Tonya Russell on “The First Time”
how my flesh could open into trenches
I rarely feel comfortable writing about/discussing the meaning of my own work. Trying to compose an artist’s statement is much more difficult than writing the poem itself. If I felt that a poem needed (or if any reader wanted) an explanation, clarification, or other words with the suffix “-tion” , the poem would not be complete, or I would need to write another poem, another creature altogether.
“The First Time”, I hope, can speak for itself, speak to you, the reader, without me adding to your reading, or (and this is what I’m terrified of!) taking away from it. I would, however, like to give credit to Sheryl St. Germain for the first line, along with being an amazing woman and an incredible inspiration to my work. (The first line is taken from her brilliant poem “Addiction”.)
So, even though I birthed this short creation, I offer it up to you to interpret as you will, to be moved as much as it allows, and despite my objections to writing a statement, I welcome any and all feedback: observations, criticisms, arguments. Namaste.
Tonya Russell, “The First Time,” Pg. 18
So to Speak Summer 2011 Online Issue featuring poetry and art
Rediscovering the Overlooked: Janis Sweeney Paints the Promise to Return
Recently my paintings have been based on objects that are lost in the human tendency to live for the future. These objects are everyday objects around us but are hardly noticed as we go through our busy lives. They are varied, serendipitously found and generally rooted in everyday life. The purpose of my work is to engage the viewer in a rediscovery of the unintentionally overlooked. I involve myself in intensive visual study and using drawings and photographs I record my subjects, patterns and compositions. These references become the starting point for exploring the possibilities of the piece. My intent is to take something that is uninteresting and often overlooked and, using judgments in composition, color and abstraction, invite investigation and curiosity.
The Lucchetti d’ Amore (Locks of Love) of Florence according to local history and tradition is a custom that was started by young men leaving their home town to go to war. They attached a lock to the Ponte Vecchio bridge before their departure as a promise to return home, essentially a promise to survive the war.
Lovers evolved the tradition, the locks representing a symbol of their eternal love and the act of throwing the key into the Arno River the symbol of the unbreakable bonds of their union. The couples write their names with a felt-tipped pen on one side of the lock and add the date of their passage through Florence on the other side.
Today, tourists have adapted the ritual and attach padlocks to the Ponte Vecchio to document the joy of their visit to Florence, their love of the Italian people and culture, and the unbreakable promise to return.
Janis Sweeney, “Lucchetti di Amore (Locks of Love), Pg. 15
So to Speak Summer 2011 Online Issue featuring poetry and art
Linda Ann Strang: Why it’s crazy to be a feminist and crazy not to be one
fence has rickets; it marks the end of the universe.
I live in a country where, as a woman, you have to be crazy to be a feminist and crazy not to be one. Feminism is frowned upon by many people, including females, so admitting to being a feminist draws a lot of hostility and ridicule, as I know from bitter experience. That’s why it is crazy to be feminist in South Africa.
This is why it’s crazy not to be one: South Africa has been called “the rape capital of the world” (its main competitor for this ‘honour’ being the Democratic Republic of Congo). It’s been said that a South African woman has a better chance of being raped than she has of completing secondary school; and this isn’t just some arbitrary information for me. I’ve witnessed the suffering of my neighbours and friends. One acquaintance was raped and strangled. Another was raped and stabbed in the throat – but she survived. Yes, South African society is characterized by crime and violence. But the women here identify vigorously with their aggressors – and, quite frankly, I do too most of the time. So feminism for me is not so much about theories as it is about surviving another day and holding onto a bit of self-respect.
If it weren’t for reading feminist works from an early age, I don’t think I’d have the courage to be a writer. Reading Joanna Russ’s How to Suppress Women’s Writing and Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own impressed on me that it is politically important for women to write. When I remember these books I can’t give up, even though I often want to succumb to despair. It was wonderfully affirming to have my first poetry collection, Wedding Underwear for Mermaids, accepted by Honest Publishing last year – but I still need some feminist solidarity to keep me strong.
Linda Ann Strang, “The Snapdragon Peace Accord,” Pg. 30
So to Speak Summer 2011 Online Issue featuring poetry and art
Dean C Robertson: “On the Corner of University and 30th: Engaging our feminist and queer politics for equality.”
*******Nadia repeats an old story to herself, hums a psalm.
*********Every time she hears nail to wood she thinks coffin.
I have always found myself aligned with feminism vis-à-vis my background in queer theory. There are many similarities in which both groups work to achieve equality in an oppressive system, and with language being the power structure that facilitates this oppression, I have always looked at poetry as a way to explore these dynamics. My poetry has a tendency to revolve around the suffering of bodies, particularly those of queers and women because we are the most vulnerable to violence within the hetero-patriarchal structure of American politics. One in four women are sexually assaulted in their lifetime and countless queer youths commit suicide based on their sexual difference. Nadia is one of the many characters I use to exemplify this violence and oppression these bodies face in our post-millennium society, a society that, seemingly, and only on the surface, prides itself on acceptance.
Letto di Inferno was inspired by a drag queen I saw in the North Park neighborhood of San Diego; North Park has been typically a lower to middle-class queer neighborhood and as it has gentrified over the past few years, it has become less gay-oriented and less gay-friendly. One night, a drag queen stood on the corner of University and 30th, the main intersection of the neighborhood. Although the street was full of people, it was impossible to miss her; she carried herself with a distinct power, camp, and sass that grasped all those that passed her, their faces flashing in reverence to her immaculate beauty, including three men who were as enraptured as I was, who thought that she was a woman until they noticed the Adam’s apple and the voice a few notes too low. It was then that they began to hurl drunken pejoratives I haven’t heard strung together in a sentence before. Ever. The words they used were no different than the rhetoric of terrorists, and it was with these hate-filled words that the violence of language shattered her right there on a street corner, before a crowd of people. And none of us did anything but console her as she was harassed for being exquisite.
This is one of many examples of hate crimes focused on the gay community, and San Diego is tolerant. We have a large gay population here, yet in the past few months a man was stabbed in the head at a taco shop for being gay; there is also a serial paintball gunman who has shot groups of people in front of gay establishments and community centers. For now, those paintballs aren’t bullets, but when will they be? As much as we wish it were true, this nation is not wholly free. Not until a woman can walk at night, unguarded; not until an effeminate gay man or a butch lesbian can walk down the street without fear of hearing the word “faggot” or “dyke;” not until queers can openly express affection in public; not until body dysmorphia no longer affects young girls; until these issues, compounded with a host of other issues, are resolved, sexual and gender oppression will remain a part of our culture. As writers, and especially poets, it is our duty to explore these inequalities through language, to begin journals such as this one that investigates these problems, and to seek ways to find equality and safety within an oppressive system. Until identity politics has become a thing of the past because equality has finally been achieved, then we know we have done our work as feminists and queer activists.
Dean C Robertson, “Letto di Inferno” Pg. 27
So to Speak Summer 2011 Online Issue featuring poetry and art
“won’t you celebrate with me”: Kateema Lee on women who raise women up
hands holding her up, hands holding me up, hands holding us up.
When I was growing up, my mother had what I fondly call today a kitchen beauty shop. She would often have remarkable discussions with women as she would press and curl, wash and set, or cut and style their hair. Women would talk about the mistreatment they suffered at work and at home, they would share their talents and ideas, and they would support each other. Most days, after coffee, Watergate cake and advice, the women left with a smile. In my mother’s kitchen, black women had a safe place to speak, a space not afforded to them in other places.
Having listened to those conversations, I learned so much about the resilience of women and why it was important for them to have a forum or an outlet to share ideas, anxieties and fears, and to talk about experiences with people who understood or at the very least empathized with their daily struggle of being both “non-white and woman” in a society that celebrated the mythical norm. As an adult, I think about the many voices I heard as a child, and I am aware that despite advances, the need to create, to maintain, and to support forums for women’s issues continues. That is why I appreciate reading and enjoy contributing to feminist literary outlets: because in many ways, they remind me of the kitchen conversations I grew up listening to.
One of my favorite quotes, words that inform my aesthetic in many ways, is a quote from Audre Lorde: “I write for those women who do not speak, for those who do not have a voice because they were so terrified, because we are taught to respect fear more than ourselves. We’ve been taught that silence would save us, but it won’t.” As a poet, daughter, and feminist, I celebrate and write for women, past and present, who created safe spaces and through silent strength, perseverance, and encouragement made it possible for women like myself to speak and to have the freedom to write about feminism, about poetry, and about my voice.
In my poem “Our Hands,” inspired by one of my poet heroes, Lucille Clifton’s poem, “won’t you celebrate with me,” I celebrate the strength of women who continue, despite their own personal struggles, to raise women up. I celebrate women like my grandmother who exuded pride, strength, and beauty in their church hats on Sunday mornings in spite of the sexism and racism they endured on a daily basis. And finally, I celebrate women like my mother who aren’t mentioned as pioneers of feminism but were and continue to be contributors nonetheless. “Won’t you celebrate with me!”
Kateema Lee, “Our Hands,” Pg. 16
So to Speak Summer 2011 Online Issue featuring poetry and art
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