The Dangers of the Rumor Mill and Hearsay (for Marginalized Folk)

A decade or so ago, when I was in my mid-twenties, I volunteered to teach ESL to senior citizens in Chinatown. At one point others decided to join in. It was a change I had to get used to — being the only instructor to be one of two, then three. In my attempt to engage with one of the other instructor, one moment in particular pierces the surface: I spoke to the new guy, tatted up, his motorcycle helmet perpetually by his side, and said “You know what I heard?” This was in regards to his co-workers who were friends of my husband’s. His face simultaneously reflected irritation and boredom. He wasn’t interested in the fact that one guy was cheating on his girlfriend with his co-worker who also worked the concession stand. Though I saw the reaction it happened again. The same face and this time he ended the convo quickly. I think his name was Joe and Joe had a point. The rumors/gossip had nothing to do with him. Who was I at that age to even be spreading stuff to people I didn’t know?

I can say now that it was an attempt at connection. It’s a false and sordid learning curve to be accepted or appreciated or, some may think, respected when being able to have the info/intel on others and disperse it at your leisure and pleasure. It’s often easier to talk about others than oneself.

The gossip/rumor mill is dangerous territory. Asses got beat in my middle and high school years for these kinds of transgressions (she said you said along with I heard from so and so). Most of the time I saw this result in physical confrontations between girls, but boys were not exempt. True story: I saw a fight begin and end in a matter of 10 seconds when a guy walked up to my best friend’s boyfriend on the street, his own posse huddled behind him ready to go, and said “I heard you said s*** about me in the school cafeteria.” In one swift motion the guy hiked up his jeans and lifted his chin ready for action. His people spread out and my friend’s boyfriend surveyed those around him weighing whether he was going to get tag teamed or this was mano y mano. They spread out, did that boxing jump in prep for battle, and my friend’s boyfriend landed a punch to the guy’s nose that bled instantly. The guy backed away, said “Oh s*** my nose.” That was it. The boyfriend and I got on the next Q44. I said “If someone had blinked you’d have missed the whole thing.” Days, maybe even a couple of weeks later the guy and my friend’s boyfriend gave each other daps in the cafeteria as if nothing had happened. It was an unnecessary lesson.

I’ve been at the end of those kinds of rumors as a child and an adult. One girl in elementary school had come up to me, already matured by her own conflicts on the playground, “Afterschool” as some shouted the threat hanging in your ears and stomach until students were released. Somehow my name was spread around in circles that ultimately got to her. At a prepubescent age she essentially asked me, face-to-face, “Did you say s***?” To which I said “Not at all.” To which she said “Okay.” That was that. No “Afterschool,” no further incidences. Handled.

Rumors and hearsay and, let’s admit it, flat out lies have gotten people killed. Men and women strung up by their necks with their insides carved out for sport if not a perceived restitution and right. The most grotesque form of perceived “justice” exerted on individuals because of fear, insecurity, supremacy, and thirsts for power. I have seen the photos, clear as day in black & white with a parade of faces staring back at the camera. I suspect I may have direct lineage to those who were lost, those who were one of the original disappeared for this nation’s colonized society, some who never got amends but had to deal with it because this was the nation we were and are in. It’s the suspicions that take hold morphing into it’s own form of “truth” where victims go on trial and their loss of life deemed acceptable. Those lost due to this have often been the marginalized and in my family in particular people of color. Perspectives can vary but one thing that cannot be debated is the danger, not only in the single story as Chimamanda noted, but in the feeling of absolution when you think you know what’s occurred and in fact have no clue because, as victim, it becomes a new sort of terror that takes hold.

The term & designation of “victim” can be delicate territory. Meaning who “deserves” your sympathy/empathy in this case? It’s all too common for the victim of trauma to have to qualify the events that hurt them. It’s dangerous to press or want to make distinctions. In some cases the roles of plaintiff and defendant seem clear — Did he/she/they steal? Yes? Guilty. The tenets of the U.S. judicial system even say “innocent until proven guilty.” This was hammered into my and the other potential juror’s heads during jury duty earlier this year. But what we see and hear cannot be dismissed because it takes hold and judgments accrue in a way that is not okay because we “heard” things. Wasn’t she dressed a certain way? Did consent happen before or after? Why were you out so late in the first place? If you didn’t have your phone out maybe it wouldn’t have gotten stolen. Or what‘s been said to me, “If you hadn’t gotten them upset such and such wouldn’t have happened.” Too often it can be simple to center self in the rumor mill and hearsay game. It can be habitual too to dismiss and center oneself rather than listen. This is what I learned in therapy years ago in addition to what I’ve learned from truly aware white friends: to take stock is to own oneself and being able to explain your hurt as well as understand someone else’s. In the rumor mill things can be said, thrust out in the world for many reasons, but what I’ve seen/experienced is it stems from the same reason I told Joe things he had no business knowing in my twenties: to be accepted and to do so meant tearing someone else down. It’s how bullying begins or ends, if bullying ever does end. It’s where the fight to maintain self comes into play. It’s why some of us are hardened and “not nice” to maintain a balance of awareness and ownership.

My ex-husband and I went to therapy for a good 2 years in an attempt to salvage a marriage that not only couldn’t be saved but should’ve never taken place. Therapy requires open-mindedness, humility, as well as listening skills. I learned a lot in those 2 years and also in the time I continued seeing the same therapist after a very stressful divorce that had me blubbering in a court room in front of strangers, judge, lawyer, and court security. In therapy my husband and I were required to hear one another. When we didn’t there was an independent observer available to take stock and explain what was occurring because it was easy to attack but was it possible to also take stock in what others were feeling as well in that situation? As far as I was concerned I was always right and so was my husband when in fact we both had issues and had to grow from them. I think that’s where I first took stock of the fact that to be better meant being human and owning my s***. It wasn’t nor is it easy, but I’m proud of the progress made.

Earlier this year, the day after my 36th birthday in fact, Vanity Fair posted an article where it was revealed that the woman who accused a child, Emmett Till, of being the worst form of pervert and this allegation, her testimony — along with White rage and racism of course — lead to the death of Till and later exoneration of those who killed him. It didn’t matter whether what he said was true — which to me and many others never seemed to be — all that mattered was that fear was incited and anger stroked to the point that this child was not only killed but tortured. In John Edgar Wideman’s latest book he attempts to piece together the life of Louis Till, Emmett’s father, who would die under similar circumstances, in this case due to a white woman’s accusations of rape. Whether or not it’s true for Louis we will never know — given the time period and the sources it could be a sordid and prophetic tale of the demise between father and son. There are layers to this but what cannot be forgotten or dismissed even in the 21st century when we continue to say “that was then and this is now” that the perception, the rumors, the lack of recognition of others, ultimate hearsay and allegations have detrimental effects.

Childish antics are called such but don’t necessarily stop in childhood. They surface or continue through adulthood, when supposedly we’re aiming to move forward and not stay the same. It’s a point where we comprehend even more how much words have power and that power can chip away or destroy as well as uplift. It’s why some of us cling so hard to words because we need them and use them to help ourselves as well as others. It’s sad and unsettling when it turns out those words are manipulated to create chaos and instill suspicion while those throwing out said words, which become sentences, which can lead to paragraphs that incite pain stand back to watch what transpires. It’s why Trump’s tweets are dangerous. Why it’s important to hear both sides but also not to rely on one more than the other when facts aren’t supplied. It’s why we all have a responsibility to be ‘better than’ not ‘on par with.’ It’s why the danger of the post-9/11 narrative against Muslims has taken lives and lead to the reduction if not abolishment of civil rights for so many marginalized people over time. The hearsay, the rumor, the skepticism that you are bad because I heard this, I read this, I trusted this source more than I trusted the people involved gets messy.

Last week, I had lunch with a group of friends. I said “Oh wait until you hear the drama leading up to — ” One of my friends stopped me dead, “Nope. I don’t want to hear it,” she said. I smiled and laughed, perhaps out loud or to myself. She was/is right and I’m still learning.

Does (White) Privilege Need to Be Presented on The Page When it Comes to Contemporary Literature?

A friend handed me the new memoir The Rules Do Not Apply by Ariel Levy saying she thought I might like it. I had highly suggested Melissa Febos’ new memoirs Abandon Me thinking the same. I’d heard vague things about Levy’s book, more so due to the author’s status in the literature arena (she works at The New Yorker and before that New York magazine). Since she’s a writer for The New Yorker I figured I may dig it. I looked through the first chapter or so and then skimmed forward to get to the nitty gritty. Beyond my editorial comment of length, focus, and this being more material for a couple long-form essays than a full memoir, what turned me off immediately was the level of privilege present throughout.

The New Republic review by Charlotte Shane entitled “Ariel Levy’s Infuriating Memoir of Privilege and Entitlement” pretty much capped off my feelings very well, for the most part.

She doesn’t speak from inside one-size-fits-all feminine ambition but rather garden-variety white entitlement.

Yes, the white privilege irked me, a lot, but so did the cis-gender privilege from a woman who identifies as queer. She misgendered an ex who had transitioned to male. She made assumptions about their life and twisted whatever their mental state was with their gender, which may or may not be true in certain instances but I don’t necessarily need this narrator to take on those labels. I think Charlotte does a good job of noting that the white and socioeconomic privilege is a problem to read in that, it distances many of the readers. In seeing this book in print as is perhaps no one thought to mention this issue to Levy in the production phase, nor did they see it, neither did they care.

In a White, straight, cis, abled dominated industry, that is albeit “liberal” in many ways, publishing, as we know it, still has a long way to go in terms of true uniformity of recognizing privilege as well as being inclusive. These seem to be at opposite ends of the spectrum depending on whom you speak to. Going back to books and films that I enjoyed, even music, when revisiting the work there are things I notice, aspects of character, points of plot, issues in dialogue and voice that stand out to me because I know more now and I aim to look for issues (i.e., problematic content) because I’m being paid to. Not only is this my life as an editor but as a writer and it is colored by my being a woman of color. My observations are heightened to moments of conflict such as a man in my work place continually telling me to smile during a business meeting, or noticing how PoC co-workers may be terse in response to fellow PoCs but completely saccharine to white counterparts. It’s a point where we refuse to pronounce people by their right name let alone preferred gender pronoun (PGP) because it’s “so confusing” or too “inconvenient.” To notice these things is to take us a step further towards equality, to ignore or dismiss or remain ignorant keeps us in stasis if not reverting us back to what those before us saw not only behind-the-scenes but in their face because it was perfectly legal.

With that in mind, is it fair for us to take this new lens and look at the past in literature as well as the present and future of it expecting the authors and thereby narrators expound on the issues presented but also being aware of privilege? Hell yes. I read Fates and Furies by Lauren Groff soon after it was nominated for a National Book Award. I went in prepared to be let down by the fact that this was going to be a harangue of sorts in novel form about affluent, white, beautiful people with issues attributed specifically to them and not much else. Groff surprised me. For one, she admitted and showed the privilege of the white male character Lotto and also the struggles of his wife Mathilde who remade her life after not having much to begin with, especially in the way of love. They weren’t perfect in terms of looks or personalities but they had that je ne sais quo that garnered them a fan club and they could play a really good game. Within the first chapter Groff prefaced that this couple, in particularly Lotto, were white and privileged, and she didn’t hesitate to immerse readers in their life with strong writing but also by reminding me as reader that to be invested in this particular couple she had to run the gamut and also have people review their biases. Whether or not that meant things ended well you’d have to read. And while it isn’t a white privilege manifesto she did the favor, if not the necessity, of pointing out something that others were reading thereby bringing me further into this world instead of pushing me away from it. It ended up being one of my favorite reads of 2016.

One of the bigger struggles I’ve had with a linked story anthology I’ve been writing for longer than I care to say — definitely more than 5, 6, 7 years at this point — is one of the main characters: a white, well-off financially, good-looking, and intelligent man who is a doctor from a family of doctors. He is my polar opposite in any way that could be checked off on a Census survey. He is also someone people don’t seem to like. Not because he isn’t pleasant but because they cannot relate, or choose not to for reasons I respect, because he is everything that we are not. He has it all, so why, on a fundamental level, would his Black, working class wife (whom others better enjoy reading about, in that we see her struggles) be in love with him? I realized that to at least have some empathy for the most privileged of characters I needed him to reconcile with his privilege, not wholly because that’d be too easy and convenient, but in a way that lead others to see some sort of change with him. Also, I made him too perfect on the exterior that even if he did have somewhat of a broken interior it wasn’t enough of a balance in the fiction world. To make this guy who has a Black wife not necessarily teach him but show him and encourage him to notice that he has to grow up himself which, I’d hope, may not necessarily make him more likeable but readers would give him the benefit of the doubt with sticking with him for the bulk if not the entire story. Let’s be clear, this character is not the “bad guy,” but he’s representative of a larger issue many call out, and have always called out, and we need to face it, be it in media or in life.

I recall reading Eat, Pray, Love soon after it released due to hype. At the time, this was almost a decade ago, I could not quite articulate why I had issues with it. One of the biggest things that hit me was that the narrator, Elizabeth Gilbert, got paid to take her journey for enlightenment to get over her divorce and a relationship with a younger man. I just couldn’t connect as a young Black woman in a bad marriage working her butt off to make more money and move up the ladder in publishing. It definitely wasn’t the book for me at the time, but would it ever be? This is not a knock against Gilbert, it’s a knock against the industry that continues to celebrate these unremarkable (Shane’s words for Levy’s books) stories that are solidly written but seem so out-of-reach and out-of-touch for a good portion of people who will never have these opportunities. If this is what gets pushed through why do we not see more stories from other marginalized groups that are also “unremarkable” in their plot points and skillful in voice? It’s what also infuriates me about those white, straight, abled, and often male travelers who get to be the face of international exploration. They gain momentum on Instagram and Twitter, are interviewed on CBS This Morning for the fact that they decided to go see the world and how “the other half lives.” They receive praise, corporate ad deals, and currency for this when many of us will never have this opportunity to just go. Add to that many won’t feel safe enough to sojourn to various nations without being worried about our physical well-being as women, as transgender, as people of color/Natives, as Muslims, and so on. In fact it heralds back to the colonization of the United States that to travel and act as if you’re discovering something is valued whereas those who had been speaking on this do not have this access.

In Roxane Gay’s brief review of Levy’s book on Goodreads she gave it a favorable rating while also noting the issue of privilege and how it’s ignored. She said it wasn’t necessarily a requirement of the text itself, but how can it be so ignored when it’s so evident (I’m summarizing here). How can Levy’s cisgendered, socioeconomic (though that does waver in the book based on circumstances), and white privilege not manifest in a memoir of all genres in any way?

I’m sure Levy’s book is going to do well because of her status in the literary world and her privilege of her position — how she got the job even touches upon the nepotism and networking not available to others in the publishing industry. What concerns me is how often the issues for transgender representation aren’t mentioned (not even in Shane’s review) for this particular book and also that those who blurbed it, all white people, one white male, praise it for it’s depth and ability to change when the author doesn’t truly seem to be impacted by the latter is worrisome.

On Twitter, an editor for an imprint at a Big 5 publisher noted that when she receives material about/by white people their race is never mentioned, but when it’s a PoC it’s always mentioned (I retweeted this from my podcast account). This says more about the state of persisting the “majority norm” than the state of progress. Because we’re continuing to be averse to the critical reading, not solely criticism for the sake of it and certainly not criticism of people, to look at what is on record for those of future accord. What will we discuss when we look back at these memoirs of white privilege, of cis privilege and think on when we — the industry most prominently — desire to know more of marginalized pain and not much else? Where we have to constantly reflect on our state as marginalized whereas our white/cis/abled/Christian counterparts don’t have to? It’s not unfair for both sides to be reflective and it can only benefit all of us to bring us closer to the page.

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The Politics of “Nice” as a Black Woman, Doing Advocacy Work, in a Social Justice-y Arena

I was telling a podcast guest this just yesterday: There’s very little that I won’t say to someone’s face. This is a positive and a negative. I haven’t always been this way but the more you know, grow, and learn, the less you may be inclined to play by certain rules you feel are destined to make you a performance artist in your everyday life.

You know the image of the two faces? Specifically the one used for theatre: one mask smiles widely, the other frowns on the verge of tears. That’s what I mean. I also like the phrase “tears of a clown” or “laughing through my tears” to express that dichotomy of pain and either a semblance of hope or one on the brink of mania.

Back in my teens and 20s I was pretty damn obedient. (Obedient is the best word I can convey in this instance.) I was “obedient” in that I rarely if ever disclosed my concerns publicly and especially to people in authority who may have been the issue. I always went to my confidants and we bemoaned our lives as assistants working unpaid overtime, willingly though not happily, too nervous to say anything. We were taken advantage of for hundreds of dollars by our publisher, inciting this kind of work ethic that to get ahead and be respected was to show how much you would do for free before being compensated in any way. Now, I cannot say this is tied to my race or even my gender so much as I noticed many of us (white, Black, male, female) going forward with this seemingly known fact: We weren’t worth it. Now, take that into other realms of your life where maybe not money but time or at least presentation is taken into account. Where you see bits of yourself being chipped away in public or private and you take it day by day. You don’t want to say anything, particularly if you’re a Black woman in my case, because you don’t want to be that person. (I had a friend/former co-worker who refused to eat Popeye’s at the office because she didn’t want people to smell her fried chicken and assume she was a ghetto Black person.) This is how deep these representations go. We have to be dainty, polite, articulate, even in the face of problematic comments and engagements. It’s exhausting. We have to be nice. When a man touches me on the street I should’ve been “nice” in my reproach of his advances. When a boss yells at a vendor but says you cannot use a “tone” to express your dismay, instead be “nice.” When someone who has openly said something racist says, “Well, if you’d said it a different way I would’ve listened” meaning you have to be nice. Even when a problem arises our approach to trying to squash it needs to be calculated and plotted out like a friggin’ novel.

The issue of niceness is one that is forever embedded in every aspect of our lives and as a woman of color it’s a big part of how my life is expected to be molded around other’s expectations but also feelings. (Exhausting.) I am not a politician for a reason. If I were a politician I’d like to think I’d be the Maxine Waters (or Shirley Chisholm) of politicians, asking direct questions and brushing off inane comments about my hair to keep focus on the facts of the situation. Dodging ridiculousness at every angle to say, “Can we focus?” But she’s also had a much longer time in politics to say “I really don’t care” and while people, like myself, are as invested in her message and how she handles herself for her constituents, I can guarantee before this hype and even after she has been told time and time and time again that she needs to consider how she looks to others, that she could be a bit more “subdued” or “kind” in terms of someone else’s ego. I can totally see one of her fellow congressmen or woman saying: “You may wanna tone it down a bit, Maxine. More people would listen if you said it in a nicer way.” It’s an expectation and weight put on people, particularly the marginalized, unfairly and it’s not only the majority and men who thrust this at us, it’s also those within underrepresented communities.

I’ve been told I’m respected because you know where the wind blows with me. My face doesn’t hide much these days and I push not an agenda as much as the necessity to think and ask questions. I can react pretty quickly but when it comes to how things are handled I can also be very deliberate before making a decision because I want to know everything involved to make an educated guess. My barrage of questions, I have been told, “makes people feel bad” or “stupid.” This is not my problem. One’s inability to fully formulate a plan then present it to others for involvement means people, like myself, want to know what we’re getting into. This has no bearing on feelings or one’s emotional stability. This is about facts and facts alone.

Within the social justice arena some have made a profit off of being blunt. That is their brand and platform, but it’s not safe for all of us to pursue that path because of obvious reasons. Some women of color shroud or mix this honesty with humor to make others feel better about listening. There’s a reason why we hear the same voices spout thoughts that those in the marginalized community have said years ago, however when they pounded the desk and shouted it into the rafters it becomes a gif gone viral rather than someone who is attacked by trolls with no recourse for defense in their own home.

Within social justice as within any other arena the work is about others but that doesn’t mean politics are not involved nor does it mean the expectation of niceness is dormant, it’s ramped up there as well. For all the times I’m told I’m well-respected, I’m also given the cold shoulder for being that verbose and that honest. It’s not my brand so much as it’s how I live my life. Games are exhausting, they take a certain level of dexterity and mental skill. If I want to play games I’ll open up my Mahjong or Tetris or Food service app and sweat it out.

Being honest (i.e., for some reason not synonymous with nice) doesn’t mean rudeness by default. It means, requesting that someone say what they mean and mean what they say without concern for relationships so much as a determination to be on equal footing. If you said you want more marginalized writers I expect you to stand by that. If you say you would consider me for something, I’d hope you meant that because I will follow up. If you say you hear the calls and issues of those around you, I’d really want to see that you’re following up on this. If you say you hate seeing Black bodies discarded by police brutality then I expect you to speak up on the issue when it arises in your sphere, not remain silent. If you say that you’re learning from your mistakes and yet, and yet, said mistakes arise again and again and defensiveness comes up then it’s showing that this was lip service, not an eagerness or real determination on one’s part to be better. It means you want your kudos for reciting the right script and not going beyond that. You can be “nice” and be a horrible person. You can be brutally honest and a good person. These things are not mutually exclusive no matter how much people want to believe in the easy, yet flawed, categorizations of good vs. evil or hero vs. villain.

№45 is not a nice person nor is he nice in how he comes off and yet, and yet, he’s the leader of the United States. Do not act as though being “nice” is all uphill in terms of how one lives their life or what their successes are.

It’s taken work for me to get to a point where I’m comfortable with being as honest as I am. I still have work to do in various areas but in this I am good as long as mutual respect is given. I don’t chase, I don’t drag, and I don’t do petty/high school back and forth. If you want something, say it. If you feel a certain way, be open about it. If you need time to consider where you’re coming from, take that time. Fact is people go ghost rather than reflect. They get into arguments, presenting their CV of work done without accounting for hurt caused. They will go into their feelings without ever reflecting on others or the larger issues. They will take a paycheck for one statement and never do any further work on self nor learn the institutions that have gotten us to the place we are now and continue to be. This is a problem and time and time again “tone policing” continues to pop up as a reason to not listen, to not adhere to certain values, to not consider others in what goes on behind the scenes or in front of the mic. It’s a problem everywhere and it’s disconcerting when it’s also an issue in regards to work to better this world let alone ourselves.

I’m up for critique as is everything I do. No need to mince words but also not to just blurt out “I don’t like it!” If someone asks my opinion I give it, but I may dole out certain things and not others based on our relationship or lack thereof. I may abstain from speaking all together knowing I cannot give someone what it seems they actually seek. I cannot continue to be “nice” for the benefit of someone else if it puts me in a position of discomfort or the words being used against me when I didn’t inherently mean them. It’s a play I don’t like participating in, so I choose not to. When it comes to what I say I tell people this:

It’s not literary theory, it’s philosophy. Don’t try to read between the lines of what I said, read what’s there. It’s right there.

My goal is to be good, not “nice.” Perhaps the work we do and the world will learn the difference.

Read the Fine Print: The Pawnee Treaty, Perception, and Questioning Rather Than Accepting “Truthiness”

Yesterday, on an uncharacteristically pleasant day since I arrived in Nebraska, I decided to go to the local park. Going further I figured I’d swing by Arbor Lodge mansion, heralded by locals. A little bit further and I ended up inside, purchasing a ticket to roam the 50+ room home that housed the family of J. Sterling Morton (his eldest son may be known for Morton Salt fame and his youngest of Argo (corn)starch). 

The place has three floors, not including the basement where the restored bowling alley is; it’s a lovely renovation with a teal lacquer to the walls I wish was in my own apartment. Making my way to the next landing I saw the largesse of an oil painting of the Pawnee Table Creek Treaty of 1857 by William Haskell Coffin. In this painting, Native American men dance in an open field wearing nothing more than headdresses and loincloth of sorts. Some carry hatchets, others spears. The settlers, all white, stare stone faced, dare I say questionably, at those in celebration. The imagery itself disturbed me knowing the broad strokes of the history between colonialists and Native Americans (short version, the first group steadily massacred the second). 

On a table to the far right of this painting was a copy of the actual Pawnee Treaty of 1857. If the visual didn’t incite pause, the treaty itself had me stupefied. 

Words like “civilized” were used as were a lot of promises with the caveat that, at any time, the President of the United States could come and take it away. There wasn’t so much fine print as there was blatant print detailing what the Native Americans who would be “civilized” by the new Americans would receive and also the terms to which they needed to agree. They would need to send their children to school to make sure they learned the ways of the immigrants. They would have white people on their land in certain industries the new Americans felt they needed to know. They would receive materials “not to exceed” a certain amount (that came up often) as though they were being bestowed a favor. The first line of Article 5 sums it all up pretty well: “The Pawnees acknowledge their dependence on the Government of the United States” — translated it’s a different form of peonage signed 8 years before the abolishment of slavery.

Now, I’m not getting into a further debate on whether this was right or wrong for the Pawnee Tribe to sign. Strife didn’t stem from the new (white) inhabitants of the country solely, but from other tribes as well. What I am getting at is that when the treaty was right in front of my face for me to read and decipher on my own that I could see how messed up the terms were from the start. How condescending and righteous these clauses were. It reminded me a lot of what the most recent head of U.S. office as well as his Republican predecessor said about people overseas. That they needed to be cultured; that they needed to learn our ways; that by giving us their land, usurping power, we were helping. Their followers, be they willingly ignorant or thinking themselves incredibly profound jumped on that thinking bandwagon. I considered the consistent danger of receiving summaries of our history to have someone else surmise the main point. The way that Arbor Lodge, and in particularly this painting, along with the treaty itself were celebrated made me shiver. But in all honesty, several years ago and I’m sure in many other instances for various other groups, I remain unaware of the larger trials and the pitfalls of trusting others who do not see you as completely human.

I’m finally reading The Underground Railroad which probably exacerbated or further inspired this thinking. That is a book that should make white people uncomfortable, however, I’m also confident that many reading the book of the white persuasion don’t see themselves as the depraved slave owner but as the kind-hearted abolitionist helping slaves to their next stop to freedom, willing to take the blows themselves if they were in such a situation — though thankfully they are not. I wonder if the people working at Arbor Lodge, two very nice, older, bespectacled white women understood the issues of this presentation. Yes, the treaty was available, plain for anyone to see, read, and infer their own thinking, but there’s also the labeling of it as a celebration. Who, exactly, are we celebrating in this instance? 

I don’t know if it’s so much a spoiler as much a plot point, but in Underground Railroad Colson Whitehead depicts the lead character Cora in one of her first stops on the railroad line in a new job she was thought to be perfect for: performing slavery behind glass for museum visitors. What’s noted by author and protagonist is the dulling of the horrors of slavery itself, the performance of it. Putting actors in a space constructed by non-slaves, nor are they slave owners, not exactly, to recreate the horrors for intrigue but also educational purposes. That the slave ships to the slave cabins is bad but this is a thing of the past, aren’t we a grand nation now? 

I haven’t taught children in more than a decade, having no tenacity for it on a long-term basis. But when I was in school, public, higher education, the classroom was about deciphering but also absorbing. “Sure, whatever you say teacher,” in regards to the symbolism in Moby Dick or Emily Dickinson or Huckleberry Finn. If you can’t explain what you see then it isn’t there. Fair enough. But there was also the case of: If you don’t see what I see then it’s inaccurate. This leads to a poor state of affairs. Those that question are considered questionable themselves. Children will speak when spoken to. My mom’s favorite: Do as I say not as I do. (Plot twist: that didn’t work on me past a certain age.) When I teach, or better yet lead workshops, I teach editing. I encourage looking at things with a finer tooth comb, questioning choices not because you’re choices aren’t reliable but because we have to dig deeper. It’s part of my job in publishing. I think if it weren’t for my role as a production editor, copyeditor, proofreader, looking at inconsistencies and inaccuracies daily, I don’t know that my education in academia alone would’ve propelled me to the point I am now. 

I’d love for those who oppose the water protectors at Standing Rock and many other sites to read the Pawnee treaty to start. The flippant nature in which people on Twitter — where everyone has balls behind an avatar — saying this group had their chance. That Native Americans have “plenty” of land. They were given gifts, so why not appreciate it? When they say these things out of malice as well as ignorance I’m going to send them the Pawnee Treaty of 1857 and ask them to read it in full and say, honestly, if they’d agree to these terms. Scrutinize it the way you would a mortgage loan. This isn’t the same as my landlord saying, “I’ll give you a dishwasher costing no more than $150 dollars but also at any time have the legal right to rescind this offer whenever my mood calls for it.” This treaty was a bad contract, the kind an agent or legal mediator would come in and say, “Mofo, don’t sign that we have to go to negotiations.” The U.S. wasn’t looking out for the interest of anyone but the growing government and a select class of citizen. Read it, read it and tell me that this document showcased a concern for Native American citizens rather than the proliferation of gluttonous capitalistic ideals. If you think so, I have a 52-room house to sell you.

Back On the Residency Game: Kimmel Harding Nelson (2017)

The last time I had a formal residency, one in which I applied for, was in 2013. The road to getting one has been rough. I had one year where I applied to 18--totaling over $400 in application fees--and got not a one, though I was a finalist for a 6-week residency with a stipend. That was a blow to the system, I have to say. Particularly the fees and some sense of expectation on my end. I didn't apply again for a year after that. There's a lot that goes into being considered for a residency as well as attaining one and then making use of said time when received. 

What I did learn was that every year residencies become more and more popular. Word spreads and the competition gets stronger. Also there's the fact that you cannot predict subjectivity. One part of your application can be super strong and another somewhat weak depending on the eyes looking at it. In fact, this is what I heard about an application last year: my portfolio was rated very high but my community project was rated in the middle. Unfortunately, I was given no further emphasis on what I could do for one area of my application as the ratings were purely numerical. 

By applying for less residencies I (1) was less stressed and less expectant and (2) was able to better plan how to do my applications and which ones I needed to tailor portions if I was working on the same project. 

Last fall I applied for 4 residencies, in winter I applied for 3. I was waitlisted for one and received another. I am on the last few days of the residency I did receive in Nebraska City, Nebraska at Kimmel Harding Nelson Center. 

For the past two years I had been doing makeshift residencies thanks to friends generosity in San Jose, California for 2.5 weeks and then Portland, Oregon for 2 weeks. So getting back into a formal residency with rules and staff rather than someone's home was pleasant to get back in the groove of. I found I missed it. I got a good amount done at my friends' places on the west coast, but there's something about being in a space specifically classified as an "artists zone" with people you've never met that can help you thrive in ways. 

Kimmel Harding Nelson (KHN) Center is a smaller residency in a small town of 7,000 people. Nebraska City, as I learned, is known for it's farming and ethanol production (yay corn!) as well as for creating Arbor Day. A time I was lucky enough to be on residency for during celebrations, though Mother Nature didn't seem to care and rain, wind, cold would prevail.

At KHN five residents reside in the same building though a composer, or visual artist, will get a studio space downstairs, and a writer and visual artist will bunk up on apartments on the first and second floors. Writer's studios are within the apartment with windows facing the main street in front of the center. The composer's studio is in the gallery on the main floor, and visual artists have studios in the renovated garages outside. Don't worry, as my roommate told me, they are insulated for warmth in the colder months. You receive a $100 weekly stipend for groceries or whatever your needs are while in town and the director and assistant director, Holly and Pat will take you shopping soon after you arrive. 

I have to say I really dig this space. My roommate and I got along really well. (She made pancakes my first full day here! If that's not the way to someone's heart I dunno what is.) Each apartment is equipped with a kitchen, dining area, living room, and my roommate and I have our own bathrooms. The apartments are spacious and quiet, though us being on the first floor we could hear every step those above us made. The visual artist's studios are also not soundproof (as they warn). You get a kitchen stocked with utensils, plates, cups and pots along with whatever previous residents have left. You receive washed towels, bedsheets, comforters ready. You have to clean up after yourself during your stay, maid service only comes in for departing residents in prep of new occupants. There's a washer/dryer downstairs and an area to watch basic cable television or DVDs in the basement near the laundry where the composer's studio apartment is also nearby. 

The town itself is small and you can get to a lot in walking distance. Compared to NYC the city blocks are super short. So you'd probably feel like you made a lot more progress than I do when I'm walking up/down Manhattan blocks. There's a lovely place I got to work on a rainy, blustery Sunday called The Keeping Room two blocks away. (I highly suggest The Keeping Room for service and sweets alone.) There's a decent Mexican spot in a pink shack two blocks away. There are thrift stores and antique shops up and down Central Avenue, the main street in this area. Walgreens, BBQ, a place called Runza which is a big deal to some Nebraskans but merely okay as me and fellow residents determined are also very close. You're not in the boonies so to speak and if there's something farther away Holly and Pat may be able to take you. Oh, and there's a newly curated Lewis and Clark museum as you enter town, which Pat's husband helped create. There are parks and kick ass apple cider doughnuts.

I came in on Monday and will be leaving on a Friday. Those are the designated days of arrival and departure. So technically two weeks is really 11-12 days depending how you time it. Though you can request as long as 6 weeks here and as short as the 2 I did. I think one of the ideal timings of an artist residency are 3-4 weeks, but I'm already losing one week of wages being here since I don't have enough vacation time. Totally worth it though. The quiet, time away, community, and free headspace have been fantastic. 

I pushed myself to do a few things before my arrival: No social media (though I was admittedly on for a few minutes over the course of several days). No work for anyone else during this time (I declined 3 freelance gigs I was contacted about right before and during my time away). I also turned my phone off/set it on airplane mode so I wouldn't hear from anyone (the primary way to get in touch with me is email). I reserved one day and one day alone to do emails and will aim to be on email as little as possible my last couple days here. 

Essentially, my goal was not to be stressed about anything that wasn't my own work or that I'm not contracted to do since I had a short period of time. I also didn't want to be rushed back into other agreed upon responsibilities as soon as I stepped off the plane--many of those freelance projects were rush, so I'd be starting on them right after I got back or had to start them while I was away. I announced on social media before I left that people should not expect to hear from me. And as always set my out of office on my email accounts. I began every email I did respond to with "Hi from Nebraska, I'm on residency but..." to let people know: Leave. Me. Alone until I get back. Lemme tell you 'No' is a freeing word. 

At previous residencies I didn't totally log off. And when I did the makeshift residencies at friends' places I was still working, people continued to contact me as though me saying "residency" meant vacation where I could still be reached. For some reason people didn't respect the time away when I made it myself versus when I said I was awarded one. Go figure on that, but I also let those things seep into my time and that's my own fault. 

When you propose a residency you have an aim and hopefully, depending on timing, you'll still be working on and interested in the project proposed. For me I worked on what I proposed as well as short fiction. My goals were to provide final edits to the latest batch of contributors for the anthology I'm editing, work on my nonfiction project, revise short fiction, reading, exercise, and sleep. The problem for me is I'm always working on more than one thing and these 11 days were time when I was able to actually work on those things separately, dedicating hours to each with no regrets or nothing else tugging at me to take my focus away besides eating and sleep. It's great! While I would love another week if not another 3 days here I'm leaving with more off my To Do list than what I came in with and can look at my first weekend back home hammering out a couple things and getting right back to my own stuff.

Essentially, this is my long-winded way of saying I thoroughly enjoyed my time at KHN and I'd really recommend it for anyone who wants that space and time away without feeling like you're extracted from the rest of the world. You have options here and if you have a car even better, but walking isn't hazardous or arduous. And if you come by for Arbor Day be prepared for a lot of celebration since it's a big thing here. Big Thanks to those at KHN for granting me this time and also to Holly and Pat for availing themselves at every turn. This space means a lot to those of us who have the opportunity to be granted this time and this support.