Notabilia

Keeping Count

I’m counting is how I am. I have something to do in 206 minutes. Yes, I count things down like this one minute at a time, as well as how many pages remain in a book I’m reading and how many steps I have left when walking from my weaving room to my bathroom.

Counting like this, down and up and sometime back down again, has been a thing for me for a long time, ever since I discovered it in middle school. Marching band didn’t help matters any. I still count my steps when I exercise. I like to count them like a waltz when I’m happy and in a heavy 5/4 time when I’m angry. I know, for example, that 100 steps equals one minute on my walking pad, Teddy. Yes, I named my walking pad. I named it Teddy. Names are another story.

Now it’s 201 minutes. I lost five minutes of my life writing this. Poof! There they go, the minutes, soon to be hours, soon to be decades. I don’t have many decades left. But I’ll have minutes until the very end. Almost.

Breaker

Somehow knowing there are sandhill cranes in Ardmore, Oklahoma, right now brings me comfort. The area around Ardmore has high rates of trafficking. (I can’t describe that trafficking in more detail without Facebook blocking this post, but I’ll link to an article in the comments.)

My father used to have me talk to truckers using his CB radio on the highway between our home and Lake Texoma. I had a handle. At least one of the men would ask about me using my handle. I didn’t realize what was happening at the time. I mean what kind of men would want to talk to a girl in grade school and what kind of father would facilitate those conversations.

But the birds help—all the birds at Lake Texoma and in Ardmore and in Norman, my hometown. I love the posts about them in the Oklahoma birding group I belong to. The fact is, those birds were there even when I was young. They’ve always been there. Beauty is always everywhere, including inside us, where it’s untouchable.

On and Off the Page

What my last post is leading me to is the understanding that I matter, meaning my voice matters, my perspective matters, my experiences matter, and my identity matters. That’s true for everyone, and it’s also true for me. Reading Andrea Gibson all day yesterday led me here, to a place where I can say That’s true for everyone, and it’s also true for me. In my case, those are easy words to say but hard ones to believe.

What’s also true is that I have a new intersection to consider, one that will guide me as I continue to share my poetry. I want to find publishers who like my work and also want to support my being in poetry. I want my voice, perspective, experiences, and identity to matter to those publishers, not just the work that stems from those things. This is especially important as I try to find homes for my manuscripts.

Right now, I feel that level of support from several publishers, including Chiron Review, Meat for Tea (both the review and the press), Moon in the Rye Press, The Nomad, ONE ART, and Thimble Literary Magazine. Each feels like it’s saying why I write what I write matters, not just what I write. Given what I’ve come through in poetry and in life, that’s important to me.

I don’t want to publish with folks who dislike me or just tolerate me. Once they know a little bit about who I am, I want them to feel like it’s important to include me in poetry, on and off the page.

Fuck Sanism in the Writing Community

I just read one of the most sanist, ableist things I’ve ever seen on Facebook. I am awake and alone and it’s the middle of the night and why do I even try is all I can think. Why do I try when it makes no difference? When folks like me are detested, seen as less than human, when everyone piles on as soon as one person gives the green light to do so?

I don’t know what to say. I am crying and shaking. The person, a writer with whom I share almost 250 mutual friends, is upset because his friend is experiencing psychosis. Folks should read his post and his comments and the comments others have made. Then they should set their own biases aside and imagine someone talking about them that way.

I left my own response in the comments, which I’m sharing below. Fuck sanism. Fuck it. We deserve better, especially from our fellow writers. This writer is wrong. He’s doing immeasurable primary and secondary harm.

—

I’m an advocate for those with mental-health issues and have lived experience myself. I know you’re upset, but I encourage you to find your own center here and situate yourself within a framework of understanding and compassion.

I don’t always love NAMI, but they have support lines for loved ones who are dealing with situations like the one your friend, and by extension you, are going through. You can call them day or night. I encourage you to do so before you do secondary harm to others, like me, who are reading your words and feeling your disgust and hatred for folks like us.

If you wouldn’t say it about a cancer patient, don’t say it about someone experiencing psychosis. It’s dehumanizing and may take someone’s last hope and remaining dignity away. Your words are doing that for me right now. I’ve survived a lot. I’m in tears. You’re saying the part out loud that everyone thinks about us no matter who we are, what we do, what we accomplish, or how much we try to educate others through art and advocacy.

Flint

My father and his friends destroyed my childhood innocence. The poet who sexually assaulted me destroyed the innocence I reclaimed in adulthood. He did it in part by making me talk about how my father and his friends violated me while he violated me. I know you don’t want to hear about that. I know nobody wants to hear about that.

Maybe you want to write your poems. That’s what I want, too. Maybe you want to see your work in the world because you believe it could help others—and you for that matter. That’s what I want, too. Maybe you want to belong to something and feel proud of what you belong to. That’s what I want, too.

If there’s a difference between us, my guess is that you’ve been heard, believed. Or that what happened to you isn’t what’s been happening your whole life. Or that you found poets who are safe, kind, welcoming. Or that you conjured some kind of flint to restart the fire of your life.

One Life

Years ago, Tyrone Williams wrote that the poet who harmed me (and others) suffered two “deaths”—a social death and a cultural death. If Williams were still alive, I’d tell him what I suffered: one life I can’t even stop living, one life that feels like an emotional and physical battle every day, one life where I’ve lost trust in everyone, one life that just won’t end.

Utah State Mental Health Hospital

Here are some of the reasons a person could be committed to the state psychiatric hospital in Utah around the turn of the century: having epilepsy, financial embarrassment, disappointment, softening of the brain, death of a child, poverty, jealousy, unreciprocated love, studying prize fighting, ovarian trouble, reading novels, solar heat exposure, overwork, litigation, sedentary life, hypnotism, having girl trouble, being sheep herder, and smoking cigarettes.

Image: Utah State Mental Hospital in about 1920. From Utah Department of Health and Human Services.

Whateverality

I just called my partner my husband, and he was like I’m your partner not your husband, and I was like you’ve never taken issue with the word husband before, and he was like I am now and besides, he said, if I bring my husband into this, there’s going to be trouble, and I was like, you have a husband, and he was like, me as a husband not a husband I have, and I was like can we pretend like you have a husband and if so what’s he look like and is he into asexualish married nonbinary folks who sometimes lean into bambisexuality, and suddenly my partner was gone and I was sitting alone in the living room on the champagne-colored velvet sofa just as the sun was starting to rise and warm the creek and the horses and the laccolith, and I thought maybe I need a new word for my sexua-whateverthefuck this is.

Utah Mega-Shelter Update

This is major news: Utah’s House Majority Leader has filed a bill that would block plans for a homeless shelter campus in Salt Lake City’s Northpointe neighborhood, angry over what he suggested were broken promises to protect the Great Salt Lake.

On Monday, House Majority Leader Casey Snider, R-Paradise, filed House Bill 253. It would prohibit any permanent shelter over 300 people and shut down any efforts to develop land for what critics have blasted as a “mega-shelter.”

ICE OKC

In Oklahoma, the federal government is attempting to convert a 415,981-square-foot warehouse thirty minutes from the home where I grew up into a 1,500-bed ICE detention center. City attorneys and city officials say they can’t stop it because these detention centers are explicitly exempted from local zoning regulations.

That’s been the case for a long time, with precedents that date back to 1941. What’s changed is the number of people being sent to these centers. That number jumped during Trump’s first term in office and is jumping again during his current term.

What’s also changed are the conditions within these centers and the number of human-rights violations and worse occurring within them, including the homicide of Geraldo Lunas Campos, who was in ICE custody in Montana. According to a witness, five guards held him down. One put an arm around his neck and squeezed until he was unconscious and died.

Detainees held a demonstration inside an ICE facility in Dilley, Texas, two days ago to bring attention to the inhumane conditions within the facility and to demand their freedom. Among those heard shouting during the demonstration? Children.

Five-year-old Liam Ramos, detained in Minnesota last week, is one of the children being detained at the Dilley facility. He’s there with his father.