We hope you and your loved ones are well during these challenging times, and that these literary successes from women in our community bring some hope and joy.
As laughter echoed in the lobby of the Katzen Arts Center, I began to ponder collective nouns. If a group of crows is a murder and a group of owls is a parliament, what would the term be for a group of undergraduates? No word came to mind, so I christened the gathered American University students a “headache.”
We knew about the Arringtons before they got here. Irv Silverman tap-tapped on our back door the day the moving truck driver refused to venture up his black diamond-run driveway. Irv asked if the guy could use ours. Of course we were accommodating. We were good neighbors. Ours stretched down from Oakland Avenue in the back, instead of up from Stage Road in the front, and it was a bunny hill compared to his. So, the driver came that way and the truck pulled onto Irv’s property from ours. There was never a “for sale” sign and Irv waited until then, when it was obvious, to tell us he was moving.
From “Avenging Angel” by Désirée Zamorano at the Los Angeles Review of Books:
When we first meet Lily Wong, the protagonist of Tori Eldridge’s The Ninja Daughter, she is in an empty, desolate building, hanging from a platform, sardonically addressing her Ukrainian tormentor in a bid to extend her life and interrupt the pain of his swinging rope.
Congratulations to Désirée whose story, “Habia Una Vez,” was published at Crab Creek Review!
Our Family Name / translated into English / means in rice field, to flee Okinawa’s / smattering of rocky isles / overrun with pests. Sail amber waves for / land in America where / anything will grow.
Congratulations to Lituo Huang who had two poems, “Prize” and “05.09.2020,” published at Decameron Writing Series. From “Prize”:
The first time I saw the claw machine, I was at a guy’s birthday party. The guy was someone my sister had dated a few times. The party was at Dave and Buster’s because the guy was turning twenty-one. I went even though I was thirty-one and hadn’t been invited.
Already imperfect, memory is often fragmented and fragile with trauma, making telling our stories more elusive. Just as life does not usually move in a straightforward, organized narrative, my stories were not always moving toward a linear, traditional format. In fact, while I was working on my manuscript, I found that its main characters kept messing up my story arc. Sometimes writing in alternative forms can help to excavate this material, so this is one of the things I looked for in my reading.
The books below were my friends on the road to publishing One Day on the Gold Line, waiting on my bookshelves whenever I needed their company.
More congrats to Carla whose poems, “Each Day” and “Not Hand in Hand,” were published in Sheltering in Place at Staring Problem Press!
Our spaces have changed due to the current situation, as have our concepts of rooms, events, and conversations. But as we step into Zoom sessions, chat rooms, or House Parties, and as we prepare to go out into the world again, here are some good things for us to remember as white people moving in spaces that aren’t all white.
I get where it comes from. I grew up the youngest in a white family with two older brothers, so there was always competition for attention at the dinner table. I learned that if I could be clever enough and say the thing loud enough and get my opinion out, I would win. Not win, but be seen.
This need to talk continued as I grew up white in American classrooms. Teachers reward the answerers, those who raise their hands and say the thing all the way. By the time you get through high school, you know the grades are there for “class participation,” showing interest, registering your opinion. And through college. And into the job world; if you’re at a table, you’d best be heard if you want to be seen as a member of the team. By the time we’re adults, it’s ingrained in us. “Be assertive.” “Register your opinion” “What do you think? Say it while you have the chance.”
We’re so good at saying the thing. Being heard. Letting the powers that be know we are the smart one. We are all over social media registering our opinions daily. When something big happens in the news, there’s this urgency inside to be heard from. I’ve felt it, that same squirm in my belly that came when a topic would come up at the dinner table. Or in a meeting.
But what we missed was that in our various classrooms, colleges, and jobs, this is not what people of color have experienced or what they’ve been taught. They were silenced, ignored, brushed off daily and, over time, taught that there was no reward for speaking up; it would get you corrected, silenced, ‘splained to, or a combination of the three. If you are a white woman reading this, you’ve experienced some level of this brushoff from men. We all have. Imagine it being the relentless message in every space you occupy. Understand we’re experiencing a different operational reality from our friends of color. I’m working on paying attention to this.
Allyship series by Atlanta artist Danielle Coke @ohhappydani on twitter and instagram.
It happened again. I’m certain if you’re reading this, you’ve been in a space where this happens. The white guy got a hold of a mic.
The overall thrust is that the publishing machine of the US is not only white dominated, but only promotes white writers, even when they’re telling stories of people of color. Flatiron Press’s kajillion dollar promotion of the problematic American Dirt pushed the conversation to a head.
Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo, a poet and activist, the founder of Women Who Submit, put together in very short time a crackerjack panel to talk about these issues, including Christopher Soto, Myriam Gurba, Romeo Guzman, Roxane Gay, and Wendy C Ortiz. All of these people have expertise in the publishing industry.
When Xochitl opened the mic up to questions after the panel, she gave a very clear reminder to the room that this space was being held for writers of color, children of immigrants, latinx writers.
And that white guy got up. He’s an agent and proceeded to ‘splain the publishing industry and statistics to this panel of experts.
Here’s where you can chuckle and say to yourself, “I’m not that guy,” and pat yourself on the back. But my question here is, instead of letting a roomful of people politely wait for this man to say his piece that adds nothing to the conversation, to let the guy bogart the mic from a roomful of people for whom that microphone was intended, what can white people do?
I was going to holler, “not your microphone, sir” but I sat there thinking: this isn’t my event, I came here to be quiet, listen, and amplify. But how many times have the BIPOC in the room had to carry a white guy like this?
I made up my mind to talk to the guy after the event ended. But when I got up, this agent was handing out his card to writers of color. Maybe this was a gatekeeper who saw the problem and could get writers’ books out there. I realize now I should have waited until he was not handing out a card and still had those words. Not that this guy, who had been clearly told who that microphone was for was necessarily going to learn, but I will work to do better next time.
Handling these guys takes a lot of energy, but it’s work BIPOC are tired of doing. We need to step in where we can, stop that guy from instinctively bulldozing and not listening. I ‘m working on this.
And, I’m hoping, as you’re reading this, you understand that the tickle in your belly, the squirming in your seat, your inner need to absolutely say the thing is best subdued in these spaces. When you walk into a reading or a conversation where people of color are well represented, which people of color have created, I’d urge you to appeal to the other things I hope you were taught growing up white: how to be a good guest, how to not speak until spoken to, how to be respectful of the experts onstage.
Allyship series by Atlanta artist Danielle Coke @ohhappydani on twitter and instagram.
We are products of the systems we grew up in and if you’re part of the dominant culture in this country, even if you are waking, even if you read all the things out there and feel pretty “woke” (please don’t call yourself that, you aren’t) there’s still a lot of work to do.
Stick around only white people? Put yourself only in comfortable situations? No. This does nothing but put you out of touch with the world, the country, the city you’re living in. It also makes you an active participant in a system your forebears created, and that system is not equal.
It is your responsibility as a member of the dominant society in this country to be aware of the system you’re in, fight for justice where you can, and listen to non-white people tell us how it is for them. Because only they know.
And where you can, where you have influence, create spaces for people of color. Even if it’s only at work or in your extended family. Even if it’s only online.
And just don’t be the asshole where that space has been created.
I’m still learning, but here are some tips on how to be a better ally, for that is what you’re working on.
Pay attention to the space you’re in. Any space at all where there is a person of color, recognize and allow that person to speak. Shush your white buddy who doesn’t get it. This lack of listening can happen at dinner tables, cocktail parties, receptions and in office meetings, and in Zoom sessions. Don’t be party to it.
Pay attention to the conversation you’re in. Is your opinion really going to enrich the conversation, or are you simply feeling that tickle in the belly, squirm in the seat need to be heard? Was your opinion actually asked for? If not, stay quiet. Your opinions are valuable, but they do not need to be everywhere all the time, they have their space. Save it for later.
Is your sudden need to express an opinion because everyone is weighing in? Is there a dogpile going on? Can you stop said dogpile?
Has the space been created for people of color only? Don’t be afraid to reach out to a friend of color to ask that question before attending. There are spaces you don’t belong.
Has the space been created for people of color to have a voice? If you are welcome there, your role is to sit, listen, and amplify on social media. Tweet that stuff out; good poetry, things said, amazing moments, tweet it with credit to the person who said it. You’re helping your white audience (if you are white you likely have a few white folks in your feed) see the conversations that are taking place. They can learn a lot from people in spaces they might not get to.
Amplify books, articles, poems, short stories, essays, and art by people of color. The systems in place in so many of those worlds only push the white version. Help your fellow artists, writers, poets, journalists, friends out. Retweet, share, and get excited about anything you genuinely liked–be as loud as you can!
If there’s an opportunity to step in to talk to a white person (live or on social media) when your friend of color is doing some heavy lifting. Ask that friend of color if it would be helpful for you to do so. “Can I handle this asshole for you?” You can do the explaining, references, give that person articles. Better yet, you can take the conversation to a sidebar outside this person of color’s feed. Because it’s exhausting for them. Also, THAT white guy does better when they’re in private conversation. Sometimes when they feel they’re being called out publicly, they go toxic. The object is to shut them up off your friend’s feed and out of their day.
Listen and learn. You are not woke. You are learning things, but I promise, you are not woke. My family has 300 years of benefitting off a system built on slavery and land theft, grown on laws and systems put in place to benefit their own. Inequality that takes 300 years to build runs in our fiber in ways we don’t understand. Keep listening, keep learning and get involved in the community where you live.
If you consider yourself a feminist, please understand that women of color are functioning under a different operational reality than you. If you’re a white woman, yes, you have experienced oppression, but again, that absolutely having to say the thing can make you unwittingly drown out voices of color around you. Be conscious of the spaces in which you are traveling and make sure you ‘re adding to the conversation, not talking over anyone.
There is work to be done, and it is not up to people of color to be the only agents of change. As Roxane Gay said in the #DiginidadLiteraria event, “It is not encumbent on writers of color to fix a problem they did not create.”
Kate Maruyama’s novel, HARROWGATE was published by 47North. Her short work has appeared in numerous print and online journals and in several anthologies, including Women Who Submit’s own ACCOLADES. She is a member of the Diverse Works Inclusion Committee of the Horror Writers Association and teaches in the BA program at Antioch University Los Angeles and for inspiration2publication among other places. She writes, teaches, cooks, and eats in Los Angeles, where she lives with her family.
“What is the bridge from the water’s edge of inspiration to the far shore of accomplishment? [Insert laughter from a drunken undergrad] Faith. Faith that your story is worth telling.” – Q played by Rip Torn in Wonder Boys, 2000
This excerpt is taken from pretty close to the top of the film, which takes place during a very prestigious writer’s conference in New England. I assume it’s supposed to be something like Bread Loaf. (Do writer’s books get optioned at Bread Loaf?) I wouldn’t know because I’ve never attended. And I’ve only been to one AWP Conference, which, incidentally was because it took place less than 10 miles from my home.
I’ve never written an entire book, much less published one. And why? “Faith. Faith that [my] story is worth telling.” I have had challenges with that aspect of writing and creating altogether. I have faith that it’s important to me, but that it would be to anyone else enough to listen, read, or purchase that story? Infinitely less so.
Which is why I’m immediately a huge fan of anyone who finishes a complete collection of creative work – literary, musical, performance-based – all of it. Especially non-commissioned works. As a writer who hasn’t completed a novel or collection – I’ve written full length plays and songs, but not a book. And as someone who has tried via NaNoWriMo for the better part of 15 years, I have an idea about what it takes to complete a full-length work, but I don’t know.
Welcome to the brave new world, where your commute (unless you are an essential worker) is from your bed to the couch. Perhaps you are feeling a bit judgmental. With so much extra time on your hands, the thought I should be writing might be circling your brain.
For those who are new to working from home or have an ample amount of time due to being furloughed or being laid off, you may have realized that a 1-hour task can take 16 hours. The lack of structure, and the ability to make your schedule, might have you reeling for normalcy and discipline. Reeling seems to be a symptom of the pandemic.
My father, the king of ADHD and distraction, likes to say about himself, “It doesn’t take me all day to do an all-day job, it just might take me all day to get there.” Going from a film studio corporate structure with set hours and workload to being my own boss– I hate to say it, but I resemble that remark, especially with my inherited ADHD.
This thing called time organization might be new to you. I’ll be honest; it can be a struggle at the best of times.
Time travel is weird, y’all. You don’t even need a time machine to do it. Your mind might be rushing to the future. What will the world look like after this? Your mind might be on the present. Do I have another roll of toilet paper? Your mind might be in the past. I miss XYZ; I felt so much happier then. You might find yourself in a time loop, repeating the same time thoughts over and over again.
These days I see friends and colleagues lament on social media about their lack of productivity, and unsure of where the time has gone. I know where— time travel. The mind cannot be in the present if it’s occupied with the future or the past. Pandemics are great time traveling devices as there are a lot of unknowns and uncertainties.
Remember the old idiom idle hands are the tools of the devil or another version of it idle hands are the devil’s playthings. Folks often believe this expression came from the bible, but we can thank Chaucer’s Tale of Melibee (1405) for the proverb. The character Melibeus says, “Dooth somme goode dedes, that the deuel, which is oure enemy, ne fynde yow nat vnocupied.” My translation of that is, stay busy, so the devil doesn’t find you some work. My interpretation is biased by my experience. Growing up, if my sisters or I said we were bored, there was always a woodpile or brick pile that we would have to move from one side of the yard to the other and served no other purpose. Amazingly, it cured us of boredom, or perhaps it just taught us sublimation.
To me, the idiom is not so much about falling prey to sin; it’s about how the mind can reel, how time travel happens when we are not otherwise occupied. Doing something with your hands can be very grounding. It can help disrupt the time loop. They say gardening and baking can help you feel more grounded, but maybe you don’t have the resources to do that. I have a two-ingredient sweet potato roti recipe for you. Works on a hotplate or stovetop. It will give you the opportunity to smash, knead, flatten, and roll. I dare you to attempt to time travel while making this.
2 Cups flour of your choice (I use Bob Mills 1-to-1)
2 Cups sweet potato
Pinch of salt (optional)
Flour for dusting
Steam the sweet potato(s), let it cool slightly. Peel the skin off the sweet potato when it is cool enough to touch. Mash it with a fork or potato masher until it is mashed really well, or all your existential angst is gone. Then stir in the flour. Knead to mix well, until dough forms. Divide into 12 balls. Put one ball on a flour-dusted surface, flatten it with your hand, then use a rolling pin to flatten it even more to about 2mm. Heat a skillet on medium heat. Once hot, place one roti at a time, flipping it after 2 minutes each side. If you don’t want to make 12, match equal parts sweet potato and flour, it will still work. The roti also freezes well.
After you have paid the devil his due, and enjoy the roti, it’s time to wash your hands and get back to writing.
Thea Pueschel is a hypnotherapist, yoga/meditation teacher. She writes, creates visual art, and teaches yoga teachers and doulas how to deliver and write meditations in and around L.A. and Orange County. She is committed to submitting, only in a literary capacity with light-hearted yet dark creative non-fiction, fiction, and poetry.
My mother used to warn about the perils of a leap year. “Este año es bisiesto. Cualquier cosa puede pasar,” her voice dropped to a lower tone for added drama.
Maybe because of that warning, I have taken this stoically, promised myself not to complain about the new circumstances. I can’t stop a pandemic with whining.
Compensating circumstances letter
I don’t want to think too much about the future either. I can have an earthquake kit ready at my door, and practice drop-cover-hold drills twice a year, but I can’t sleep with an opened eye waiting for the next big one. Although not as frequently as earthquakes and hurricane or those darn Oklahoma tornadoes, economic recessions and pandemics come and go. There is always a chance one or several will hit us in our lifetime. This is not a why-me situation.
Nothing is secure anyway. The idea of 50 plus years marriages, 40 plus years careers under the same employer, a house where you raise your children, your grandchildren visit, and becomes an estate sale when you die belongs to another generation. That generation, by the way, created the form of life we enjoy/or not, but it’s ours now. They are most at risk of dying in this pandemic, gasping for air, alone in a hospital, and placed in a zipped back and thrown in a refrigerated truck. Whether we appreciate their patriarchy, capitalist, conservative values or not, we are inheriting the country they helped shaped. At least we owe them the right to a dignified death surrounded by beloved ones. So I do my part, me quedo en casa, help flatten the curve, don’t infect somebody’s beloved grandma.
Many of us will have to rebuild. But if you think about this as a hurricane that hit the entire world at the same time, first you have to deal with the aftermath before you think of rebuilding. I think of Moore, OK, a town that has a talent for attracting devastating tornadoes, eight in 21 years.
We haven’t reached the aftermath yet. We are still in the eye of the storm. Social Media will let me know that NY is under control. That will be my indicator. And so far, that’s not what I am hearing. What I am hearing is this country’s inability to deal with uncertainty or to follow instructions– two basic adult skills –because we are a young nation, still in infancy, throwing tantrums to have a haircut because we want the lollipop.
Maybe some people are right. It’s easy for me to talk because I am privileged. I don’t have children to raise. So far I’ve kept my job. So far things are ok for me, and will never compared to their suffering: a single mother with a cashier job and no insurance, or a Venezuelan without electricity or water or food, in a pandemic, with a dictator. I try helping those within my reach. I feel bad, but not guilty. What they see in me today is the product of a profound transformation, of years of individual growth, battling my own demons alone. Even if they saw me at birth, they still don’t know all of my stories.
That leads me to another take away. I don’t have the right to call privilege on anyone because I don’t know their complete story arc, the size and weight of their cross. Even that Karen in yoga pants we all love to hate is carrying a cross – a stillborn, trauma she swallows with loaded margaritas, a stage four cancer she carries with stoicism.
In the meantime, I carry on with discipline: strict exercise routine, healthy food, enough sleep, and steady work for hours without interruption, advancing the goals I set for myself. Those goals do not depend on the economy or the pandemic, but on my focus and personal energy. It is a good time to do everything you want to do or do nothing at all. Just give yourself permission to live the way you feel life at this moment.
Call me selfish, but I have enjoyed every minute of owning my time. I have even gifted the joy in my face to neighbors passing by my window. “Es un año bisiesto. Cualquier cosa puede pasar.” And I decided to take a leap.
Lisbeth Coiman is an emerging, bilingual writer wandering the immigration path from Venezuela to Canada to the US. She has performed any available job from maid to college administrator, and adult teacher. Her work has been published in Hip Mama, the Literary Kitchen, YAY LA, Nailed Magazine, Entropy, and RabidOak. She was also featured in the Listen to Your Mother Show in 2015. In her self-published memoir, I Asked the Blue Heron (Nov 2017), Coiman celebrates female friendship while exploring issues of child abuse, mental disorder, and her own journey as an immigrant. She currently lives in Los Angeles, where she teaches and dances salsa.
