Monday, October 4, 2021

This Jade World Isn’t So Jaded: Emily Dillon on Ira Sukrungruang's THIS JADE WORLD


While packing up the house after his divorce, Ira Sukrungruang throws out or gives away much of his belongings. As he says, “If I were to start over, I would start over, like a fire that rebirths a forest.” 

Spoiler: He is admitting to more than just throwing away his t-shirts.

Sukrungruang’s new memoir, This Jade World, out this last week, chronicles the aftermath of his first marriage and, in a way, Sukrungruang chose to burn his life down. The first chapter, aptly titled “The First,” hits with a wallop. For one, it is compact like a fist; there is not a single paragraph break in three pages. For another, it narrates Sukrungruang’s first sexual encounter after his marriage ends, one in which he fucks a nameless woman from the internet. 

I use “fuck” deliberately here. As Sukrungruang says a few chapters later: “The body acted on the things it had wanted to do for years. To fuck and fuck and fuck. I was a body. A selfish body. A greedy body in movement.” Of course, sexual intimacy alone—even a lot of it with multiple partners—does not mean that Sukrungruang burned his life to the ground. It is not “fuck” here that collapsed his life into ashes, but “selfish” and “greedy.” In fact, he dips a toe into these adjectives even before he has sex with other women: before his marriage dissolved, he took his wedding ring off, went to a bar, and chatted with another woman, all without telling his wife. And when he does start having sex, afterward he doesn’t always answer the phone when his partners call him. Even in his interpretation of these memories on the page, selfishness sticks around: “This was a form of mourning. This was a form of healing.” Importantly, “this” is vague enough that we don’t know whether it was the sex that was healing, the ignoring of others, or both. 

Now, it may very well be that Sukrungruang believes selfishness is the root of the human condition and, in my pessimistic days, I might cheer him on. But I doubt that was his aim. After all, the final chapter of the book focuses on raising his son, ending with “Son, you can have anything.” No, I think Sukrungruang is onto something a bit more nuanced than selfishness: he wants to talk about exposure. 

Throughout This Jade World, Sukrungruang gives us his worst selves: the one where he treats sexual partners with callousness; the one where he rages and picks a fight with a man on the street; the one where he aims to hurt his ex-wife, spite sticking to his tongue with “you're not going to get anyone better than me”; the one where he manipulates women into caring for him while sick. He is direct about these failures, admitting, for example, that he “should have told her no” when a date made him soup during an illness. We could forgive the lapse in judgement during the illness (he was sick after all!) but it’s what comes after that’s a bit more unforgivable: he never replies to her texts, and he can’t remember her name.

This selfishness would certainly be more easily excusable in a memoir about the distant past, about a high-school boy or a college hook-up. For the most part, we all agree that we make mistakes, that we are greedy and selfish. But back then. Before we knew better.

But here in This Jade World, Sukrungruang is much older—he left undergrad over two decades ago—and some of his worst stories are only a few years behind him. The radical nature of this book is its immediacy. How soon after our failings can we admit to them? How soon after can we write about them?

These questions of exposure stand in stark contrast to the silence that choked his marriage. As he says, “Silence slithered into our lives and settled there until it was too late.” After a particularly nasty day in their marriage, he recounts, “We didn’t say anything after that. We didn’t say anything about the situation any time afterward either. We buried it, as if it never happened.” And so, This Jade World, in its whole being, exists to turn the tide by exposing everything, to admit to the hard things, the things we don’t want to talk about, the things we put off for the day when we think we will be better, or it will be easier. Let them go, it says, even if they’re still being discovered.

Now it would be an easy pivot here to assume that Sukrungruang is also challenging stereotypes of Asian culture, rooted as those stereotypes are in voicelessness or, kindlier, humility. But Sukrungruang doesn’t let this stereotype land. He fills his memoir with Thai people who are direct and unflinching. In particular, his mother and his aunt—two women whose lives fill his chapters with color and humor—are more open than most Western psychologists. His mother, for one, is quite direct about the ongoing political challenges in Thailand: “What does the other side want?” she offers up. “For the other side not to win,” she replies. Then, in one particularly funny scene, his Aunty Sue asks about his sexual relationship with his ex-wife: “did she climax?” So no, it is not Asian people specifically that he pushes to expose themselves, but anyone in a place where silence reigns supreme. At times this place is, in fact, Asian culture, but sometimes it’s not. Sometimes it is American culture; sometimes it is masculinity or broken relationships; and, most often, the silence is in the self wanting what it won’t admit.

For, in the end, much of the narrative arc of the book follows Sukrungruang discovering the silence within himself. Specifically, it is about him not admitting that he wanted a child. In a particularly grueling scene, one in which his ex-wife gets an elective hysterectomy, Sukrungruang works so hard to believe that he, too, does not want a child. The images keep looming (“you imagine a child, one you’ve created, one without a face, a child, your child, yours”) but he pushes them down because he loves his wife and wants what is best for her. And haven’t we all had these moments, the ones where we wanted one thing so badly that we didn’t admit we wanted another, almost entirely incompatible thing? 

For the record, it’s not immediately clear if This Jade World is a memoir or a collection of essays. It is likely both, for it has the best qualities of both: a narrative that pulls us from naivete to discovery and a layering of self-contained essays that recolor the world like light filters over a lit bulb. This structure serves him well, mirroring the way he lived through the divorce—one step at a time and also in circles. Or at least, that’s how he lives it until the final sections of the book. While the first seven sections all finish with a chapter titled “July 10th”—the date of his wedding anniversary—the final two sections close with the chapters “Goodbye” and “The Next Life.” In the end, he names his departure—exposes it—and then moves on.


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Emily Dillon is a writer and educator from Maryland whose creative work ranges from nonfiction to poetry and all the lyrical places in-between. Ever an avid reader, she also publishes book reviews and teaching guides. Find her: www.emilydillonwriting.com

Wednesday, September 1, 2021

Hanging on the Telephone: Ander Monson on Brenda Miller and Julie Marie Wade

There’s something wobbly and rare that happens in Brenda Miller and Julie Marie Wade’s Telephone: Essays in Two Voices, the latest winner of the CSU Poetry Center Essay Prize, which has produced some badass books in its first few years by the likes of Lily Hoang, James Allen Hall, Shaelyn Smith, and Amy Long. 

I’m thinking about how primal the self often seems to be in the contemporary American essay, how we prize the contours of the self and its slinky thinkiness, how that is the thing that I’m really interested in when I read anyone’s essay, and that’s what we’re usually talking about when we talk about essaying and annoy the non-essayists among us. I mean, it’s not the subject (though it’s sometimes the subject): it’s the architecture that the I dances around the subject: how the I is transformed by it, or vice versa, and probably both. 

So I was prepared to be skeptical of an essay collection composed by two Is, though I’m not really sure why. I like both Brenda Miller’s and Julie Marie Wade’s work. And in other media, duets are often standouts. I’m all about collaboration in my editorial work and increasingly my teaching. But when it comes to the I, I guess I’m not so sure I’m ready to give that up. 

Maybe I’ve just read some bad experiments in deselfitization before? I find that when you lose the I in a book or in an essay I just get less interested in most cases. It’s like when a graphic novel trades language (which is the only thing I really care about, it turns out) for image: it’s not a good trade, at least not for me. I want both. 

Wade and Miller tell us in the “Authors’ Note” that “We have chosen not to label the speaker in each section so that our individual voices surrender into a more collective, and communal, authorship.” So when I read that I’m all totally like ugh, no. 

I’m not that good a reader, though. I don’t really want to play that game. So even if Miller and Wade choose not to identify who is speaking or manifesting in each section, I naturally start to assign certain bits by what autobiography I know from each writer (I know neither well but having read their individual nonfiction you start to get an idea). I couldn’t stop myself. But it’s not always easy to do that, or maybe I don’t care enough to follow through all the way on it, so after a while I had to mostly give it up. 

And after I gave it up, the feeling I started to get was a productive uncertainty, in which I began to care less who was talking or writing or thinking, and the two began to just spin around each other. I thought of the metaphor of the thaumatrope, where you have a card attached to a string or stick, and on one side is an empty cage, and on the other side is a bird, and when you spin the card, even though you know it’s two images, you see only the one image: a bird in a cage:



But it’s not quite that. Neither writer abdicates the I: many of these sections are intensely personal or autobiographical. They often let the I extend some thinking. The book doesn’t collapse the two Is into one another, a single collective I. It’s not a we: it’s two Is. They’re just not identified. The Is do start to correspond (their method clearly involves closely reading the other and often following an associative link from one writer’s piece to the next. At least I think they’re alternating. It’s to the authors’ credit that after a while I couldn’t really tell). Through that practice of closely listening to the thing the other wrote, they start to approach each other as we go deeper. This effect is amplified because as I have to give up on trying to figure out who’s memory is whose, so both Is contain both of their memories. The I isn’t collapsed, but it is expanded.

Maybe the better metaphor is the area between two things that create a field of force between them. I’m thinking magnets here, how there are spaces in between the two in which one is subject to both pulls, variably. And at the equilibrium point between the two one floats perfectly between them, pulled in neither direction at all. It is a kind of freedom that’s accomplished in moments like this, and as a reader I felt very strangely free. 

Oddly, it’s often form that helps make me feel a little more at home with this freedom. Well, that shouldn’t be surprising: those who love form know form is freedom. And Wade's and Miller's essays are presented in short sections, sometimes titled, sometimes not. Sometimes those sections are alphabetized, as in an index or a catalog, and I was particularly drawn to those, because the reliability of the repeating form lets us focus on the form rather than the questions of I. 

They tend to be collected or categorized by a category (“Heat Index”’s sample subsections: Bikram, Blush, Boiling Point, Can’t take the, Dead, etc.). The category becomes the thing that each section references or riffs on (“Of Madison County” or “Over Troubled Water,” for instance, from “Bridges: a Catalog”). There’s a pleasing associative logic that plays out in these particular essays that yokes the subtitle to the title, and we make the leap with them each time (we hope), and doing so we’re drawn closer to the Is, I mean the I, I mean it’s becoming a we now, isn’t it, with our having to do a little bit of assembly as readers, and, damn, that’s a fine trick.

I felt it most sharply in the more form-forward essays, but this leaping we’re doing is also a function of the interplay between the two Is throughout the book, as in the game of telephone that gives the book its title, so we read it everywhere. 

By the time I was halfway into the book, I realized I’d given up on I, at least the kind of I work that I was used to essays doing. Was I cured? Suddenly free from its tyranny? I doubt it, but I noticed that my natural urge to resolve the I had vanished in the reading process. What had replaced it? An admiration for the play between the two. And it’s not just wit, either, that I’m admiring, though I do greatly value wit in art. Wit and chemistry, I guess. Maybe all wit in this context is chemistry? But it’s also a real commitment to the methodology: after all, so much of the way literature is rewarded and counted in academia and in the larger literary world is as a solo act. I thought of conversation—not just the telephone kind of conversation, but something closer and more intimate. It’s more like the podcast kind of synergy, where two (or more rarely three) voices and minds together and their collective work is what makes the conversation come to life. Consider I’ll Find Myself When I’m Dead (from the essay world) or Reply All (before one of the hosts left) or even Car Talk, which shows up in one of the essays in this book, and is built on the expertise and affection of both brothers. It was sad when that ended because one of them could no longer do it.

By the time I got to the last epistolary essay, the epilogue, it was jarring to all of a sudden see the names and the methodology so clearly identified: here, after all, was Julie writing to Brenda and signing her name, and vice versa. It felt a little like a reveal, but also an acknowledgment of a different kind of intimacy, this one practiced in the summer of 2020, right amid our covid isolation, where writing to each other really did feel novel and necessary. Maybe in that enforced soloing we needed to assert the communicative nature of our prose? That essay, if it’s an essay—I’m not sure if it’s an essay—does feel like it’s operating differently than the others as a result. It didn’t give me the same kind of floating feeling that the others did, but then you have to get out of the book somehow. I realized, after writing this all on my own, that the better methodology would have been to correspond with one of my many witty collaborators in a game of telephone about Telephone, but I guess I haven’t learned my lesson yet. I guess it'll take another couple books from this double I, which I'll look forward to.



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Ander Monson's next book is Predator: a Memoir, coming out in September 2022 from Graywolf.

Monday, August 16, 2021

The Essay’s Slow Simmering: An Interview with Caryl Pagel

Sarah Minor: You’re a writer of poems, essays, reviews, good-news emails, and jacket texts. You’re also a publisher and editor at two indie presses, the CSU Poetry Center and Rescue Press, the second of which you co-founded, and both of which are known for publishing outstanding contemporary work that is often hybrid and risk-taking. This meant that you were the main force behind the editing of Bright Archive, my collection of visual essays. I frequently find myself in awe of your work with texts that span genres and styles. Your many editorial projects demonstrate a keen sense of writing and its process—from the sentence level to the full scope of a book project. We’ve talked briefly about the term “experimental,” and how this term has changed—or perhaps hasn’t changed as much as we expected it to?—over the past decade. As someone who both makes experimental work, and who has brought dozens of indie titles from submission queue to paperback, what does “experimental” mean for literature today, and how have you seen it change during your time as a writer and an editor? 

Caryl Pagel: My first collection of essays, Out of Nowhere Into Nothing, was recently published by the author-run experimental fiction publisher FC2, and I feel lucky to have worked with a press that actively values “adventurous, nontraditional” writing as an aesthetic-political force, and has done so for half-a-century. I think of the essays in Out of Nowhere as being in conversation with other form-curious art-obsessed writers: Claudia Rankine, Eileen Myles, Siri Hustvedt, Lucy Lippard, Aisha Sabatini Sloan, Chris Kraus, or Renee Gladman, to name a few of my favorite writers. My book might be considered experimental because it incorporates photographs, mixes genres, and is made of long, meandering sentences and several one paragraph essays. Its approach to content is peripatetic and rambling, its relationship to the truth simultaneously over-framed and under-valued, its concerns and associations meant to unfold gradually.

SM: Of course one hears the term “experimental” used to mean everything from “original” to “hybrid,” “difficult,” “interested in language,” “approaching the form of the book uniquely,” “multi-genre,” “multi-modal,” “impenetrable,” “sans plot,” “artsy,” “weird,” or “tethered to avant-garde lineages.” It’s an imperfect term but I still use it, as both an editor and writer, out of an appreciation for its most immediate scientific implications which are, to me, about trying something out, perhaps playfully, to see what will happen, actively prioritizing materials and processes over expectations or precision of outcome. 

CP: Valuing the experimental can mean an emphasis on the present, the practice. It can mean making something unfamiliar, something you can’t quite put your finger on, and maybe it’s speedy and good, or bursting, flawed, energized, and you publish it. Experimental literature be difficult. Maybe a reader needs to approach it with patience or good will (hard!), or read it again (time!); maybe it’s not easy to write that jacket copy or review, maybe you’re a little uncomfortable, maybe when you talk about the work you’re wrong (gulp!). Experimental literature can expand perceptions, stances, structures. Perhaps the author is fine with you feeling bewildered or bored, agitated or unmoored. Can experimental literature create stronger relationships with complexity, inconvenience, and desire? Would we benefit from stormier, more robust imaginations? 

As an editor (or reader, teacher, friend), I’ve noticed that my participation in a book’s “experimental” qualities can usually occur at two points. The first is when I encounter a writer thinking through a project that they might not embark upon or finish for fear of its difference or their own perceived limits of readership or publishing opportunities. In this case an editor can encourage something unusual from the start by saying yes please, do what you see. Alternately, one might edit a finished manuscript with strangeness as their co-pilot, calling attention to a work’s idiosyncrasies or most mysterious gestures. In my work at the two presses you mention, I imagine the publishing process as a period of time in which one can extend a project’s options or expand its questions (as opposed to a kind of smooth closure). So much of the history of experimental literature is linked to small press publishing, collaborative artmaking, and niche communities and is the result of author-editor relationships, proximities, intimacies, and micro-cultures. How are these histories accounted for? Where do the social or relational aspects of literature appear in conversations about the experimental? How do shared, fluctuating narratives of artmaking operate in opposition to the figure of the genius or celebrity?  

SM: Your collection of poems Twice Told is a book about subjects like intuition, hearsay, ghosts, loops, and coincidence. The essays in your collection Out of Nowhere Into Nothing revisit landscapes, inside jokes, and topics like sight and memory which echo the voice and interior conversation from your poems. I wonder if you have insights on the differences in making a book of poems and a book of essays? How does each form communicate differently? I’m thinking especially about the notion of “the turn,” which you’ve described before as a quality that can be shared by essays and poems. I’m thinking also about how writers of narrative use terms like “pivot,” “reveal,” or “twist.” What is a turn? Do you think elements like “turns” shift, arrive, or behave differently depending on the form and length of a text? 

CP: I think of a turn not so much as a plot twist or change of subject but an attempt to trace the inevitable associations, distractions, and detours of the animated mind. It’s less about the content’s logic, or what’s turning (the widening gyre, the season, the screw!?), than a pace-based shifting of direction; it’s a gesture based in rhythm more than theme. If a poem or essay turns often enough (requiring some time, as you mention) it will inevitably circle back in on or around itself, having become more complex, or at least stranger, in the meantime. So yes, even in prose I’ve held on to what I think of as the poets’ turn, which can be more startling and less tethered to a piece’s initial argument or source than in a more traditional essay. This gesture can create unanticipated patterns or a slow simmering recognition which might feel to the reader like coincidence or the uncanny.  

SM: When reading the essays in Out of Nowhere Into Nothing I am often thinking about sight and perception from the perspective of an speaker who is constantly moving through the world. This year the book was longlisted by The Believer! When my students read the collection, they described your essays as feeling like “being on a walk with a friend”—an experience of continuousness that moves us comfortably, associatively, but always with an eye on our surroundings. As someone interested in physical page forms, I also wondered if this effect had to do with the format of paragraphs that allow the reader’s eye to remain connected for many pages. Was conversation, or continuousness on your mind as you were writing these essays or compiling them for the book? 

CP: Absolutely—I’m interested in the experience of continuity with detour. As you mention, many of the essays take the form of a walk, and others are meant to meander via casual social time (at a bar or party), driving, talking, or travel. The essays often exist in the “place” where getting lost in thought occurs, which for me is when I’m in motion. I appreciate the contrast between a body moving in a linear (if rambling) route while the mind darts, sometimes simultaneously, in many directions and through several timelines. My hope was that these essays would sustain a train of thought for a bit longer than one would expect if aiming to make a single sharp point, the way you might allow yourself tangents and irrelevant excitements in conversation with someone you’re familiar with. There’s an intense intimacy, I feel, in the form, which is perhaps in contrast to both one’s immediate impression of it on the page (long, unbroken text blocks being potentially alienating at first glance) and the content (so much of which dwells in nothingness, loneliness, bewilderment). I hope that instead of the usual rest of a paragraph break the occasional images provide an escape from language, like encountering a sudden valley or window. 

SM: Can you share a bit about what your writing process looks like? You’ve often said that walking is a part of writing for you. Do you carry a pen and paper in your coat pockets? When you “begin,” do you start by reading, or do you sit right down with a draft or a new page? At what point does research come into your process?

CP: Walking is part of my process because it’s where I have ideas, and there’s a rhythm there that I’ve found useful. I walk circles around my (our!) Cleveland Heights neighborhood, which amounts to some kind of pacing, and/or take very long walks around Chicago, where I’ve lived on and off in my adult life. But there’s not much that’s purposeful about it. I go on a walk and then sometimes have a thought. I take frantic notes on paper or in my phone or brain, transcribe them when I get home and then mostly forget about them. So, in that way walking is probably just as—but no more!—magical than sleeping or showering or driving or staring at the wall, but it’s important to this book because the walks-as-process started showing up in the essays as content. I love writers who can capture a walk’s wonders surprisingly and think of Cole Swenson, Teju Cole, Brandon Shimoda, Virginia Woolf, Rebecca Solnit, Robert Walser, and Lisa Robertson as great wanderers. I’m not the first reader or writer to generally care less about plot than style, connection, joke, sound, or description, and a walk—even just moving from one side of the room to the other—can be all the action I need. But you’re talking to someone who watches Friday Night Lights for the lights, so…

SM: Because “collection” is a subject of both your creative and editorial work, I wonder if you have insights on the structure or function of literary collections and collecting. You’ve mentioned the “Indiana Jones” ordering method—where the book opens with a more action-packed piece as an introduction to more reflective, lyric sections. Are there other ordering types you’ve named or imagined? Do you think the ordering or re-ordering of collected pieces in a draft can help to shape the revision of individual pieces? How do you know when a collection is “finished”—is there a particular quality that gets distilled through repeated motif, shared subjects, and the call and response of stylistic choices? Is there a key?

CP: Ha, yes, ye olde Indiana Jones method. That’s probably the best name I’ve come up with but I have a lot of different strategies depending on the book. I love this part of editing (not necessarily for myself but for others). I love thinking about pacing and balance and levels of mystery and various chronologies. It’s a different process for every book, with different perspectives on finished-ness, different collaborative dynamics. The act of ordering can feel like an extreme synthesizing of pattern, theme, tone, mood, goals, music, and form and then, a… uh… vibe-based organizing session responding to that synthesis, a combination, in the best case, of insight, and instinct. I’ll make up a few names for shapes I’ve encouraged in the past: the Indiana Jones, the Sweet Wave, the Calendar, the Pillow Fight, the Fun House Mirror, the Bouquet, the Lazy River, the Retired Docent, and the Shared Songbook.

SM: From a perspective outside of publishing, over the past five years I’ve maybe noticed that the popular lyric/braided essay form is moving aside to make room for forms like the long poem and types of short “auto-fiction.” I’ve also loved seeing many very small books of prose in print. Do you think you’ve observed shifts like this that pertain to new crossings in literary modes? Do you think “length” is attached differently to genre today? 

CP: I guess the great thing about working in small press publishing is that you can basically do whatever you want. Things are always changing and there aren’t really any rules. I’ve loved many smaller hybrid works that have been published in the past few years. I think of Rivka Galchen’s Little Labors, Suzanne Buffam’s A Pillow Book, Mary-Kim Arnold’s Litany for the Long Moment, or Sabrina Orah Mark’s Wild Milk as beautiful examples. I can’t speak for all small or indie presses but will say that at Rescue Press, since the very beginning, we’ve been interested in uncommon lengths, shapes, genres, designs, and approaches to what a book can look like or enact in the world. We’ve published a little bit of everything: mini short story collections, performance props, memoir-in-lines, multi-genre meditations, wild poetries, hybrid messes, travelogues, novellas, and the simply uncategorizable. 

SM: We’ve heard tell that you’re working on another collection. Do you feel interested in talking a bit about that new project, its process, and about what it’s been like to work on a new book after publishing both essays, poems, and a hundred books by other authors?

CP: I have notes, a desire for some new propulsion, but nothing in writing yet. Between the CSU Poetry Center and Rescue Press I’ve spent the last year, in collaboration with the other editors and staff at both places, working on forthcoming books by Gabriel Blackwell, Vanessa Jimenez Gabb, Dot Devota, Tobias Wray, Julie Marie Wade + Brenda Miller, Valerie Hsiung, and Shane McCrae. Some beautiful writing to look forward to! 

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Caryl Pagel is the author of Out of Nowhere Into Nothing (FC2, fall 2020), Twice Told (University of Akron Press), and Experiments I Should Like Tried At My Own Death (Factory Hollow). She teaches in the NEOMFA program, directs the Cleveland State University Poetry Center, and is a publisher and editor at Rescue Press.

Sarah Minor is an interdisciplinary artist and the author of Slim Confessions: The Universe as a Spider or Spit (Noemi Press 2021) and Bright Archive (Rescue Press 2020), winner of the 2020 Big Other Award in Nonfiction. She serves as Assistant Professor of Creative Writing at the Cleveland Institute of Art and Video Editor at TriQuarterly Review.

Monday, August 9, 2021

Cumulative Knowledge Can Be Quiet: Lia Purpura in conversation with Sarah Ruth Bates, on Crafting Essay Collections

Lia Purpura trained as a poet, and it shows: her essays are precise, finely tuned, and subtly accretive. So, too, are the collections in which they appear. I read and charted one of her books, Rough Likeness, for an MFA course with Ander Monson on book-length collections, and talked with her about the twined arts of essay writing, essay collecting, and living.

Sarah Ruth Bates: You’ve said in previous interviews that you don’t map out your books ahead of writing them, that you move intuitively.

Lia Purpura: That’s true, early on, I really don’t work with a map—either a form-map (a drive to “braid”) or an outline of a subject. I have interests, commonly called ‘obsessions,’ but to my mind, it’s more a way of being I try to be alert to—so the writing and the living are one continuous act. In All the Fierce Tethers, as in much of my work, I’m aware of following down trails, and opening passageways to objects, places, ideas, sensations that have been with me all my life, and that I’ve been profoundly intrigued/moved/troubled by. In lieu of an early map, there’s trust in the coherence of a self. When I say trust, it’s not like it’s comfortable or clear or restful, but I do find that finishing one essay leaves all of these very alive questions, or angles, up in the air, and the next essay wants to take that thread up, and stitch it into another essay—an extension or deepening. 

Moving this way—and it’s not everybody’s way—lets me sort of set things out and see the ways that essays are speaking to one another, seeing what the conversation is about. Sometimes it’s clear that I’ve overspoken on a certain direct subject, like “insects,” and I don’t want eight essays heavy on insects in a collection. Even if one piece might be beloved, you have to pare back and balance. In On Looking [Purpura's first book of essays], all of the interlocking conversations around the subject of looking and perception, the ethics, the aesthetics, the drive to look at things that are difficult to look at came clear as an arc pretty late in the game. In some of those essays, the looking is very direct; in some, the looking is sidelong. It’s a broad conceptual net, as opposed to being a collection that’s memoir-driven, or told in narrative form, or consciously braided. I know some people find it really helpful to think about “braiding” or other kinds of formal templates, but to me, the making-clear of distinct strands—or methods—at the outset can be constricting. I seem to need to throw it open really wide, both in an individual essay and in a collection, and then look for and strengthen the drives, formal and otherwise, that I see.

All said, though, my interests, concerns, curiosities, questions, are of course known to me, and clear.

SRB: And for that—strengthening strands that you see working—I’ve read that you don’t change much in the pieces that you’ve already published in magazines, and instead, you arrange those finished pieces into a book. I’d love to hear more about that ordering process.

LP: Here’s one story: There’s an essay in Rough Likeness called “Shit’s Beautiful,” about three-fourths of the way into the collection, and as much as it laid out a particular sensibility that might help a reader see into the work as a whole, I chose not to make that the lead essay. I didn’t want the book to be immediately identified by an essay about shit, even though the ethos of that piece is central to my thinking—about the beauty and holiness of natural systems, the ecologies of working systems, the underseen beauty of the body, or that which we see as conventionally “ugly” or crude. The subject itself was too much of a flag, something too easily grabbed and foregrounded in a quick-take way, so I chose instead to place the essay in a live spot, but one that’s neither beginning nor end. So there are a number of considerations: how loudly a piece will speak, and whether it will drown out quieter pieces, or take center stage in a way that might set intentions in an unbalanced way. 

There are all kinds of practical considerations that have to be balanced as well, like, what do I do with two fifteen-page essays that really want, subject-wise, to live together, but balance-wise, might leave me with two long essays back-to-back and a pile-up of shorter pieces. So many decisions about form and sequence draw from my other life as a poet, and deep time spent on the balancing of line breaks and lengths, and stanzas, so I think about that a lot in prose as well. I consider, too, within a collection, if three or four essays want to be read as a set, and, if so, how to order that? Should a defined “set” of essays be numbered, or maybe similarly titled—or do I want to scatter the closely related pieces throughout, at beginning, middle, and end? That’s another interesting conundrum I’ve come upon. Questions of “idea” are always, simultaneously, questions of sound, rhythm, breath, and space—form, in other words.

SRB: To make those decisions, do you try arranging the pieces in a few ways?

LP: Oh, many, many ways. Then I try to be really clear about what distinguishes each grouping, and I will write notes to myself about that: “ Grouping #1 focuses on X subject,” or “…makes X possible,” or “Grouping #2 presents an X kind of pace,” “Grouping #3 highlights a seasonal trajectory.” It’s amazing to see the characteristics that each sequencing surfaces. Absolutely, when you start arranging, different thematics arise that previously might have felt like an inkling or tint. You teach yourself so much by grouping and regrouping and re-identifying, and giving different subject or thematic names to sets. 

SRB: And those things that you’re teaching yourself through that process—do those come in the next time you sit down to write?

LP: Well, cumulative knowledge can be quiet. Those grouping (or corrals, or frames, or indices) will show me I’ve written, say, five poems about insects. That’s fine, but, then I need to ask myself if I’m writing the same poem over and over, or if, on the other hand, I want to think about intensifying that impulse. 

SRB: I’ve been curious about some of your formal choices as well, and I wonder how much you think about them consciously, especially parentheticals and exclamation points.

LP: Parentheticals, I think, represent a mode of thinking rather than a self conscious move. Another writer might interpret those inner-voiced thoughts as footnotes, or another writer might edit them out entirely, not wanting a conversational tone, but the parentheticals for me are a kind of accretive way of thinking and being that reflects a way of coming to know, giving some space to inner commentary, the extension of a mind at work. 

The exclamation points? Well, they’re either saying “WHOA!” or are doing some kind of imitative commentary—they’re gestures that need to be read in context, always. Sometimes they are just flat-out ecstatic, completely honest little stun marks.

SRB: I really enjoy them, because each one feels like a shared moment or a little celebration.

LP: That’s really nice—as shared celebrations. Exclamations are complex—I don’t use them ironically—that’s not my register—but they can function as a way of commenting on others’ excitement about a subject I’m not especially agreeing with. 

SRB: It’s been interesting, reading for those formal choices, because the MFA asks us to chart those elements in our own work, and ask questions about how much we use them and how we may amplify them. I’ve been curious about that in your work, because you are so intuitive with your process.

LP: Well, I don’t have an MFA in the essay, so I kind of just made the path for myself, and I suggest that method to students—make your own way, as much as possible. That’s hard to do in school, because, as you say, you’re asked to be reflective constantly, which can kind of get in the way of the immediacy or weirdness of composition, because you’re foregrounded and are leading with self-consciousness—and I think most of all, you don’t want to lead with too much in your head other than curiosity. 

SRB: I wonder how workshops go, for you, because your pieces correspond so clearly to your particular mind, and your way of being, and I could imagine somebody trying to change your stuff in ways that would be different from what it’s trying to be.

LP: You mean they wouldn’t make it through a workshop!

SRB: Well, what does it mean to make it through?

LP: Exactly.

SRB: I just don’t know that workshops would be helpful for them.

LP: I think you’re right—and none of these essays have ever been through workshops. As I said, I was at Iowa as a poet, so none of my prose has ever been through—or threatened by—a workshop.

SRB: I think it’s a failing of the workshop, rather than an issue with the work. I’m trying to approach the workshop in a useful and open way, but I think that the ways in which one can be swayed are fraught.

LP: Yeah, there’s so much going on there, and it’s really hard to keep your work yours—when you know it will be prodded—and when you have to negotiate so much about the sources of critique. The whole “MFA model” of workshops is, thankfully, no longer singular, and there are many different forms of really productive reflection going on out there. The choreographer Liz Lerman wrote a book called Critical Response Process. It’s a kind of general workshop manual that you can apply to anything, any art form under consideration by a group. As she says, “feedback for anything you make, from dance to dessert.” She has a very particular set of questions she asks and stances that she takes as a choreographer, but her method is totally adaptable, and a lot of it is profoundly author/creator-centered, and involves the workshop participants asking questions and listening, as opposed to giving opinions and claiming territory—or maintaining canons and systems of power, overtly or covertly. Some of the questions go so far as to ask the author whether or not the author wants to hear an opinion: “I have something to say about the ending. Would you like to hear it?” and you’re then free, as the author, to say, “no, I don’t need that right now,” or, “yeah, lay it on me.” Then, she encourages people to speak in questions, like, “I’m wondering what you were getting at here, when you did x …..?” It’s not defensive—it’s an actual question. It’s not like, [confrontational tone] “I’m wondering what the hell you were getting at…”—It’s not that. And it’s also not a showcase for judgment, like, “well that moment, when that guy’s walking through the storm—I don’t see the point.” Curiosity doesn’t allow for that. It’s a profound change of stance that I have found really helpful.

SRB: There’s a—it feels related—field of trauma-sensitive work that I’m familiar with through yoga, like, “you’re invited to raise your arm,” or, “you might find it useful to…”

LP: Sounds like a similar family of thought….

SRB: I really like that, and I try to teach with it.

LP: The workshop—as a space—can be used to maintain the power structure of the dominant players or it can be a space that actively works to hear and honor a full landscape of styles, subjects, voices. Its work can confirm convention or it can be dedicated to emergence. 

SRB: And that feels more honest to me, because no one is actually compelled to take judgmental workshop advice, even if it’s given.

LP: It’s true! And why have we constructed workshops to privilege people who are critically adept, or driven by ego, or aggressive, or garrulous in one way or another? The language we use when talking about art/work matters, and the intent matters. And being open and clear about what your workshop is trying to accomplish and how it will proceed matters. It’s a challenge to try and ask open-ended and neutral questions that are truly helpful, and not, in some way, a veiled opinion or a veiled judgment, or a desire to call certain moves or subjects “broken” and then fix broken things.

SRB: Yes. These questions feel essential to looking at your books as collections, because each of the pieces are so in touch with themselves, so meshed at the line level.

LP: The attention paid at the line level has much to do with starting my writing life as a poet and now, with working in two genres. Line to line, I’m prose-writing very freely, but there’s a lot of shaping going on soon after the initial jotting, a lot of listening to sound, much attention to rhythm. In part, that’s because I’m not all that attentive to story initially—though I work hard on storytelling, which is not always my inclination.

SRB: That doesn’t seem to be the axis that things are moving along. I’d love to hear you think out loud about what kind of trajectory is happening in place of a narrative one.

LP: Well, sometimes they’re very small incidents that are striking or lit in some way, and I have to write my way into the questions, or into the kinned ideas that are surrounding the moment. Something happens in the moment—where does it lead, how does it reverb, what’s associated with that? In place of a kind of plot or narrative, I work by association and accretion. And then I stand back and see what I’m saying. 

SRB: That’s where it makes such sense to me that the line level needs to be attended to, because that’s where this is all happening, right? It’s not incidental.

LP: Exactly. So therefore, image becomes central and driving, and not just as an illustration, but as a kind of element itself. A mind itself.

SRB: Absolutely. Thank you—this is striking many notes for me! I’ll ask one more question, since I’m in a class on collections: what are you collecting these days?

LP: I’m not collecting full, long pieces at the moment. I have two fairly recent essays out in the online magazine, Emergence [here and here]. Otherwise, what I’m collecting, literally, are scraps and observations. That’s the best thing I can do right now, because it’s been such an upending time, amplified in the past year. I’m looking at my notebook right now: there are entries as simple as “a mossy roof”; or “smoke from the neighbor’s fireplace, orange at sunset”; “circle of grass, yellow under the flowerpot”; “snow lying on the branch of a tree—tenderness.” Really, really basic. And much note taking on books, the news, conversations. I have no idea where these are going, or what they will be, but it feels right and restoring to see, and to say.


*


Lia Purpura is the author of nine collections of essays, poems, and translations. A finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award for On Looking (essays, Sarabande Books), her awards include Guggenheim, NEA, and Fulbright Fellowships, as well as five Pushcart Prizes, the Associated Writing Programs Award in Nonfiction, and others. Her work appears in The New Yorker, The New Republic, Orion, The Paris Review, The Georgia Review, Agni, Emergence, and elsewhere. She lives in Baltimore, MD, where she is Writer in Residence at The University of Maryland, Baltimore County. She has taught in the Rainier Writing Workshop’s MFA program, at Breadloaf Writers Conference, The University of Iowa’s Nonfiction MFA program and at conferences, workshops, and graduate programs throughout the country. Her newest collection of poems is It Shouldn’t Have Been Beautiful (Penguin) and her latest collection of essays is All the Fierce Tethers (Sarabande Books). 

Sarah Ruth Bates is a third-year nonfiction MFA candidate at the University of Arizona. Her work has appeared in Hobart, No Contact, Aeon, the New York Times, the Boston Globe Magazine, and elsewhere.





Monday, August 2, 2021

The #Midwessay: Natalie Tomlin, Midwest Remembering and Knowing and Lee Iacocca



Midwest Remembering and Knowing and Lee Iacocca

Natalie Tomlin

*

Meghan O'Gieblyn’s 2018 book Interior States changed how I see the Midwest and midwessays, especially “Midwesternworld.” While she takes in the living history museum Greenfield Village in Dearborn with her sisters and their children, “Victorian cheeriness” begins to “seem sinister” in oppressive heat. The whip-smart friend I’d love to visit a museum with, O'Gieblyn turns this quintessential Midwest experience in her hands, asking what it is for: “If the park still persisted as a site of nostalgia, it was because it satisfied a more contemporary desire: to see...a world in which one’s labor resulted in predictable outcomes…” But by the end of the essay, O'Gieblyn concludes that that desire was crushed in 2013, when Detroit declared bankruptcy, and the Village's enshrinement of candlemaking and other simple labor became problematic: “There was an uneasiness here, a needling suspicion that...prosperity, envisioned by Diego Rivera as an endless collaborative assembly line stretching into the future, is now a closed loop that ordinary people are locked out of.” 

I will never be able to deftly pivot between a philosophical discussion of types of nostalgia and how restorative nostalgia can have totalitarian impulse when practiced in times of economic turbulence the way O'Gieblyn does. But she lifted the stakes of my Midwest knowing and remembering, especially when she mused about what exactly the Greenfield Village experience might pass on to the children around her. In fact, O'Gieblyn probably helped me to become a little obsessed with Lee Iacocca the night I had insomnia and found out he recently died. I couldn’t sleep because it was the Fourth of July and glitter bombs had just dropped beyond my middle-class trees in Grand Rapids. Why wasn't I happy? The noise had not woken my three-year-old up, so I Wikipediaed Iacocca, who I knew very little about, found out he endorsed George W., then Kerry, then in ‘07 called out the “bozos” who couldn’t build a hybrid. Romantic but not true, he said, of the rumor that he had been christened Lido after his parent’s honeymoon in the Lido region of Italy. That night, I wanted to tell Iacocca about how I totaled my K Car at age sixteen, ask him about the golden ratio, bankruptcy, how he knew Chrysler would eventually come back. Or have him take me back to ‘93, to that olive oil-based margarine product he founded: in the boardroom, taking Olivo on a spoon, prepping to appear on TV, the faint aftertaste on the roof of his mouth.



Sunday, August 1, 2021

The #Midwessay: Caitlin Horrocks, The Cottage Essay

We're back for round 3 of #Midwessay coverage starting back up this week, in which we re/visit essays and essayists from Midwestern states and those of us still in Midwestern states even if we live elsewhere. In our first round we published one week in each state, and now we're swinging back through to continue. Up this week is Michigan, coordinated by Ander Monson. Are you a Michigander? A Michiganian? Do you have thoughts or feelings about our fair water-bordered state and its literature? If an essay captures the workings of the mind, what is the mind of Michigan? Be in touch and send us something.


 


The Cottage Essay

Caitlin Horrocks


*


When I think about Michigan essays, what I find myself thinking about is a subgenre I’d like to call “the cottage essay,” or maybe “the cabin essay.” It’s rarely a “lakehouse” essay, but it could be. I can’t always tell, in these essays, how large or well-appointed or house-like the cottages are. Sometimes my students just write about “my grandparents’ place.” 
     In Michigan, it’s not necessarily the richest people who have lakeside property, but the people who have lived here the longest. Wealthy people from Chicago might still simply buy a cottage. But for most of my students, for most of the people I know, your main choices are to rent one by the week or weekend, or to inherit or be hosted in one that was bought in another era, by an earlier generation, when such purchases were in easier reach. I was born in Michigan, but my parents were transplants. My husband is from Seattle. We write and teach. We will probably never have a cottage. But I read a lot of cottage essays. 
     Most have one of three shapes: the first is more commonly by a beginning writer, and it is an essay about joy. The joy is cozy and regular, without beginning or end—the writer anticipates the same joy every summer (the cottage essay takes place almost always in summer, though the cabin essay might also take place in autumn deer hunting season, or winter snowmobile season).  The writer’s joy is so perfect and private and steady that it becomes a vague fog to the reader. We talk about this, the “problem” of joy, how odd and unfair it is that it’s so much harder to convey in interesting ways than tragedy. The student’s patience for this conversation tends to correlate to their patience for writing in general.
     A second sub-subgenre is about disaster narrowly averted, usually in the form of the near-drowning of either the author or the author’s cousin or friend. There are a lot of near-drownings, and some are harrowing. But this essay is ultimately about the lesson learned, either by the parents or the kids. The author will return next summer, chastened but wiser. 
     The third sub-subgenre starts off as an essay about joy. Possibly with a near-drowning thrown in. But mostly about the rhythms of vacation life, the reconnections with extended family, the meals with hot dogs and fresh watermelon slices, the mosquito bites and floating swim platforms, the cheerfully over-crowded sleeping arrangements.
     But in this type of essay, we are headed from “every” to “last.” A last time the now-adult child vacationed with the family. A last time before divorce or other family strife put the cabin out of reach. A last time before the property was sold. A last time before the beloved matriarch or patriarch died, or some other center of family gravity could no longer hold. The cottage is now demolished or condemned or more often occupied by strangers. This cottage essay is an essay about joy, but also about loss. It is about coming of age and nostalgia, and how joy looks from an unbridgeable distance. 
     Part of what those writers understand of happiness, they have learned through loss. Part of what they understand about writing, they learn through their attempts at resurrection, to make breathe on the page what is gone in real life. Individually, the essays might or might not succeed, but as a genre, I can’t unread them. The sub-subgenre of near-drownings is with me when I take my child to swim lessons. But the third type of cottage essay now dogs my vacations. I stayed in a rental a few weeks ago and kayaked around the small inland lake. The cottages initially inspired in me jealousy, and then a sort of sympathetic, anticipatory grief. All those damp, vinyl-sided memento mori, scenic little skulls at dockside.



Saturday, July 31, 2021

The #Midwessay: Jaclyn Sipovic, On Shit and Shinola

We're back for round 3 of #Midwessay coverage starting back up this week, in which we re/visit essays and essayists from Midwestern states and those of us still in Midwestern states even if we live elsewhere. In our first round we published one week in each state, and now we're swinging back through to continue. Up this week is Michigan, coordinated by Ander Monson. Are you a Michigander? A Michiganian? Do you have thoughts or feelings about our fair water-bordered state and its literature? If an essay captures the workings of the mind, what is the mind of Michigan? Be in touch and send us something.

 


On Shit and Shinola

Jaclyn Sipovic


*


There was a time I called things Midwestern only when I was in a room full of people who, I believed, as the saying went, did not know shit from Shinola. In other words, when I was reasonably assured I could see their gears turning then rusting out and settling into the loam of that one image they saw that one time: a rowed cornfield or a red barn crumbling, an abandoned Main Street or some burned-out factory, rebar reaching into the sky like the frayed ends of cloth. Wait—a friend once interjected while detailing her flight path back to the East Coast from the West—Which comes first? Minneapolis St. Paul or Detroit Metro?
     In other other words, when I was pretty confident most people in the room were not Midwestern and any responsibility to unpack that might, for a moment, fly over me too. 

I don’t actually think I knew there was a Midwest beyond some arbitrary textbook geography until I went to college. Ann Arbor was only three hours away from my hometown in Muskegon and granted, still in Michigan, but also, somehow not. My Midwestern gained its early inflections in those years. Especially in the ideas and behaviors the “outta state” kids were quick to point out. One being the way I justified every purchase with a remark about its sale status.
     Girl: That’s a cute shirt.
     Me: Thanks, I pretty much found it in a dumpster.
     Girl: Oh, is that like a new boutique or something?
     Me: Yes?
     But also in their bewilderment about the existence of deer hunters or the necessity of small talk, or the way some people looked other people in the eye; how that contact was for some, held three seconds too long, but for others, one second too short of what it took to say hello.
     Yup, I would say, some real Midwestern shit; a phrase edged with shame long before it was ever riddled with pride. 

In those days, Ann Arbor was often referred to as a bubble. And if I had been as metaphorically inclined then as I was materially, I might have recognized the trappings of a place, or the idea of a place, that could exist within only as much as it might resist without. But, for better or for worse, I wasn't.
     I was, instead, entirely preoccupied by another phenomena: leggings. Leggings as something not worn under your pants as a base layer for frigid commutes but as actual pants. That and the fact a thousand dollar coat could be a noticeable fashion trend. The kind of coats made out of dead birds and space plastic, necessary only if you were: 

  • On an arctic expedition 
  • Not wearing pants

     A Canada Goose® had, until that point in my life, been an actual goose, synonymous with black letters arcing over the sky and trumpets punctuating the evening stillness. But also shit: shit on the driveway, shit on the dock, shit on pretty much everything you could think to shit on. 

As it turned out, even though I had been saying it for years, I didn’t really know Shinola from shit either. I had known Shinola was an old brand of shoe polish, but I also didn’t know anyone who polished their shoes. Had never really put two and two and five together. Had always assumed that not knowing shit was the true heart of the insult.
     Not long after I graduated, a store called Shinola opened up on Main Street. They sold leather things, single speed bicycles, and high end timepieces (aka watches) (aka no bargain bins there my dudes). They lauded themselves on employing local Detroiters, many of whom came from the increasingly defunct auto industry, and called their revival of Fordist infrastructure—in which no one who actually worked for them could really afford any of their shit—an emerging lifestyle brand. At that point, I think I lost or maybe just found mine. 

Like the Midwest, the essay was a place I could learn about only after I left home. And after the novelty of leggings as pants wore off, was where I would encounter the kinds of minds unafraid to cast and spin and reel and drag, dumpster dive and drift, quarry and leap; the kinds eager to say hello. I found kinship in writings that reached inward through all the layers one might don to stay alive in the cold, in those that reached outward only by drawing deep from that within.
     That last bit was not a shit reference, but it might as well could be: good shit. Suffice to say I only really call things Midwestern now when I am trying to connect with the other people in that room. 


Friday, July 30, 2021

The #Midwessay: Marcia Meier, An Unfulfilled Promise

We're back for round 3 of #Midwessay coverage starting back up this week, in which we re/visit essays and essayists from Midwestern states and those of us still in Midwestern states even if we live elsewhere. In our first round we published one week in each state, and now we're swinging back through to continue. Up this week is Michigan, coordinated by Ander Monson. Are you a Michigander? A Michiganian? Do you have thoughts or feelings about our fair water-bordered state and its literature? If an essay captures the workings of the mind, what is the mind of Michigan? Be in touch and send us something.


 


An Unfulfilled Promise

Marcia Meier


*


I spent the first eighteen years of my life in Michigan as a midwestern white girl, roaming white sand beaches, picking wild blueberries on hills near my grandmother’s cottage on Lake Michigan. I have fond memories of pussy willows, milkweed and blackberries in the alleys that bisected the downtown block where I grew up. Of Monarchs that light on milkweed to feed and lay their eggs. Of Lake Michigan warm summer swells and winter icebergs that gather against white sand shorelines. 
     I’ve been gone more than twice as long as I lived there, but Lake Michigan’s fresh water flows through my veins. I grew up on the lake, playing at my grandmother’s summer cottage with my cousins, eating hot dogs on the beach and waving sparklers on Fourths of July, swimming every day when the weather and water was warm. My great-grandparents on both sides of my family came from Germany and settled in the Midwest, as many did in the mid-1800s. That heritage informs my stoicism, tempers my emotions, reminds me that no matter what, I will survive and, perhaps, thrive. 
     My childhood home was in downtown Muskegon, on the western side of the state and on the eastern shore of Lake Michigan. Clapboard-sided with a wide closed-in front porch and a grassy front yard, we and the neighbor kids would gather for games of tag or kick the can on hot, muggy summer days. I remember walking the neighborhood, collecting elm leaves and acorns from the oaks, the little helicopters that floated from the maples. Once, I followed a squirrel for blocks as he scampered from tree to tree, holding out a seed, hoping he’d come to me. He did, and when he put his clawed paw on my fingers, I flinched, and he ran away, leaving me in a state of wonder and fear. In the end, I was as afraid of him as he was of me.
     I remember stroking the pussy willows that grew along the alleys and in the woods near the lake. Their soft, furry buds both extraordinary and comforting. I recently moved to Santa Fe, NM, and today I saw stalks of pussy willows for sale at Trader Joe’s, the first time I’ve seen them in many years. I wanted to reach out and pet them.
     I have returned to visit Michigan many times since I left, and every time I am transported to what seemed a simpler time. But, of course, it wasn’t. I was seven years old in 1965 when race riots rocked Detroit and my hometown. I remember hearing glass shattering several blocks away, and being afraid. 
     A white girl, I absorbed the prejudices of my community and, with growing awareness, rejected it as a high school kid. One of my best friends was a Black kid who was active in theater.  I invited him home one day after school and my mom made it clear in her actions that she disapproved, deeply. When a professional Black couple moved into our then-suburban neighborhood, my uncle made disparaging comments about them at dinner one night, and I walked out. This is not to say I’m some Pollyanna; I’m not. My father, who owned a drycleaning business and employed a number of Black workers, taught me that all people have inherent worth and are deserving of dignity and respect. I have tried to honor that throughout my life. Also, I understand that I still live in a different, very white, very privileged world. I don’t really have any idea of the Black experience, as much as I want to be an ally and understand.
     I am a product of my childhood. Michigan was a northern state that, despite its welcome to Black people during the great migration, still was highly segregated. Muskegon Heights was the Black area of town, everywhere else was primarily white. I believe it’s still true today.
     In fact, according to research by Candis Watts Smith, Ph.D., and Rebecca Kreitzer, Ph.D., of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, while racially negative attitudes were found primarily in the Southern states through the 1990s, by 2016 they were more dominant in Midwestern and Northeastern states.
     Like me, Black residents of Muskegon also loved the lake, and the pussy willows, and the wild blueberries and the farmer’s market and the milkweed that feeds and nurtures the monarchs who migrate from northern climes to Mexico and back, stopping to feed and breed in states along the way. 
When I watched Derek Chauvin kneel on George Floyd’s neck last year and callously, cruelly, kill him, my heart stuck in my throat and stayed there. I feel abiding anguish over Floyd, over Breonna Taylor, over Michael Brown and Daunte Wright and Atatiana Jefferson and countless others who have lost their lives at the hands of what has become an occupying and dangerous force in many cities today. It’s a threat that exists more fully for our Black and brown brothers and sisters. All of that beauty—the lakes, the rivers, the pussy willows, flora and fauna throughout the Midwest and elsewhere—is marred by the cruelty of racism and hatred. To show my solidarity with the Black Lives Matter movement, I have marched, written and spoken out. And yet, I am at a loss. I have much more to do to educate myself, yet I know nothing I can or will do will ever allow me to comprehend the experiences—indeed, experience the prejudice and discrimination—of people different from me, people of color, LGBTQI people, immigrants, people who are other-abled. 
     When Barack Obama was elected president in 2008, I cried. I, like many, believed it was the beginning of an era of true change, true acceptance of others. In the intervening years, we’ve seen an ugly America emerge, an America still reeling from 400 years of racial injustice, an America that many white people have been happy to believe rested in the past, but which Black and brown people have known all along was still very present. My Midwestern roots run deep, and I recognize they are roots anchored in deep and systemic white supremacy. I pledge to work to bring about change—to create a better and more just world for all people at every level, from local school boards to national leadership. I will only vote for politicians who promise to change the laws and policies that continue to hobble a huge part of our population. I pray my optimism that change can come isn’t just another white person believing in the impossible; my—all of our—actions must speak louder than proclamations. We have the power to shape a future in which all people are treated equally, as our constitution has promised—and failed to deliver—for 245 years.


Thursday, July 29, 2021

The #Midwessay: Jill Kolongowski, Atmospheric River

 We're back for round 3 of #Midwessay coverage starting back up this week, in which we re/visit essays and essayists from Midwestern states and those of us still in Midwestern states even if we live elsewhere. In our first round we published one week in each state, and now we're swinging back through to continue. Up this week is Michigan, coordinated by Ander Monson. Are you a Michigander? A Michiganian? Do you have thoughts or feelings about our fair water-bordered state and its literature? If an essay captures the workings of the mind, what is the mind of Michigan? Be in touch and send us something.


 


Atmospheric River

Jill Kolongowski


*


This pandemic winter (my tenth one in California), while time feels untethered, I’m thinking about how we use weather to tell time. 


Hartland, Michigan, 2000—Moderate rain: 

In Michigan, thanks to the huge surface area of the Great Lakes, the weather is unstable. In the midway seasons, spring and fall, one day might be 40 degrees, and the next 70. The forecast calls for rain and the rain gauges stay dusty, or the forecast says sunny and dark clouds pile up like mountains over the flat land. The rain comes in many forms—drizzle, downpour, steady—and you can leave with an umbrella or raincoat or not, but Midwesterners all have stories of getting caught in the rain.

My favorite: my family is on vacation in the upper peninsula of Michigan, near Tahquamenon Falls, and we’ve taken a silver metal rowboat over to an island to explore. The forecast said the day was perfect for it, but as we hiked around, the sky got darker and darker and we realized too late that rain was coming. We rushed back to the rowboat and my father started rowing furiously, his arms spinning like a cartoon. The clouds built, not unlike ash from a volcano eruption. 

Winters in the Midwest are very gray, with low-hanging clouds a perpetual ceiling blocking the sun. Summer rainclouds are different; they are vibrant, dark, inverses of their white cotton-ball good-day counterparts. Sometimes they can pass overhead, ominous as anything, and not lose a drop of rain, saving it for somewhere, somewhen else. Sometimes it seems to rain from white clouds too. In any case, we can only watch, leave an umbrella in the car, get soaked sometimes anyway.

On the lake in the rowboat, the clouds did not wait, but instead fell in buckets. It’s a cliché, buckets of rain, but what else could it be, the drops thick and fast, so much they don’t feel like individual drops at all, but fall in a soaking sheet. Next, thunder and lightning tore from the sky and the fact that we were in a metal rowboat, a perfect conduit for electricity, tore into my mind too. Across the lake we went—my mother praying, father rowing for his life, me attempting to make jokes—water on water, ants in a flood, the rain singing against the metal hull, rain perhaps the most intimate of all weathers, as it soaked through to the skin.

A few hours later, the sun returned. The grass was green, green, green, happy. When our California friends came to Michigan for our wedding, they were astounded at how green the summers were—summer rain a luxury that California does not have. 

I remember rain this way, in flashes, though I’m sure there were weeks when it rained day after day. All rain in my memory seems moderate, in the middle, hard to pin down, near impossible to predict or name. 


San Mateo, California, 2020—FLOOD ALERT:

In California there are only two seasons: summer and rain. California natives swear there are four, but I have yet to feel them all. Every year without a snowy winter, I get confused about time. Growing up in the cold of Michigan winters, the snow has settled somewhere deep in my bones and my body seems to remember and miss it. Here in California, the winter is green from the rainfall, and in a good year, the rainfall down here at sea level means many feet of snow up in the Sierra Nevadas. We depend on a deep snowpack for our drinking water, and year after year, that snowpack gets shallower, the water supply contracted. Some rivers that used to flow all year round slow to a trickle, or to nothing, a shallow ditch, in the summer, and return in the winter. Some rivers, though, leave and never return again.

For many months it does not rain at all. You forget where your umbrellas are. Every day feels the same, where I live—some a little hotter than others—until it doesn’t. Growing up in one of the cloudiest states, I never thought I’d get sick of the sun, but here in California, I check the calendar and count the days, waiting for a break of clouds, of rain.

And then the rain comes all at once. Days, weeks straight of rain, rain so much we wonder where it can all possibly come from, how the earth can hold this rain, and whether it can take the rain back up again. The rainy days feel somehow colder here than in the Midwest, though it rarely gets below 40 degrees Fahrenheit here. Is it something about the proximity to the ocean that keeps the air humid and makes that rain feel even colder? Is it that our houses here aren’t built to withstand cold, like the fortresses in the Midwest? (My neighbor tells me her house has no insulation at all—“it’s just a box,” she says.) Or is it, maybe, that we’ve waited so long for the rain that the contrast strikes us, like so many contrasts do, as more than it actually is, because we’ve missed it for so long?

I’m thankful, most rainy winters, for the chance to sit inside. In the sunshine of the rest of the year, sitting inside in the perfect weather feels wrong, though of course some days require you to ignore the weather and stay inside. The rain feels like a kind of permission to rest. 

Though of course, this rest is an illusion. Heavy, sudden rains after long seasons of drought often bring danger: floods and mudslides. Even though California should be used to this kind of wet year, it always seems unprepared. The heavy rains are sometimes called atmospheric rivers which carry an amount of water vapor roughly equivalent to the average flow of water at the mouth of the Mississippi River. The first time it rains, roads flood and the highways wail all day with sirens on their way to car accidents on the slick roads. Even though every day the forecast calls for the possibility of rain, I often still forget my umbrella. The earth itself feels unprepared. Almost every year there’s a flood of some kind: flat suburban streets flood as the gutters fill up with dead leaves, water pools on the interstate, underpasses become canals. One year people brought their kayaks to an empty grocery store parking lot and paddled around in their brand-new lake.

But perhaps the flooding isn’t destructive—or the destruction is the point. Just like wildfires are part of the climate, part of the season here, flooding is too. Here the weather feels predictable, even the most extreme weather—but even that illusion of knowledge is a kind of gift. It is wonderful to feel you know what is coming. After all the drought of summer, we know we can expect a flood: a kind of abundance. And soon, people get tired of the days of rain, and wish for the summer again. Like people everywhere, we have trouble being where we are, and always long for the next. Borne along like a river, the rains are ahead, and the sunshine too.


Wednesday, July 28, 2021

The #Midwessay: David Schuman, 40

 



40

David Schuman


*


My kid and I are driving west on the highway when she pipes up.
     “What is Missouri famous for?”
     It’s the kind of random question she asks a lot these days, but it hits me because I’ve been thinking lately about the fact that she’s from here, and I’m not. She was born right here in St. Louis at a hospital called Missouri Baptist, which is a funny thing for me, a Jew from New Jersey, to tell the folks back home. 
     New Jersey is famous for a lot of things, not all of them positive. Okay, most of them not positive. But I’m proud of being from there, at least as far as one can take pride in something they had nothing to do with. I like that I grew up in the shadow of New York City, that from the northeastern corner of my suburban town you could make out the Twin Towers in the distance if the air was clear. I like that the roads and towns of my youth are memorialized in Springsteen songs. I like that my commute to the industrial park in the Meadowlands where I worked in my twenties featured several of the landmarks from The Sopranos opening credits. Not to mention the pizza, the pizza, the pizza. And the Jersey attitude, even if I’ve never really been able to pull it off. Sometimes by way of argument, or explanation,  I’ll say to someone, often with a shrug, “I’m from New Jersey.” 
     I want my kid to have the same sense of pride about the place she’s from. 
     “Well,” I tell her, “there’s The Arch.” 
     “Hmmm,” she says, considering this. “I guess?’
     The Arch isn’t enough for her, it’s just that thing we bid farewell whenever we leave town, a family ritual. “Bye-bye Arch,” we say, crossing the bridge to Illinois we’ve dubbed The Ugliest Bridge In the World.  
     “Chuck Berry is from here,” I say. 
     She nods in approval, though I know this is for my sake, because she knows how much I care about rock and roll.  
     We’re out past the city limits now, west enough so that Missouri starts to look like Missouri. Fields, big sky, megachurches, warehouses advertising feed and tractors. Limestone pokes out of the ground here and there. Over the Missouri River to our right, high above, a flock of white pelicans banks and their wings catch the sun. 
     “There’s that,” I say, pointing. 
     “Yeah, but those birds are probably from Louisiana.”
     It’s true. 
     Maybe the reason I’ve been thinking so much about here and there is because my parents are still in New Jersey, and my dad’s not doing well. His memory is almost gone, and my mom’s heart is broken over it, and the distance between me and my parents, between my parents and the grandchild we’ve decided to raise out here in the middle of the country, can no longer be calculated only in land miles.
Our errand for the day is to check out a sewing stool someone is selling out in Wentzville, which to me has always sounded like a town made up by Dr. Seuss. 
     “It looks okay in the pictures online,” my wife told me. “But make sure there’s nothing wrong with it.” 
There’s something wrong with it. One of the plastic castors is cracked and will need to be replaced. But we’ve driven an hour, and the old guy who’s selling it to us is so nice. He wears a Cabela's trucker’s cap high on his head and a plaid shirt over a prominent beer belly. If he were forty years younger you could mistake him for a hipster. He details the finer points of the item, tapping his thick fingers on the vinyl upholstery to show me how sturdy it is, pulling it open to show us the plastic tray that fits inside. 
     “There’s a place for pins and bobbins and whatnot here, and you put your spools of thread on these little pegs here.”
     We both avoid looking at the broken part, as if it’s a secret we agreed long ago not to mention. My kid’s poking around the guy’s garage, which smells like sawdust and motor oil and tools, an essence no room I’m associated with will ever acquire. 
     He closes the lid and gives the stool a little poke to send it a little closer to me, which I recognize as a closing tactic. It wobbles. I suppose Home Depot carries castors.  
     “It was my wife’s” he says. 
     The way he says it I assume his wife is dead, but almost as if in response the door to the house opens and a woman comes into the garage. She’s pretty, with white hair, wearing a quilted robe incongruously with a pair of duck boots. 
     “Erin!” she exclaims. “John, why didn’t you tell me Erin was here!”
     She’s looking at my kid, who is standing there holding a fly lure she was probably going to ask if she could purchase for herself to wear as an earring or around her neck. She looks caught and not a little afraid under this woman’s beaming scrutiny. 
     “Aren’t you going to give your grandma a kiss?” says the woman. Her robe is slightly agape at the chest, and all of us in the garage want to look anywhere but at her cleavage. 
     “Jude, that’s not Erin,” he says. “These people have come to buy the stool. This is…another girl.”
     “What stool?” asks the woman, her smile falling. “My stool? Why would you give away my stool?” 
She turns to me. 
     “He’s always doing this.” Her voice has turned bitter. “He gives away all my nicest things.” 
     The old guy decides it’s time to usher her back inside. 
     “If you want it, just leave the money,”  he says, putting his arm around his wife’s waist, turning her toward the door. “Or just take it, I guess, either way.”
     I press a twenty onto the workbench and weigh it down with a rubber mallet. It was only supposed to be fifteen, but I don’t want to wait around for the guy to make change. I hold out my hand for the lure, which my kid passes to me regretfully. I put it down next to the money. 
     As we’re pulling out of the driveway, the couple come out onto their front porch. The woman’s robe has been refastened, chastely, up to the neck. The guy puts up a hand, and the woman waves wide, then blows kisses, one from each of her fingers. It’s clear she’s saying goodbye to someone who isn’t her, but my kid rolls down the window and puts out her arm to wave back. 
     We drive in silence for a while. My kid has only recently gotten big enough to sit up front, and neither of us is quite used to traveling this way. She sits formally, her hands on her knees, observing the road ahead as if she’s got a new responsibility to do so. 
     This morning, my mom told me over the phone that my dad had been denied participation in a promising trial. The problem, she told me, is that he’d need to get weekly MRIs. “He forgets where he is and he sort of comes to inside the chamber and gets scared. They told me he kept on trying to sit up in there.” I consoled my mother with something from an article I’d read, which, while heralding the trial as the cutting edge of Alzheimer’s research, cautioned that it had insofar only shown promise in mice. A researcher quoted in the article said, “When it comes to Alzheimer’s, it’s always good to be a mouse.” 
Eventually the city comes into view. The eastern approach to St. Louis on Highway 40 is like landing a plane. It all stretches out in front of you; the suburbs, the green swath of Forest Park, the giant grain silo rising over the railyards, the modest skyscrapers of downtown. And in the furthest distance, like a handle you could use to peel the whole thing up, The Arch. 
     We both take it in, just driving. 
     Then she turns to me and says, “I like it here.” 



Tuesday, July 27, 2021

The #Midwessay: Melody S. Gee, After Our Roots Have Thirsted



After Our Roots Have Thirsted

Melody Gee 


*


Because the Los Angeles suburb I grew up in was built in the 1960s, carved out of abandoned citrus groves and dairy farms, the 1927 brick bungalow we bought in St. Louis felt more than old. It felt ancient. It was from another era. Our house’s previous owner lived and died alone. Neighbors told us he struggled with mental illness, and that he painted dragons. Once, he showed up to a neighbor’s door at 6am with his painting supplies and offered to put a dragon above their fireplace. House flippers painted over the dragons in our living room, but their single thin coat in the basement still lets one winding red creature peek through when the sun is right. While they updated the house nicely, our plaster still cracks everywhere. There are no square corners or floors that won’t slide balls to one end of the room. I turned 40 this summer and am starting to love our old house, and its similarities to my older self. The house contains our family and has weathered tornadoes and Mississippi floods and arctic freezes. While its parts wear out and need replacing, the house has never once just broken down, knock on wood. 

The Midwest teaches me about age and aging. My parents bought their house from my father’s sister in 1970 because it’s what they could afford, and it cut down on overwhelming paperwork and dealing with too many Americans who spoke too fast. My mom never entirely got over that it wasn’t a brand-new house and she never bought anything second-hand again. Every morning my parents try to make themselves new again with supplements and creams that promise to regenerate and revive. I think it’s partly because, as immigrants, their very lives are defined by being new. Their severed roots still search for receiving ground, even sixty years later. They have no elders to anchor them the way the old and deep networks of St. Louis connect, hold, and identify those born here. 

St. Louis feels like the most real place I have lived. Anywhere I go, the brick, the black gum and redbud trees, the fleur-de-lis, and the slightly aggressive neighborhood flags all tell me you are here. The small city I grew up in, bordering endless other small cities that make up the vast and nameless suburbia south of Los Angeles, never felt like anywhere, exactly. It’s not L.A proper, not the Inland Empire, neither of The Valleys, or any of the Beach Cities. We drove from one place to another, paying little attention to what passed between. Life was a collection of places without a sense of place. But perhaps this is what immigrant life is because the realest place has long been left behind. When I bristle against my parents’ overly manicured and curated suburb, I remember that their newer house is really the most ancient place I know, filled with ancestors and Cantonese and millenia of ritual and sacrifice.

This summer, my husband is planting a native Missouri garden of coneflowers, phlox, and blazing stars. We want to be surrounded by what was here before us, before people started changing everything with what they couldn’t bear to leave behind. What belongs and what doesn’t, what’s old or new, what’s real or not—these are all questions of people whose roots have thirsted. Who’ve come and gone, fled and settled, repainted and replanted, staking belonging long before belonging arrives.


Monday, July 26, 2021

The #Midwessay: Sebastian Stockman, Home and How To Get There




Home and How To Get There

Sebastian Stockman 

*


Fly to Kansas City International Airport (MCI).
     Rent a car. 
     Take I-435 to I-70. 
     Head east on 70, toward St. Louis. (Don’t go to St. Louis!)
     Drive for an hour.
     Take the exit at Concordia. Take a left at the end of the exit ramp, driving under the highway you’ve just departed.
     Drive north on State Highway 23.
     After seven and a half miles, as the wraps to the right on a mild descent, note the silver, peak-roofed water tower. “ALMA” is painted on its side in a large sans serif font. Note the gravel road on your right. It’s the first entrance into town—but don’t take it. Note the sign on your left—“Welcome to Alma: The Cleanest Little City”—just as 23 passes under a railroad bridge.
     Let another road pass on your right. This is the blacktopped second entrance into town.
     Continue as 23 ascends gently and bends back to the left.
     On your right, note the field planted with, depending on the year, corn or soybeans. Beyond the field, note the long brick building with “HOME OF THE CHIEFS” painted on it—that’s the back of your high school.
     Come to a stop at the intersection with the blinking red light.
     Turn right onto State Highway 20. You’ll pass the newish (in the last 20 years) gas station on your left, just down the hill from where the Stolls’ house was erased by a tornado a few years back. 
     Follow 20 up and over the hill. Take your next right.
     Nod at the 25 MPH speed limit sign and the small green rectangle beneath it:

CITY LIMIT
ALMA
POP. 402

Welcome to the center of the universe.

*

Amateur politicians staffed local government. Claxton Joy was the janitor at my elementary school (Trinity Lutheran, 100 students, grades K-8). He was also the mayor. Both of these positions were retirement gigs. Silver-haired with wire-rim glasses, Claxton patrolled the tiled halls with a pushbroom and a large potbelly straining at his polo shirt preceding him. His uniform at City Council meetings was the same, sans broom. 
     The man who cut my hair—and my brother’s, and my grandpa’s—was Harlan Mieser, though everyone called him “Mouse.” He was and, as of this writing, still is, one of three Lafayette County Commissioners. 
     It was something like an understaffed community theater production; everyone played multiple roles. Bob Kurth was president of the Alma Bank. A Navy veteran who’d seen much more of the world than many of his fellow-townspeople, Bob smoked Marlboro Reds and drove a beat-up Chevy truck. His dad, Homer, was the long-time pastor at Trinity Lutheran, and Bob has been the choir director since before I was born. 

Alma Kiehl (always both names, so as to differentiate her from the town itself) was the cat lady. 
     Alma Kiehl’s tale, as recounted by the elders, was a cautionary one. According to Grandpa, she’d gone “to New York and pickled her brain on dope.” She walked everywhere in this town where people drive if they have to cover more than half a block. But from her paint-chipped white house next to the railroad tracks (one classmate heard there were fifty cats in there, someone else heard a hundred and fifty) she ventured out on her daily rounds: post office, grocery store, and sometimes the restaurant. For 50 years or more, there’s only been one restaurant in town, though in different iterations. Lately (read: the last 30 years) it’s been Cathy’s Country Restaurant and before that it was called D’s Cafe and before that it was Poodle’s.
     Cathy’s was the only place she might be confronted—and then only if she just came in to chat and not to order—as the ever-present scent of cat urine was bad for business. In my memory, she wears a fraying, long brown overcoat year-round, plus a tattered old hat. (Although as I re-read this recently I recalled a summer when she might have had her hair tied up in a red bandanna). If Alma Kiehl chanced to address us directly—“You coming from school?”—we followed the lead of our parents and mumbled vague agreements to our shoes. Her difference was dangerous. 
     The way she dressed up to venture out, her sad attempts at vanity, the way people’s embarrassment for her led to feigned indifference which led to behind-her-back scorn. A poignant figure, ridiculous and sad. But at the same time one who, as the object of gossip and speculation as to her history, revealed less about her and more about a community’s own fears and preoccupations. 

Here’s a story: one night in the late ‘50s or early ‘60s someone tripped the alarm at Alma’s general store on the town’s main drag.
     The store isn’t there anymore. It closed years before I was born. So did all six of the town’s saloons that, legend has it, once thrived on railroad traffic. Passenger trains would let travelers off for a pit stop on their way across the state. No one alive remembers the saloons. You can get a beer at Cathy’s, but she closes at seven, sometimes eight. Trains still stop in town every now and then to take on a load at the grain elevator, but there are never any passengers.
     There aren’t a lot of businesses in Alma, is what I’m saying. The building that housed the general store had been empty for years when, in the mid-90s, it was torn down to make way for a new post office.
     Anyway, very late one night or very early one morning in the late middle of the 20th Century someone tripped the alarm at the general store. Wilbert Fiene, the store’s night watchman, investigated, whereupon he surprised two Ozark hillbillies mid-burgle. The would-be felons fled the store and jumped in their truck, speeding south on a gravel road out of town. Wilbert followed only to find his hot pursuit thwarted before it’d begun; they’d let the air out of his tires. The night watchman’s next step was to rouse Renata Limback, the town’s telephone operator.
     Of course, there were no cell phones or 911, and even had there been the town has only ever had a part-time police officer, and that position often goes unfilled. What the town did have—what it would have until the mid-70s—was a party line. To get someone you’d pick up the phone and say “Renata, ring Virgil Beumer [BAY-mer] please. And then Renata would activate the line Virgil lived on. This would cause the phones to ring in Virgil’s designated pattern (two shorts and a long, say) in every house along the line. (This was great for snooping and gossip, as you didn’t have to hang up. You could listen in to any conversation happening along your line). If you’ve seen enough episodes of “The Andy Griffith Show” you’ve seen this in action. The phones worked just the same in Mayberry.
     So Wilbert woke Renata, who rang all the houses to the south and west of town, rousing sleeping farm families to let them know miscreants might be headed their way. A lot of these farmers—this story goes—went down to the ends of their lanes with rifles or shotguns, looking to get in a pop or two at the bandits’ truck as it sped by. It was probably Ronnie Rist who got one of the tires, which forced the burglars to abandon the truck and make their way on foot. 
     By now the rousted farmers had coalesced into an informal midnight posse and were tracking the fugitives with their dogs. The dogs were not practiced at tracking humans, but their baying would have been heard by the Ozarkers (whom I always picture as barefooted, overalled cartoons, like the animated Hatfields and McCoys from Warner Bros. cartoons), which would have added to an overall ominous sense of being, ahem, hounded.
     At some point the burglars doubled back toward town. They were found separately. One was discovered curled up at the bottom of someone’s cellar steps. The other was sprawled flat atop something called a self-feeder in the middle of a hog lot surrounded by some very disturbed sows.
     My grandfather, Erwin Stockman, (who went by “Dick” so as to differentiate him from his brother Albert, whom everyone called “Pete”), was a dairy farmer. Every morning he drove into town to drop off the freshly-squeezed milk at the creamery and his only child, my young father, at school. The Stockmans lived about five miles out of town along the party line that had heard so much action the night before, so father and son left a little earlier than usual that morning to see the results of the fuss. 
     Of course they went to Poodle’s, site of the town’s early-morning farmer kaffeeklatsch (as D’s would be after it and Cathy’s is now). Instead of the usual four or five men trading monosyllables over weak coffee, the Stockman boys found a lively scene of backslapping along with a loud rehashing of last night’s manhunt. And, sitting there in a booth, they found the manhunt’s targets.
     There was no city jail, and really no other place to put them, so the accidental vigilantes hauled the hillbillies into Poodle’s to hold them until the Sheriff could make his way down from the county seat. As Dad recalls it, the posse was treating the captured crooks to breakfast—out of a sense of hospitality and maybe in gratitude for a night’s excitement.

Dad’s vague on many details—like his age at the time. But this is the kind of story I grew up with. It’s the kind of story that allowed me to watch “Andy Griffith” reruns growing up and see not a lampooning but a slightly-heightened version of rural small-town life. 
     I sat summer nights on the patio as Dad drank beer and grilled. We’d listen to “A Prairie Home Companion” and wait—through the “Powdermilk Biscuits” jingle and the Ketchup Council ads, we’d wait as Garrison Keillor insisted on joining his more-talented musical guests for a number or four. Then, in the last quarter of the show, Dad would pat me on the knee and say, “here we go” approvingly as Keillor introduced his signature bit: “It’s been a quiet week in Lake Wobegon, my hometown, out on the edge of the prairie.” 
     We might hear of a character who left Lake Wobegon, went East, only to return like Alma Kiehl—abashed, chastened, diminished—and in the process confirm all the Wobegonian priors about the outside world and the folly of venturing forth into it. 

The real treat came when something in the Keillor story reminded Dad of a piece of local lore—The Night of the Ozark Bandits, say. Ignoring the closing number, he’d tell me about the time Uncle Pete and “Fat” Limback got an entrepreneurial hair and set up a still at the old King place—which I knew only as a bare spot in a field, where a tiny family cemetery plot sat next to two grain silos, just barely visible from our seats at Dad’s house, over on top of the next rise. 
     Anyway, Fat and Pete went around to the barn dances to peddle their efforts and liven up the proceedings. But, as Colonel Schuette once quipped, “They never had quite enough product, as they were assiduous about quality control.”
     This is how, not quite 30 years later, after Keillor’s retirement and disgrace, I arrive at nostalgia for nights spent with a radio program whose subject was nostalgia for a place and time it fetishized, but one that, as far as I could tell, I lived in. The News from Lake Wobegon wasn’t, for me, the self-consciously old-timey, humor-adjacent nostalgia trap most people take it for. In my pubescent cultural firmament it was … the news. News from a place where, because everyone is cousins, most trespasses could be winked at, forgiven. 
     Everything except leaving.