I was telling someone just this weekend about the days when I published a feminist anthology, rebellious and radical and zine-style, about the poems that I placed in there with great care even though my mother warned me that one day I would have a child who would inevitably read those words. What then?
That seemed like a ridiculous question back then. Those poems spoke to a part of my life, after all. They were raw and raunchy and dramatic, yes, but they were also real. Some future child in the unforeseen distance didn't seem to factor in.
And now, there they are, all those words piled up on each other in boxes in the storage room of my building's basement. Overstock copies of that anthology sit and wait, each cover an image of a naked woman, each page filled with some feminist's very personal writing or art. There they are, among the plastic tubs of onesies and dusty bouncy seats, baby toys and tiny, plastic bathtubs.
Now I get what my mother meant.
Even though I feel a shudder to think of my child reading words of a poem called "The Fourth Time We Ever Did It" or details of tough things best told in person or the essays that follow my full first-middle-last byline, there is still some truth to the flipped-off attitude from all those years ago. We will get there when we get there, I guess. Who knows? My child may very well not care at all about that stuff. That would be fine, and also, a little bit of relief.
I am a mother, maybe even a different woman now. Yet, all of that is still a part of my life. A real part of who I am, or was (or does that even matter?). Sometimes, I pull out a copy or two, read through them, remind myself of what was present and important and very clear to me back then. Sometimes, that makes me thank the goddesses that much has healed, that time has passed, that those days were the beginning of my life really opening up. Sometimes, reading it all makes me teary. Other times, I laugh. Once in a while, I cringe a little. Then I close them up, come upstairs and go back to my life now.
So the boxes of anthologies will stay. I am itchy to sort through the baby stuff, finally get rid of the wedding stuff, move out the donation stuff. But those boxes will stay.
One day, I suppose I might look back on this blog, at all these posts and feel the same way. I may even wonder, "Why did I write that? Why did I put all of that out there? Who will read this? What will they think?", just as I have with some of my poems and essays. After all, I spew all this out, close my eyes, hit publish, in the very same way I cranked out the pieces in those anthologies. One day, I may even be the mother warning, "Be careful, protect yourself, choose your words wisely." After all, I am far more measured as a mother than I am as a writer. We shall see. So much can happen, so much can change.
Those possibilities make it all the more important to hold on to the pages and poems from my past, to remember what it felt like to say exactly what it is I wanted to say, to let the words escape, to feel the freedom of not giving a fuck. To open up, let out.
For now, there is no embarrassment or hiding. But I also will not share or sell those anthologies. I will just let them be for a while longer, let them sit quietly in a dark corner, and let them be a reminder, a "Wow. You said that? Out loud?".
That is enough. That is a lot.
What made this all rise to the surface? This lovely poem by Arlyn Miller, featured on Literary Mama this month.
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is a single mama in the city, super-savvy editor, writer, video host and shameless shoe whore.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009 