Honk honk: 2016 wrap up edition

On the whole, 2016 was a shit year with a few bright spots. Here are some of those bright spots, specifically related to writing (though I’ll write another post about all the wonderfully bright people I had the pleasure of spending time with in 2016).

  • Permafrost, a fine literary journal that published my short story “The Time I Listened to Nothing But Warren Zevon for One Year Straight,” also nominated that story for a 2017 Pushcart Prize. This is my first Pushcart nomination, and to say I am honored is an understatement. This nomination has been a huge encouragement to me and my writing, especially at a time when everything was starting to feel pointless. Thank you, Permafrost!
  • I have been writing blog posts for The Rumpus for about a year and a half now, and recently began a new blog column called This Week in Books, where I highlight a recently published book from a small or independent press. I love writing about books (what? you already knew that?!), and love indie presses, so this is a perfect fit for me. I am so grateful to The Rumpus Managing Editor Marisa Siegel for giving me this opportunity.
  • October 2016 marked the one year anniversary of becoming the lead editor for Eleventh Stack, the blog for Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh, where I work. (Again it’s that writing about books thing…) I’m so very proud of the work all the Eleventh Stack bloggers have done over the past year, from beta-testing the library’s new website to writing phenomenal content about everything from Beyoncè to beach reads. Leading this blog is one of the most rewarding aspects of my job, and has been a phenomenal learning experience for me as an editor and writer. Hats off to LA for trusting me with this project, and always being quick with advice and wisdom.

What good things came out of your 2016?

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Learning to Grieve

This year, I learned to grieve, or at least to grieve more fully. I learned to sit with my sadness in the red glow of sunrise. To touch the abyss that split me open again and again and again, to allow myself to be swallowed, and to come back to the world, eventually—changed certainly, but still me.

This year I learned that while grief is uncomfortable, painful, sometimes unbearable (and yet we bear it anyway), it is a sign that we have loved, that we have shared joy, that we have learned, that we have grown, that we are human, that we are still here, breathing, if just barely. That knowledge doesn’t make the grieving any easier, but it is the truth, just the same.

I have faced loss before this year, but I’ve always averted my gaze, retreated into a galaxy far, far away or Narnia or another of a thousand fantasy worlds where my heroes were always there, waiting.

In fiction, even when a character dies, you can turn back the pages or rewind the film and find her there, fighting evil or galactic injustice. Life doesn’t quite work like that. You can fall back on memories and photos, but memory is a tricky thing. The very act of bringing up a memory can alter it, shade it with your current mood and state of mind.

You can reminisce and remember, but you can’t laugh together at an inside joke or watch the same movie for the thousandth time, speaking all the lines in unison.

When I was fifteen, my friend Lacey died suddenly from a brain tumor. I didn’t understand the feeling of emptiness in my chest, so I wrote angsty poetry and re-read the Young Jedi Knight book series that we both loved. Lacey wasn’t my best friend or even among my closest friends, but with whom else could I discuss Jaina and Jacen Solo’s adventures, parental troubles, and awkward teen romances?

For a time, I had a friend to share my universe, and then I didn’t.

I could repeat that line a thousand times with endless variations.

For a time, I had a grandfather who called me Lucy and threatened to throw me in the picky bushes if I misbehaved, and then I didn’t.

For a time, I had a dog with curly black fur and the kindest eyes, and then I didn’t.

For a time, I had a mother figure who made me hot chocolate on snow days and taught me how to pet a horse, and then I didn’t.

You don’t have to have met a person for their death to grab hold of your throat and constrict your lungs. Artists release art into the world where we experience it and re-experience it. That too is a form of bonding, of shared experience, of memory.

But for all those moments, all these losses—many more than I’ve listed here—I never learned how to grieve. How to feel consumed by sadness and know that it is okay to feel that way. I learned that I will get up the next day and carry the torch. And if I’m too weak to walk or carry that torch, I have friends ready to hold me up. And that I will do the same the day after, and the day after that, until it is my turn to face infinity.

2016 has taken much from me, as it almost certainly has from you. Not just celebrity icons like Carrie Fisher and David Bowie (and on and on), but ex-lovers, family members, health, certainty of freedom, and for a time, words themselves.

Learning to grieve isn’t like learning an immutable fact. It’s a process, and it changes for each loss. Grief isn’t something that diminishes you, at least not permanently. It’s possible to lose yourself in grief, the same way it’s possible to lose yourself in depression. But it’s not inherently a process of loss. It’s a process of healing and exploration, of growth and love.

This year, instead of fighting the abyss, I walked headlong into its darkness, allowed myself to be split open, and come out the other side. Some people might want to call this depression, but it’s not—it’s a different type of surrender. It’s surrendering to the unique truth and beauty—and yes, pain, too—that marked your relationship with that person or with that person’s art.

Today I mourn. And tomorrow, also. But I will wake up, and I will carry the torch.

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If Donald Trump Grabbed My Pussy: A Poem

donald trump campaign flyer about how he would defeat ISIS

Donald Trump thinks I would let him grab my pussy
because he is a “star”
because he has money
because he has gotten away with this kind of abuse before.

He would be wrong.

If you think that my political views make me weak
or out of touch with reality,
Let me assure you:

I know the threat of sexual violence against me,
against all women,
Is real. Ever-present. Insidious.

But there are defenses that don’t require brute strength
Or testosterone.

If Donald Trump grabbed my pussy,

I could grab his wrist and twist it upwards.
The pain—a shock that shoots up your entire arm—
can turn a human being, even a famous rich white man,
secure in his immunity and his privilege,
into a crying, sniveling fool.

Or I could bring my heel down on his toes,
then my knee up to his groin
and my elbow down on the back of his neck
as he doubled over, involuntarily, from the agony—
His human frailty laid bare.

Or I could jab his eyes with my fingers,
rigid and sharp against soft jelly
then grab his hair and pull down
until I can kick him in the face.

Tell me, Donald Trump—
What good will all that money be,
all that fame,
when you’re on the ground,
groaning and dripping blood from your nose?

I’m not afraid of you.
If you fuck with me, I will not back down.
You cannot buy my silence, my complacency,
the right to my body.

Anyone can learn a basic wrist lock
or how to cock her hips like a gun,
throw her fist straight like a bullet.
Sisters, friends—I can show you.

I am not Wonder Woman.
I, too, feel pain.
I can’t stop knives, or fly, or even run for very long.
I can’t force men to tell the truth.
But I am not afraid to stand my ground,
and I am not alone.

We are many.
We are furious.
We demand nothing short of revolution.
We have power and strength—
even if men like Donald Trump
want us to think we have neither.

Raise your fists, sisters, friends
and bring them down hard.

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