has meaning, but not all of our work is work that presents itself, some of our work is creation.

I believe in creating the work that the world yearns to have done, even if does not immediately present itself. I believe in imagining new things and working to bring them into being. I believe in setting aside time from the daily work, from the work the world clamors for to imagine then create the work that the world only whispers for, that the world does not even  know that it needs. 

I am listening, looking for silence and calm and peace, to hear the work of the world, to listen for what the world yearns for in its solace, in its moments of contemplation. I am sitting, I am making space for new work, for letting the impossible, the unimaginable, the silent speak, creating something new, something we cannot yet comprehend, something that we will want, desperately need as it slowly comes into being.

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Visitors and Visiting

Our second visitor was here for two days this week. A lovely woman who I had not met until she drove through the gate. Beth edited Sinister Wisdom 2 and Sinister Wisdom 11. We had a lovely few days together talking about art, creativity, and writing. It was lovely. My new favorite thing is serving dinner and breakfast on the lanai. It is perfect for entertaining (and will be even more so when I renovate the kitchen). It is fun to sit out there for hours, talking, letting the dogs in and out, listening to the trickle of the pond.

On Friday, I will be visiting for a few days, seeing friends old and new out in San Francisco. Having visitors and being a visitor are two sides of the same coin. Though being a visitor, I will miss the canine and feline crew, but I appreciate the break from their intense love and affection.

Hosting people reminds me of how much I enjoy I having a home where people can gather and how much I missed such gatherings over the past year. It is nice to reconnect with that part of our lives. It is also nice to have problem solving skills back. One of the challenges of the trauma of the past year was losing the ability to make decisions and feeling competent moving through the world. Small decisions too often overwhelmed me. Apparently, no longer. Yesterday, when going out to dinner, my car would not start. Then coming home, the light over the gate went out. Three months ago, this would have reduced me to tears and despair. This morning, I got the car to a mechanic, and it will be all fixed tomorrow. Then the light magically went back on, but even if it goes out again, I will get it repaired. We will have a home where we can happily host visitors and house lesbian books and artifacts and publish new things into the world as well as safely house rescue dogs and abandoned kittens (and I still hope at some point a goat or two and a flock of chicks). All to say, I am invested again in building a home and a life. Visitors are a part of that imagined life.

Visitors and visiting make me think of Barbara Grier and her visitors and friendships from her home base in Tallahassee. My vision of Grier is enhanced by the great new biography of her by Joanne Passet. I reviewed it for Lambda Literary (you can read it here) and commend the book to you. The book is a beautiful object to behold and a delicious treat to explore the life of an extraordinary lesbian. Grier prompts me to up my game as a correspondent, host, and guest. Grier reminds me that there is work to be done in the world on behalf of lesbians and literature and I have to do part of that work.

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On Whiteness

Like so many people, I have been grieving and flailing and crying and filled with sorrow since the election results early Wednesday morning. On Facebook, I am surrounded by people who are taking a break from Facebook and the constant updates and overwhelming emotions or severing all “friendships” with people who supported Trump or organizing to call on the electoral college to not validate the election or declaring that Trump is not their president. I understand all of these actions, though I am not taking any of them.

In 2000 when the Supeme Court declared Bush president through the court case, I knew something had changed in the world and I would need to respond to it in some way. Then when September 11th happened, I took action to change what my work was to focus on LGBT rights. It felt like a necessary, life-giving decision. I have the same sense today as I had in the days following the 2000 election: things have changed in the world and my actions in the world need to change as well to respond to these conditions in a meaningful way that reflections my values and ideals.

Yet, now, as then, I do not know exactly what the response will look like. I am grappling with it and that struggle feels like the right process. Here are a few things I know:

The work of Sinister Wisdom is more important than ever before in my stewardship of the journal. Telling lesbian stories, keeping visions of lesbianism and feminism in print is vital work as we prepare to live through a Trump presidency. My commitment to the journal, which has never wavered, is stronger than ever.
My commitment to lifting up the voices of women of color continues and intensifies. There are multiple ways that I act on this commitment, through Sinister Wisdom, through the Lesbian Poetry Archive, and through my work at The New Press. I will continue this work and increase my focus in this area.
While I have been intrigued all year by JD Vance’s Hillbilly Elegy and Nancy Eisenberg’s White Trash, I am committed now to reading them in a further effort to understand what happened in this election. The books arrived today.

The other commitment, or kernel of an idea toward a commitment, is less clear to me. I am struck by the importance of working with white people, particularly white women, on education about race and how racism functions in our society. The numbers of white women and men, surely white women and men that I know and with whom I am friends, who voted for Trump are much higher than I would have imagined. I feel a personal responsibility to talk with and engage these people for future elections, but more importantly, for all of our lives, to bring greater shared understanding of what is happening in our society. Interrogating whiteness and engaging other white people in this work feels crucially important to me at this moment. I do not know how I will do this work, but I know that I need to increase my commitment to it.

Those are my commitments starting to form out of this election, what are yours?

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Our Mothers, Our Grandmothers

All of the stories about women bringing their daughters to the polls, about women dedicating their votes to their deceased mothers or grandmothers, about women voting for women from the past who are without a voice, without a vote, all of these stories make me cry. While I resist the framework that insists on genetic generational connections, I am moved by dedications of women to the plight of women in the past and to the commitment to creating a different future for women.

For those reasons, over the past forty-eight hours, I have been thinking about our collective mothers and grandmothers and what they might have to tell us about the shocking developments of the past two days. Of course, I imagine these women first through my own mother and grandmother. Over the summer, when I would talk incessantly with my grandmother about Hillary Clinton’s campaign for the presidency and how exciting it would be to vote for her in November, my grandmother with extraordinary clarity in spite of the continuing veil of dementia said, They are never going to let a woman be President. They are not going to let that happen. They will welcome Trump before they ever let a woman be President. Turns out, she was right. 

If I channel my own mother, she might say, What a mess. What a mess. But what can you expect? Things never really work out as you want them. Yes, the women in my family like low expectations; we revel in preparation for defeat, in the acceptance of what can never be.

Even if I think back through women I love and admire, messages about disappointment, even despair abound. One of my favorites is from Lucy Stone:

In education, in marriage, in religion, in everything, disappointment is the lot of woman. It shall be the business of my life to deepen this disappointment in every woman’s heart until she bows down to it no longer.

And Woolf has good words on the futility of life in To The Lighthouse:

What is the meaning of life? That was all — a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years. The great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one.

All of this is to say, our mothers and grandmothers know about defeat and loss. They understand the pain of wanting and being denied. They also know to work for little daily miracles, to press for rage in women’s lives that through rage they might transform the world. So here we are, angry, disappointed, hurt, shocked, filled with rage and disbelief. Scared. Uncertain. Worried. Frightened. We have all manner of thoughts and feelings. As have our mothers and grandmothers. And we find a way forward. We find a way to do the work that presents itself each morning. We find a way to move forward the ideas and principles to which we hold, which we carry from the women who preceded us. Like our mothers and grandmothers, we suffer from the dashing of our hopes and dreams, and, like our mothers and grandmothers, we carry the flame forward. Our work continues. Find the daily miracle. Look for the match. Strike.

Voting stickers at the grave site of Susan B. Anthony.

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Sometimes, Bullies Win

Tibe and Emma know: sometimes bullies win. There is nothing you can do. You have to sell your house and leave the state. It is disruptive. There is terrible loss and confusion. Then you find your footing again. You continue your work. For Tibe and Emma, that work is sitting in the evening sun. What is your work in the face of bullies?

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Avowed Released!

Today is the official publication day of my fourth collection of poetry, Avowed. Sibling Rivalry Press officially releases the book today. This is my second book with Sibling Rivalry Press. It is an extraordinary pleasure to work with Bryan Borland and Seth Pennington, both poets themselves. Definitely check out Bryan’s extraordinary new book Dig, from Stillhouse Press. For this collection, the phenomenal designer Anna Sudit created the cover. I am thrilled with it. I hope you find it a gorgeous entry into the poems. 

I hope you will take a few minutes over the next few days to buy Avowed from Sibling Rivalry Press. Direct purchases benefit small presses more than purchases from Amazon, though the book is available there, and even the author, though I would be delighted to send you a signed copy. I am very proud of this book. Take a bit of time to read it and let me know what you think. In the meantime, happy publication day to Avowed!

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Voting Magic

I voted early in Florida, my first time ever voting early. I like the polls on Election Day. The energy of the poll workers, the inevitability of a new, first time voter with all of his or her excitement to finally engage in the electoral process. Early voting in Florida lacked some of that energy. I went to the polls at the library in Plant City. It took less than five minutes, though there was a steady steam of people. 

There were a number of women at the polls, primarily older women, a few with their adult daughters in tow. One woman was interrogating the poll worker. In Florida, voters mark ballots with the little bubbles like in standardized testing. Then the ballots get fed into a computer and the computer says at the end, Congratulations, your vote has been recorded. One woman asked the poll worker, what does that mean? Was it recorded for the right person? I want to vote for Hillary, how do I know it was right. He explained, quietly and repeated, if you selected Hillary Clinton on the ballot that is how it was recorded. Yes, she said, but how do I know that? There was clearly some skepticism among the electorate. Though everything appeared on the up and up.

Another woman was inquiring of the check in workers at the polls, If I vote today how I want to and then I come and vote with my husband, which ballot will count? He wants me to vote Republican, which I will but I want my vote for Hillary to count. Can I vote for her today and then vote the rest of the ballot with him on Election Day? The poll worker explained that she could only vote one ballot, but that the ballots were confidential and her husband did not need to see it. She said, you do not know my husband. It is a hard world out here for some women. She decided to vote the whole ballot that day. Who knows how she will explain it at home.

I cast my ballot quickly and decisively. It felt great to vote for who I hope will be our first woman president. It also felt great to vote in a swing state. It has been a number of years since I have had that pleasure.

My only regret of this election season? I have not participated as a volunteer for any campaign. Next time. For now though I am feeling incredibly grateful to many friends and acquaintances on Facebook who have been out volunteering. Thank you to everyone who has made phone calls, knocked on doors, distributed handbills, helped people to the polls, and done the real labor of our electoral system. Voting magic is not only casting our ballots, but also being a part of the process. Thank you!

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Reading Pat Parker

When the first Sapphic Classic published, we launched it at AWP, the big writers conference, in Boston. It snowed in Boston that week, but after the conference started and everyone was snow-bound in the big convention center. Outside it was cold and blustery, but inside was a warm joie de vivre. Famed poet and wonderful human being Kazim Ali came by the table and looked thoughtfully at everything there. Then he said, you know what book is a Sapphic Classic? Pat Parker’s Jonestown and other madness.

I had just begun talking with Parker’s heirs about the possibility of a Sapphic Classic so Kazim’s words were an extraordinary validation. Many years later, here we are with The Complete Works of Pat Parker available.

One of the things I value about Parker’s work is the way she thinks and writes about white people. She responds to racism with sly humor that is both cutting and illuminating. We read some of those poems last night, including, “For the White Person Who Wants to be My Friend” and the previously unpublished “White People.” I also read “Jonestown,” Parker’s long poem about the mass suicide/homocide at Jonestown in Guyana.

I had one of those moments of being unprepared while reading “Jonestown,” even though I had prepared on the plane. Parker uses the n-word a handful of times during the poem. This issue did not register for me while reviewing the poem in advance, so while reading I was left wondering, do I say it or don’t I. I never say the word in normal speech, but I admit in reading other’s work aloud the decision to say it or not fascinates me (and has been fodder for many classroom discussions.) When I was a more avid hip hop listener, I could easily default while singing along to tigger, which seemed an appropriate middle ground for me as a white woman. I could not easily drop tigger last night. I barreled through and read the words as Parker wrote them, surprising myself (though perhaps I should not be surprised) at the ease with which the n-word rolled off my lips. It was like Parker was in the back of the room, aware of my internal dialogue about how to handle her work and laughing and enjoying it all.

I am not sure I made the right decision. There is something unseemly about a white woman standing at a microphone saying the n-word to a full house. When I read the poem again, I may handle it differently. For now though, Parker is present; I am wrestling again with her words and pleased. Do not tell Tibe, but Parker may be more present in the blogging world of the future than he.

Readers at Sparkle celebrating The Complete Works of Pat Parker. Busboys and Poets, Washington, DC, November 6, 2016.

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Celebrating The Complete Works of Pat Parker

Copies of The Complete Works of Pat Parker are all out in the mail to Sinister Wisdom subscribers. I like to imagine them dancing their way through the USPS to delighted readers. Mailing out copies is not enough though to celebrate this book. We must gather with people to read the book together and share joyous yawps about its existence in the world.

Tomorrow, Regie Cabico and Danielle Evennou will host a celebratory ending at the DC reading series, Sparkle. If you are in the area, please join us. Here is a link to the Facebook event. 

On November 19th, we will gather in San Francisco at the Public Library to celebrate the book. This event will be a special treat. If you are in the area join us!

On Sunday, 11 December we will gather at 2 pm at the Lesbian Herstory Archives to celebrate the book. More details will be coming, but mark your calendar now.

I hope to see folks out and about celebrating the inimitable, wonderful Pat Parker.

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Friendship

I thought that I did not have a lot to learn about friendship; I thought I understood friendship, how to be a friend, how to have friends. This past year, I have learned a lot more about friendship, how it manifests itself I our lives, how unexpected and capacious it can be, how it sustains and nurtures.

After the incident, which occurred now just over a year ago when our beloved Tibe bit another dog, I lost sight of the meaning of friendship and of its power. The bullies who organized against us were not friends, but we were friendly with them. They were not women with whom I would confide my deepest desires, my secret longings, but I saw them a few times a week. We talked. We were connected as “friends” on Facebook. The pain of this entire experience soured me on friendship. Many days, alone in Michigan, in the dark and the cold, I hardened my heart to friendship, to the idea of being friends with people, to human connections. Friends I understood from that experience were people who were going to eventually hurt you in the ways that mattered most and cut you off from the life you call your own. I did not want friends. I did not want people in my life.

Yet people remained and friends remained. What has struck me over the past year is the extraordinary kindness of some people, of some of my friends, even in the face of my disillusionment, my vitriol, my lack of kindness, my anger, my rage. Some people could understand and appreciate my internal landscape without my explanations often and respond to them not with narcissism but with compassion. Some people in the face of my meanness, my anger, my rage, were kind witnesses. Some people enacted friendship through action, often from many miles away. To wit, over the past year, my mail box has been full. Letters, cards, and postcards from people with no expectation of response. Books, so many books! Popular dishy novels that have delighted me, lesbian potboilers satirizing my beloved Barbara Grier, small obscure chapbooks of extraordinary value to me, the list could go on. One dear friend after talking to me about how completely overwhelmed I was by the newness of everything, by the challenges of finding basic ways to live here in this new state, sent me a gift certificate for a hair cut. No decisions needed; I called, set an appointment, and after fourteen months got my hair cut. Yesterday as I was heading out to the post office with a big stack of Sinister Wisdom mail, a small square box by the fence with this gift inside:

A pottery tea mug featuring a hand-crafted, clay vulva. Here is some detail of it:

In some ways, my heart is still hard from what happened last year at this time, but being seen, being honored in so many ways large and small by friends opens possibilities for a different kind of future. Friends remind me of the right to be angry, of the power of holding on to anger and hurt; they also quietly, persistently suggest it need not last forever.

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