I ran across a poem on Instagram (screenshot from Tumblr) and couldn’t look it up fast enough. It felt like a slam poem. I prayed I was right. I was. Thank God. Sarah Kay begins and ends her TedTalk with poems. The first one is called “B,” (3:39) but seems to be known better by the first line: “If I should have a daughter.” I don’t want to say too much about her because you really do have to see for yourself. (I found the full poem written on this blog). What does she talk about? It’s a TedTalk, what doesn’t she talk about.
I might write a better post later, I am rushing because I’m so excited to share this! I'm listening to other work by her as you read this. Please, tell me what you think. About her. About slam poetry. About anything :) Here's her website: www.kaysarahsera.com
0 Comments
Pronouns are how we refer to someone without using their name. Instead of saying, “I love Jessica. Jessica is cool,” someone might say, “I love Jessica. She is cool.” Pronouns are super useful and we use them all the time in English (I don’t think all languages have them). We also use them to refer to a group of people (plural). If there are three people talking, I could point (rude, I know) and ask, “What are they talking about?”
Linguistically: Ask the DictionariesOxford (Read their blog post, “A Brief History of singular ‘they.’”), Cambridge, and Merriam-Webster dictionaries have all officially added something along the lines of “used to refer to someone of an unspecified gender” and/or “a gender-neutral person” to their definitions of "they.". Dictionary.com even has this handy usage guide about the pronoun. Additionally, the American Psychological Association "endorsed" the use of they as a singular pronoun. Any “grammar nut”* who claims that “they/them” pronouns are not “proper English” don’t actually know what they are talking about. Try suggesting they ask a linguist or English teacher and to confirm my claims. Chances are, the haters won’t because they don’t actually care about the grammar, they only pull out that card when it suits them. I think people only began having an opinion over the use of “they” as a singular pronoun after it started to be openly used by queer people who are gender-nuetral. I’ll never stop begging everyone I meet to read Word by Word by Kory Stamper, a lexicographer who works for Merriam-Webster. For now, I would like to share some of her thoughts because they definitely apply here. One of the biggest themes of her book is that language is fluid and controlled by no one. In her fourth chapter, “Irregardless - On Wrong Words,” Stamper talked about the word "irredgardless" and all of the comotion it caused. Remember that? “Of course ‘irregardless’ wasn’t a real word. ‘It’s a made-up word that was entered into the dictionary through constant use;’” she wrote. That’s how it works. “that’s pretty much how this racket works. “All words are made-up: Do you think we find them fully formed on the ocean floor, or mine for them in some remote part of Wales?” (pg. 65) So, even if you think "they" to refer to one person is a new thing (which it's not), new words are always popping up and other ones fade away. Who says "afeard" instead of "frightened" anymore? (Lexico). * I refuse to call even the most obnoxious people "grammar-nazis." The only people I call Nazis are actual Nazis. If you like the word, don’t worry, you don’t have to look far to find real ones. History of UseI’ve linked information about the history of this from Oxford Dictionary, Dictionary.com above, and, look, here’s another one: “The past, present, and future of the singular ‘they’” from Vox, “The pronoun is Merriam-Webster’s Word of the Year. Here’s why.” Here are the main (linguistic) points they all cover:
When It Gets QueerI’ve covered the fact that we all use "they" to refer to individuals in different ways all of the time. One day, someone will probably ask you to always use it when referring to them, specifically. Someone like me.
Using the correct pronouns for people matters. And for the price of just $0.00 you can help someone feel safe and not horrible by doing it! Finally, if you are still worried about the sanctity of the English language, I’d like to leave you with one more Stamper quote. We think of English as a child. We love and nurture it into being, and once it gains gross motor skills, it starts going exactly where we don’t want it to go: it heads right for the goddamned electrical sockets. We dress it in fancy clothes and tell it to behave, and it comes home with its underwear on its head and wearing someone else’s socks. As English grows, it lives its own life, and this is right and healthy, Sometimes English does exactly what we think it should; sometimes it goes places we don’t like and thrives there in spite of all our worrying. We can tell it to clean itself up and act more like Latin; we can throw tantrums and start learning French instead. But we will never really be the boss of it. And that’s why it flourishes.” (pg. 51; end of chapter 3, “It’s - On ‘Grammar’” tl;dr If someone asks you to use they/them pronouns for them: please, try your damn hardest to do so. It’s important. Oh, and, "they" aren’t going anywhere. I studied the poem “Casabianca” by Felicia Dorothea Hemans (1826), briefly, for my English class. All that was required was a short analysis, which I wrote days ago, yet I cannot stop thinking about it, so I decided to share my thoughts here. This poem is powerful. You may need to re-read it once or twice.
[Click “Read Below” to see the poem.] I knew there must be a bigger story than I could see. I soon found that there was. The boy in the poem may have not been on the battlefield depected, but his father, Admiral Brueys, was, as the commander of the French. The battle described took place on August 1, 1798, between Napoleon and the English. It was called the Battle of the Nile (qtd. by "Poetry Archive). There is a theme of war and peace, which is all I saw at first. Then, I found an explanation which gave me a fresh lens to read the poem through, again, “...feminist scholars began to interpret ‘Casabianca’ as a subtle critique of patriotism,” (Gilbert and Gubar 481). In my second reading, I was able to clearly see where that interpretation comes from. The little boy was so loyal that it killed him. On the surface, his loyalty belonged to his father, but he symbolizes a country. I can also see how the poem can be twisted as a story of bravery, rather than tragedy. The line that most clearly demonstrates this is the last stanza, which ends with, “But the noblest thing which perish’d there / Was that young faithful heart!” (li. 39-40). I don’t think Hemans wrote those lines sincerely, after reading the pain in the rest of the poem. This is what she is seeing people choosing to focus on. Here, she mocks those crowds. He should not have died, and if he weren’t so loyal, he would not have. Yet, again, I can see how the meaning of the poem can be twisted. I would like to do more reading on the history behind this poem. The poem felt extremely emotional to me. I felt anguish in my gut when I was reading it. That proved to be just one layer. The first time I read it, I was left in shock. It is a beautiful poem and deeply haunting. I could see the flames getting higher and closer to the boy every time he called out for his father. Each time the boy called for his father, that he grew more desperate each time. He starts with, “He call’d aloud:-‘Say, Father, say / If yet my test is done?’” (li. 13-14), then, “‘Speak, Father!’ once again he cried, / ‘If I may yet be gone!’” (16-17), and finally “And shouted once more aloud, / ‘My Father! must I stay?’” (25-26). Hemans so clearly illustrates the fear the boy must have been feeling. It is truly heartbreaking. I started writing six-word stories after seeing a prompt inspired by Ernest Hemingway.*
In the 1920s, Hemingway (supposedly) won $10 in a bet with his friends by writing: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” 100 years later, it's still famous. If you want to read more about this story (or lack thereof):
Here are some that I wrote.
And lastly, Six words are insufficient to describe -- me. * Hemingway is often credited with both the line and, in turn, as the creator of flash fiction; however, many literary experts argue that he did not do either. It is possible that his publisher, Peter Miller, fabricated the entire story, but that's okay. (see Snopes). My summer has been crazy! I’ve had so many things I’ve wanted to blog about, but I obviously have not- eek! I’ve been traveling, writing (not on the blog), doing homework (ugh), and, oh yeah, getting life-changing-freaking-miracle-new-legs. But, this is me trying to get something down. It’s a random thought about handwritten letters. I published my 200th poem on my poetry blog today! I started it 2,453 days ago (almost 7 years) with my poem, "Mother" on 10/08/12, when I was 10-years-old.So, I was in this writing workshop (it was awesome, long story) and the woman leading it was amazing. However, there was one thing that she said that I could not take seriously. She was going on about how letters are so rare now, but how we should go back to them because back in the days letters were so beautiful and poetic and- Yeah, let me stop you right there. (Disclaimer: I love writing letters! I love getting them and I totally think people should write more of them.) Not all letters “back in the day” before texting were beautiful. No, you better believe we’ve romanticized the hell out of them for whatever reason. Plenty of people wrote plenty of s h i t letters before texting. Boom. Excerpt from one of my novels in progress.“Why are you not afraid of me? I have been ordered by Death to bring you back to Hell, vampire.” I’m still looking at the flowery skirt the girl has on. I have to be cautious not to look mad because to the human eye, it looks like I’m talking to myself. So, I cover myself with a newspaper and sit down on the bench at the bus stop. I sigh, “Then, why haven’t you, Nadia?” She doesn’t remember me and the fact that I know her name shocks her into silence. “I thought reapers had some sort of super memory.” “I don’t, you don’t… you are cheating death by being what you are!” she sputters. I lean in close, “So are you. Oh, you don’t think I know how it works? That Death hand picks his minions from souls that perished in battle to do his dirty work? You are not dead either, reaper.” The bus is late, and I’m worried that I will miss my meeting. “If you don't follow me now—” “You are not going to kill me. You are going to crawl back to the cave that you came from and forget all about what you think you know about me.” She laughs, “Why would I do that? I see your little games, but you can’t stall—” “1542. I know how you died.” You can’t kill a reaper, but you can send it back to Hell for a few centuries. It’s a complicated spell but the key is to know their name and how they died. The more you know, the longer the banishment. I have evaded my punishment for centuries, so who knows what she has been told of me. Still, she is one of the only creatures that can take me out once and for all. I might just be her Achilles heel as well. She is still frozen. “Listen, I have an interview to get to. We can finish this later, m'kay?” And I step onto the bus before she can answer. Ugh, the tape won’t stop sticking to my fingers.
Shuffling the options I have left in my hand, I pause to admire what I have so far. The trim around my window is pretty well covered in magazine clips of musical instruments, flowers, and, of course, Taylor Swift. Looks perfect. I hate the view out my window. Hence, the overcompensation. The backyard shown through the glass is covered in holes that will steal your ankles, if you have any left, and always floods when the rain dances in her descent. There weren’t a lot of options on where to put my bed in the in the hospital. It had to be close enough to connect to the wires and tubes that snaked their way under my skin. I could see a little outside. The extending side of the gray building was just fascinating. The last few weeks in there, when I could last a good thirty minutes in the wheelchair, I was allowed to go outside to the courtyard once a week or so-- nope, that’s being generous. I was lucky enough to see four walls, but this time I could see clouds. And freeze my ass off. I had a really nice view from my room if you were standing, though. Apparently. The rain always makes sure she is heard, but for four months, I couldn’t sit by the window and watch her paint music and listen to my emotions. I couldn’t have guessed I would miss that. When I first got home, I couldn’t sleep in my room because of the stairs. You can be sure, that when my feet touched the top stair for the first time, two months later, I told my parents to get ready. “Paint. Paint over it all,” I said. I ended up choosing “sea breeze.” From there, I purged every piece of the past that I didn’t need anymore. Much to my dad’s heartbreak, I was only keeping what is important (ie. books). I hung up fairy lights. This space was not going to be anything like room 752. I remember how people loved to hang things on the wall across from me. Which was the only thing I had to stare at all day. Get well cards and junk that just cluttered. Cluttered my wall. Cluttered my mind. A white board sat in the center with the date, the name of the doctor, and the notes. It changed everyday, only getting messier and messier. Now, my room is clean. My mind is clean. Oh god, I remember. It was raining and I couldn’t see out the window. It was raining and I couldn’t stand up. It was raining and I wasn’t sure I ever would again. “Take them down!” My voice fought against my throat, rubbing raw. “I don’t want it! I don’t deserve it!” So, my mom did, she took down the clutter on the puke green walls (a cliche that is unfortunately common). She wasn’t going fast enough, and the damn tape decided that right then was the best time to start doing its job and actually stick to the wall. I spent my last Christmas getting iTunes gift cards and coloring books. I would have been nicer if it wasn’t the only thing I could really do (from a hospital bed). I spent four holidays with no real window. This year is going to be full of windows. The rain will have cleaned them for my arrival, of course, she is very kind, you know. This may not sound like a jolly Christmas tale, but trust me, it is. This Christmas, I am going to walk up the brick path to my grandmother’s house and watch my baby cousins (I don’t care how old they are, I will always call them that) open up presents of dolls and puzzles and cars and well, it’s a surprise. This is a story with a happy ending. I got my Christmas miracle. I wish one for you, too. I was skeptical. Fanfiction is a genre and style of writing based on an pre-existing book/movie/storyline. You might write about Harry and Ron living without magic or do a crossover of Star Wars and the Hunger Games. You can change close to everything about a story, or only a small detail, to rewrite a new one yourself. People often change a character’s environment or what might have happened after the official ending. Either way, I never thought much about it.
For years, I put off as something for beginning writers who couldn’t come up with strong characters on their own. Whatever it was, it seemed silly. That is, until, my (NOW PUBLISHED) cousin told me that she loved it. I had to rethink it, if this amazing person who I respect so much, told me to try it, why not? There must be something to it, I thought to myself. It started as a writing exercise for characterization in general. Just a page in my notebook about the Percy Jackson series. That turned into a ten-thousand-word short story within a few weeks. I can officially say that I’ve come to the dark side. Fanfiction can be liberating and fun. I haven’t read Percy Jackson in years, but the story has come rushing back. I loved those books so much in 5th grade and it makes me feel safe to dream in their world again. I have written an absurd amount of different fanfiction by now and I am not apologizing. I am welcoming novice and experienced writers to try it. Choose a story you like. Write a page. Think about the dialogue; how would they say it? Write from your favorite character’s point of view; in this scenario, what would they be thinking? If you end up trying it, I hope you had fun!
Try not to take it too close to heart. The rules and the advice, I mean. Even if it is your favorite author, your mind will process things differently. The only thing I would promise helps is:
There is this really cool thing about writing. It’s this idea that it all comes from your imagination and that the ink is only to show other people. What I mean is, the rules only matter so much. Writing can stretch in so many different directions, and so can you. I’ve been attempting to try out different styles and genres, and it has been a blast! Not all writing has to have a deadline, a right answer, or a grade. Ah, I almost forgot, #5: There is no “when I become a writer.” Do you write? Oh, you love to—even better! Congratulations! You are a REAL-LIFE WRITER! You should always write when the inspiration hits. That is a given for me. I can write five thousand words in one sitting or have nothing for weeks. Sometimes it feels impossible to write without that feeling. But, how long can I be expected to wait?
To prevent further writers block, I leave open ends. Leaving bullet points even if it will only get me to the next few sentences. Sometimes I leave my last one unfinished so that I can hop on my last train of thought. Setting the project aside, still with some ideas, can help you start again. If it has gotten late at night, but you still have more things to say, this can be a great way to not miss a beat. You don’t have to write out an entire set of instructions for future you every time, but
Tartle (Scots) * The nearly onomatopoeic word for that panicky hesitation just before you are going to introduce someone whose name you can't quite remember. Mamihlapinatapai (Yaghan language of Tierra del Fuego) * This word captures that special look shared between two people, when both are wishing that the other would do something that they both want, but neither want to do. Backpfeifengesicht (German) * A face badly in need of a fist. Sounds like a nice way of saying it… maybe. Iktsuarpok (Inuit) * You know that feeling of anticipation when you’re waiting for someone to show up at your house and you keep going outside to see if they’re there yet? This is the word for it. Can’t you feel the excitement? Pelinti (Buli, Ghana) * my mom: the pizza looks hot, don’t eat it yet. me: you’re right *takes a huge bite and regrets it immediately* aaaarrraahh In Ghana they have a word that specifically means: to move hot food around in your mouth. Gigil (Filipino) * The urge to pinch or squeeze something that is irresistibly cute. Yuputka (Ulwa) * or Waldeinsamkeit (German) A word made for walking in the woods at night, it’s the phantom sensation of something crawling on your skin. The feeling of being alone in the woods. Jayus (Indonesian) A joke so bad or told so poorly that you can't help but laugh. Sobremesa (Spanish) The time after dinner, but often still at the table, talking to the people you shared the meal with. Pochemuchka (Russian) A person who asks a lot of questions. Why does there need to be a word for that? Pasear (Spanish) To go out, perhaps on a stroll, with or without a specified destination. With positive connotation. To anyone trying to learn new languages... into the mouth of the wolf! Apparently an Italian saying, that I might be using wrong, meaning good luck (in bocca al lupo!)! I’ve been collecting these for a while, but the asterisk marks ones I just found.
* From a post on Mental Floss, didn't change much, so just giving credit where it is due. You should have more time. I said should, and that means that it is not necessarily always true. Summer is for writing. You should be sitting in the light of the morning sun, just before it gets too bold. If there is time, maybe you should be lounging by the water because you have absolutely nothing to do. But, you see, that's when I have the most. Summer is for writing. I invite you, if you so please, to share your writing with me. A comment or note, a poem I am open to posting on my Poetry Blog, or maybe a review of something we all need a taste of. A writer cannot expand their creative limits only by continuing their same thoughts again and again. We must reach out and read and read more. Ask questions and put yourself out there. That said, this summer I am trying to read more out of my comfort zone, mostly non fiction on social justice related issues (so, maybe not too far out), and work with other writers. I might start a writers group (probably online for a wider range) and having guest writers on my website feels like a good idea. Empowering for both of us. Give me ideas. If a "contest"/ review this one piece of work on this prompt type thing sounds fun- tell me! Anybody up to take the chance? I decided it was time to follow my dreams of living with a total writers aesthetic. I know that bullet journals have recently popular. But, writing is not a new thing. Never start on the first page. I like to save that in case I want a title. If I flip it upside down and open it from the back, I'll find my table of contents (that never runs out of space.) I have calendars: monthly and day by day. Lists: to do and lists of things to buy next time I go to Target. I also finally figured out a rating system for my books. If I want to read them or check them out in the library, and then write over the title (and author) in pen. Each pen color belongs to a number, 1-5, on my system. Red is 5 and the best. In addition, I have symbols I can put next to a title if so inspired. If it made me want to think, write, or fall in love. I think a journal, by any name, gives a great opportunity for positive self talk. Note goals and then accomplishments. I flat out have a list of random nice things. Like I went to a salon to get my nails painted. My favorite author newest book was in the library. I reorganized my room. They can be big. Or not. I have some journal entries, when I feel like it. As organized and planned as your book may be, don't forget what it is about. Writing. Ideas, schedules, or anything. You shouldn't force it. What ever happens, happens. Just have fun. |
Who Am I?Hi there! I'm Whit, my pronouns are they/them, and I write a lot.
Learn more about me here :) Click the button to read my poetry. Categories
All
All posts since April 2018 tagged at least once.
Archives
April 2021
Header
Painting by Whit Acrylics on masonite April 20th, 2019 Words are a Quaker saying. George Fox? |