American

First Person Plural

alicia — Mon, 14 Feb 2011 08:00:00 +0000

Imagine having three different names and three different birth dates. Deann Borshay Liem asks the viewers of her documentary film First Person Plural to do just that as she tells the story of her adoption in 1966 from Korea by American parents living in California. The film traces her childhood in America and desperate drive to assimilate perfectly into American culture, which—to all who looked at her—would say she accomplished quite successfully.

Yet, upon moving out of her parents’ house, Liem becomes haunted, literally, by memories of her past in Korea, a past that included a mother, father and four siblings. After the ghost of her father startles her by appearing in her car’s passenger seat, Liam knows that she must return to Korea and discover the truth about her adoption.

Once there, she meets her mother, brother, and sisters (her father died when she was an infant) and finds out that her real name is Ok Jin and that her identity had been switched with a girl named Cha Jung Hee (whose father had claimed her within the orphanage just weeks before her adoption was finalized). The remainder of the film chronicles her decision to have her American parents meet her Korean family because she believes this is the only way that she can hold both families together in her mind simultaneously and not have to choose between them.

The film, running at sixty minutes, follows a steady and even pace, intermixing photos and home videos from her childhood along with interviews with her American father, mother, sister and brother, and footage of the meeting between her American and Korean families. Beyond the film’s technical proficiency, its emotional impact is its greatest strength.

Her subjects are candid as they recount their reactions to her adoption and their current relationship to her, and the authenticity with which they express themselves is both refreshing and moving. For instance, Liem’s American family—in their well-meaning attempt to reassure her that she was a “real” member of the family—repeatedly dismisses the significance of her past and given name. Throughout the film, her father, mother and sister each assert that Liem’s “real” name is Deann or Cha Jung Hee, not Ok Jin, shrugging it off as a technicality. Liem’s dismay at this reaction is palpable.

Perhaps most touching is Liem’s difficulty discerning who her “real” mother is. Both of her mothers are gracious and supportive of their daughter as she struggles with this decision, and Liem comes to the realization that the only way to become closer to her Korean mother is to acknowledge that she is not, in fact, Liem’s mother after all. The scene in which Liem’s Korean mother tells her that she only gave birth to Liem and that she should do everything possible to make her American mother happy is heartbreakingly honest. Overall, the film touchingly explores the nature of identity, memory, and family, as Liem struggles to fuse her three names and two families into a cohesive whole.

While glancing over Mu Films’ website, I discovered that Liem has followed up First Person Plural with her latest documentary In the Matter of Cha Jung Hee, released in 2010. In it, she returns to Korea and the orphanage out of which she was adopted to track down the girl with whom her identity had been switched. Given the quality and power of First Person Plural, I’m sure that joining Liem on this next phase of her journey to piece together her identity will be just as rewarding.

Written by: Dr. Jennifer A. Smith, February 14th 2011

The Panicking

annette — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 20:00:00 +0000

By Million Dollar Mouth

Atonal Records

The Los Angeles-based hard rock band Million Dollar Mouth channel groups including The Clash, Alice in Chains, and Radiohead (vocalist Mike Biscotti even sounds a bit like Thom Yorke), while giving a nod to less obvious influences such as Lenny Kravitz, Dire Straits, and The Cars. Heavy, grungy guitar and bass anchor most tracks, with keyboards and drum adding texture; the sound varies from distorted and harsh on “1-4-3” to echoing and expansive, as on “Space Out.” Biscotti often chant-sings the lyrics, but occasionally, as on “Second Skin,” his voice veers into a beautiful falsetto. Keyboardist Mary S., guitarist Vanja Andrin, bassist 80, and drummer Kris Keane provide solid musicianship with occasional surprises.

Among the standouts on The Panicking is “Lush.” While still guitar-heavy, it’s also inherently danceable and more melodic than the other tunes on the disc, with a great refrain and catchy hook. The tight rhythms of “Keep It To Yourself” and the sardonic delivery of the verses compliment the lyrics: “Stop giving away the secret/nobody cares.” Gentle drumming and a lilting, drawn-out vocal delivery distinguish “Pretty,” and the more you listen to the song, the more the odd rhythms stick in your head, with the radical change of tempo from verse to refrain also giving the number some kick.

Million Dollar Mouth doesn’t tread any new ground, but the group borrows elements from other successful acts and blends them to make a satisfying album.

Written by: Karen Duda, January 10th 2011

Welder

gita — Tue, 23 Nov 2010 16:00:00 +0000

By Elizabeth Cook

31 Tiger Records

Elizabeth Cook blends tenacity with tradition for Welder, embracing traditional backwoods country twang, some bluegrass, and a touch of rockabilly while adding her own progressive spin and pop edginess. The daughter of country musicians and welders, for whom the album was named, Cook effectively utilizes these aforementioned influences to raise her fist to integral feminist themes like independence, sexual expression and assertion. An inspired production by Don Was helps to paint these emotionally expressive tales that cut to the bone yet have appeal for a more mainstream audience. Back vocals from Buddy Miller, Dwight Yoakam and Rodney Crowell further add to this colorful mosaic that offers the listener beseeching love song narratives and catchy, yet ornery bucolic anecdotes.

Welder runs a zigzag marathon from point A to Z, and then back to C. “All The Time” starts it all with endearing Dolly-style twang vocals that make you smile and pine for that effortless grating raw emotion somehow missing from current pop country mainstays. “El Camino” utilizes its playful soft pitter patter to create tongue-in-cheek banter about premarital sexcapades in a creepy ’72 El Camino. Cook then jumps from silly to emotionally cutting and intense with “Heroin Addict Sister,” further reflecting the underlying progressive nature of the record, lamenting about the sister’s painful life of drug abuse and prostitution. The mood changes yet again with “Yes To Booty,” a tribute to sober honky tonk sex that has potential sing-a-long cult status, where thousands cry “come on say no to beer and say yes to booty.” Cook’s cover of Frankie Miller’s “Blackland Farmer” is as simple and effective as it gets; her warm gooey alto vocals melt atop the simple, yet compelling, lyrics offering gritty realism and keen insight. “Girlfriend Tonight” works the pedal steel into lush harmonious grandeur to help capture the sentiment in the lyrical content, “Honey I know that I am just your wife / I wanna be your girlfriend tonight.” “I’m Beginning To Forget” covers a song written by Cook’s late mother and is lovingly sung with Rodney Crowell.

Welder succeeds in pushing the envelope of Americana standards by melding them all with a variety of far-reaching themes and influences. Moving between stark, emotionally cutting and intense to amusing honky tonk clichés could either confuse listeners, or, be perceived as a well-rounded exploration of life. Cook should be given credit for her ability to turn the twang on and off when it suits the song, as well as for using satirical idioms that don’t usually flow, but she makes it all work. Compelling themes that go to the limits, both high and low, accentuate the harshness of life and the beauty of it all in its simplest form.

Written by: Cat Veit, November 23rd 2010

The Prospect of Magic

admin — Tue, 01 Jun 2010 16:01:00 +0000

By M.O. Walsh

Livingston Press

The Prospect of Magic, a collection of ten stories, sets up a wonderful world where the real and magical live side by side. It’s enchanting. Some of the stories are hopeful, some are tragic, and some are sad, just like real life. All of them feature flights of fancy, just like the best magic trick.

The story centers around Fluker, Louisiana, where the World Famous Ploofop Travelling Circus decides to stay after its owner, Abidail Ploofop, dies. Margo the Mind Reader gives a eulogy, “a speech that, legend has it, wrapped a hopeful message around the mind of every person in attendance.” Soon, the townsfolk are playing poker on their roof with giants, receiving lions in the mail, and angry clown gangs roam the streets, making trouble. These delightful images of a circus gone to seed populate the stories, but never pull away from Walsh's general message of good will and that people can be accepted no matter what.

In "The Cat Who Ate The Boy," the young narrator receives a lion named Big Kitty mailed to the carnival, and after attempting to care for it, takes the beast to his grandfather. The story is told through the boy’s eyes, and Big Kitty that lurks in and out of the story soon becomes a metaphor for his parent’s relationship – an element that is in many ways big, strong and beyond the boy's control.

The title story tells of a teenage boy learning to deal with the magic he has, and how to reconcile it with the reality of the world. "The Dream Tow" tells of a fortune telling machine that reminds the characters to savour what they have in life, whether it’s a musical skill with a trombone or a happy marriage. The final story, "The Ploofop Refugees," follows Margo the Mind Reader’s husband as he deals with her impending death, and the possibility of the circus folks leaving Fluker.

All of these stories deal with the people from the circus and the Fluker townspeople as both everyday people, and people filled with magic. The ease the characters and stories show with the idea of giraffes eating leaves off the trees in the town square in the same story as the death of wife is remarkable, and is what sets these stories apart from other short stories in their sense of fun and community. The prospect of magic indeed.

Written by: Taylor Rhodes, June 1st 2010

A Tortilla Is Like Life: Food and Culture in the San Luis Valley of Colorado

admin — Tue, 06 Apr 2010 00:01:00 +0000

By Carole M. Counihan

University of Texas Press

From the time Laura Esquivel’s well known novel Like Water for Chocolate was made into a film, food and meals have been presented as a means of communication that extends beyond the dinner table. A Tortilla Is Like Life is an excellent book about Hispanic food, recipes, and home remedies.

A Tortilla Is Like Life is an introduction to the unique Hispanic community of Antonito in San Luis Valley of Colorado. This small urban centre with a population of approximately 900 has Spanish, Mexican, and American Indian ancestry with some Anglophone influences. The town of Alamola, thirty miles away with a population ten times the size of Antonito, provides employment for people from nearby communities.

Carole Counihan, an anthropologist who settled in Antonito with her husband and two sons, presents the culture of the community by gathering food-centred interviews between 1996 and 2006 from nineteen women ages thirty-two to ninety-four, making fifty-five interviews in total. Two women in particular play a major role by providing information about the food, traditions, and culture of Antonito. The most active participants in Counihan’s study were Helen Ruybal, born in 1906, who she interviewed nineteen times, and Teddy Madrid, born in 1936, who was interviewed six times.

In this small community, gender arrangements surrounding cooking have changed over the years along with the archetype of the Chicano patriarchal family. Food sits at the heart of the household, contributing to the structure of families. A woman who prepares food is seen as the head of the family, and women construct relationships with men through cooking. Given that many women sell prepared food to make a living, domestic duties belong to both husband and wife. Through food, women establish a sense of their own identity, culture, and place in society. They create stories about food to preserve their legacy for future generations.

Certain foods encapsulate memories, rituals, beliefs, and traditions. Two things that are central to the Antonito diet (for both flavour and tradition) are red and green chilis, which are eaten on numerous occasions—with extended families, during birth rituals, at one's wedding, and after death—as they communicate love, nurturing, and care.

Counihan wants to enrich the understanding of Antonito’s history by presenting diverse women’s voices and creating a cultural mosaic revealing how they relate to food and community. She classifies her book as testimonio and has done a very thorough job researching. A Tortilla Is Like Life deals very well with the sense of cultural belonging felt by those living in a community where women’s identity is shaped by food.

Written by: Anna Hamling, April 5th 2010

Western Theater

admin — Thu, 01 Apr 2010 08:00:00 +0000

By Mighty Tiger

Paper Garden Records

Mighty Tiger are the sort of band to open for Animal Collective or Grizzly Bear on tour—and not just because of their similar four-legged names. It’s easy to compare bands in folksy sub-genres, but the truth is, Mighty Tiger are a solid pop-driven fit among more established bands of similar persuasion.

On Western Theater, Mighty Tiger do what other comparable bands do not. They lean on alt-country traditions and add a layer of pop jubilance that makes their folk-country rock a pleasantly danceable treat. This Seattle-based quintet also creates soothing harmonies a la Sufjan Stevens, whereas their freak folk counterparts often make discordant, if enjoyable, sounds.

Maybe because I recently started trying my hand at chess again, board tucked away since childhood battles against my father, the song “Rook and King” drew me in almost immediately. The song also rhymes “Alsatian” and “fornication,” which is somehow incredibly endearing. I should dust off my rhyming dictionary along with my pawns.

Another favorite, the seven-minute “The Most American Thing in America,” would be a perfect addition to a moody, road-trip-ready mix-tape. Admittedly, I haven’t had a tape player in my car since 2000, and even then, I was pretty old school for carting around cassettes of indie hits compiled by friends with far superior tastes. Nevertheless, epic songs make me smile, and this one is no exception. Over and over, the guys repeat, “And we won’t hold on for too long.” I’m all for closure.

On tour this spring in southern and western regions, you can catch Mighty Tiger at South By Southwest and elsewhere, with support from Grand Hallway.

Written by: Brittany Shoot, April 1st 2010

The Widow of the South

admin — Sat, 09 Jan 2010 01:00:00 +0000

By Robert Hicks

Grand Central Publishing

Though it’s based in reality, Robert Hicks’ work of historical fiction The Widow of the South is an incredibly long, often meandering novel that failed to rouse me in any real way. And that’s something I’m truly sorry to report.

A few years ago, I became interested in all things Southern. My boyfriend, born and raised in Alabama, is like this treasure trove of lovely, unfamiliar things, and the area in which he was raised never fails to fascinate me, a girl who was born and raised in Los Angeles. The American South is this incredibly multi-faceted, bizarre, segmented country of its own, and I think its bloody, checkered past is greatly responsible for both its beauty and savagery. Needless to say, I was very excited to read Hicks' Deep South tale of a woman named Carrie McGavock, who had 1,500 Confederate soldiers buried in her back yard.

The opening scene of the novel takes place in 1894 and is perhaps the most telling of McGavock and what she has become; she spends her days almost obsessively walking the aisles of her personal cemetery with her former slave, wearing the same black dress she’s worn out of mourning for countless years, checking to make sure everyone is buried where they’re supposed to be. After McGavock’s home, the Carnton Plantation, was taken over by Confederate soldiers nearly thirty years prior, it’s safe to say that she was never the same again.

I’d be very interested in a novel that took the pains to describe exactly what kind of woman it would take to muster the strength and heart to dig up the bodies of these soldiers--whose original graves were going to be plowed over--and rebury them in her own backyard. There is a real sense of dignity and respect in this well-researched story, so I was disappointed—but not surprised—when a love story emerged that detailed the relationship between McGavock and a soldier named Zachariah Cashwell during the bloodiest hours of the war.

Frankly, I hate how novels, movies, and television shows of all kinds feel this overwhelming, almost obsessive need to throw a love story into any story featuring an interesting, strong, or otherwise compelling female character. Sure, love happens and the fact that McGavock and Cashwell were able to fall in love during the madness that was the Civil War is compelling in its own way, but in The Widow of the South it almost seems to cheapen McGavock’s strong character. The entire novel features lengthy passages of beautifully written prose, but sometimes it’d simply be nice to see a woman’s story stand on its own... and perhaps for a little less than 551 pages.

Written by: Tina Vasquez, January 8th 2010

Not That Kind of Girl

admin — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 09:00:00 +0000

By Carlene Bauer

Harper

Carlene Bauer was a seven-year-old child when her mother became a born-again Christian, catapulting the family into a regimen that put avoiding devilish distraction front and center. Fear of imminent doom led to a morass of rules governing the Bauer sisters’ every move, rules that touched on modesty, piety, and propriety.

Bauer was born in 1973 and Not That Kind of Girl takes the reader from her early childhood, to her coming of age in 1980s New Jersey, to the present. Along the way she describes the implicit and explicit messages she received about what type of girl she was not to become. As she does this she reveals profound confusion about womanhood, autonomy, and integrity, the unraveling of which forms the crux of this intellectually stimulating, and often funny, memoir.

Not surprisingly, there are many questions. Is premarital sex really sinful? What about drinking and smoking pot? Is doubt always destructive? Can someone love language, literature, and rock music alongside the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost? If so, how?

Four years at a Catholic college provide few answers, so not knowing what else to do, Bauer and a few friends move to Brooklyn, NY, post graduation. They’re hoping the city’s grit will help resolve these dilemmas, but distractions intrude—there’s the club scene, literary readings, parties, and a publishing job that gives Bauer a chance to hone her editing skills and wit, albeit for a pittance.

The years following the move are full of ups and downs, but it is Bauer’s continual search for meaning that keeps her from settling for less than she wants in relationships and employment. Still, confusion and guilt dominate.

“Christianity had taught me that reaching out your hand for what you wanted, since it might entail pushing someone else out of the way, was selfish and impolite,” she writes. “I could not reconcile my faith with my ambition—I could not stop thinking that one had to be suppressed for the other—and this left me too muddled to be shrewd.”

For a while, Bauer thinks that converting to Catholicism will provide clarity; it doesn’t. And then 9/11 happened. “I would be a fool if I opened my mouth to ask God to watch over us or give us peace after he had taken it away from thousands of people and might be preparing to end the happiness of everyone within the church and without. I could not seek consolation from him,” she admits.

Just like that, Bauer’s faith crumbles, at least temporarily; on the other hand, her quest for life’s purpose never waivers. It’s liberating, if hard, to shift gears into a more secular worldview, but the subtle change allows Bauer to find a satisfying job as a magazine fact checker, begin writing, and pursue a relationship that seems sustainable. As for God, who knows? Bauer’s odyssey is likely to be lifelong, and as her quest for divinity has broadened, she has begun to see, and write about, evidence of the spirit in music, poetry, nature, and city life.

Not That Kind of Girl is a revelatory and provocative work, a personal story that goes far beyond the boundaries of autobiography. Witty and deeply introspective, it shines a personal light on evangelism that proves 1960s feminists correct: The personal really is political.

Written by: Eleanor J. Bader, November 12th 2009

American Romances: Essays

admin — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 23:14:00 +0000

By Rebecca Brown

City Lights Books

In this bountiful blend of writing, Rebecca Brown discusses the interpretation of words in the past and present. She mixes classic pieces of writing with contemporary history and combines her own coming-of-age anecdotes with other writings. Her commentary is sometimes shocking, sometimes eloquent, and overall, leaves you to wonder what she is thinking. Why does she choose to develop these essays this way? By reading more, you realize her point: for her entire life, she has tried tirelessly to figure out what is it to be “American.”

Brown's voice strongly suggests a quirky, laugh-out-loud approach to life. At times, her stream of consciousness takes hold, but you want to jump right in with her. Pleasant and insightful, this collection of essays illuminates thoughts many of us had beginning in high school and in current revisiting of classics. Every step of the way, Brown provides more substance to the confusing idea of "American."

Weaving in her own self-discovery, Brown humorously reflects on her own past. As a reader, you end up chuckling too, feeling like you can identify with her situations. Her references demonstrate a thorough study of Nathaniel Hawthorne as well as Gertrude Stein; both subjects recur throughout the compilation of essays. Elements of familiarity twist to define romance and Americanism.

Children's books provide a foundation of knowledge for us as we move into more developed interactions with our society. Brown incorporates this into her continued memoirish essays revealing her ongoing pursuit of the “American romance.”

With each unique chapter footnoted (and holding her opinion alongside the factual footnote), American Romances remains a fabulous point of reference not only for Rebecca Brown, but for all of us running with the same questions about the world around us.

Written by: Carolyn Espe, September 28th 2009

The Women's Room

admin — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 17:17:00 +0000

By Marilyn French

Penguin

Marilyn French’s The Women's Room, first published in 1977 and republished this year (a re-release ironically in the works before French’s death last May), has been touted as one of the most influential novels of the second wave of feminism. The book reads like a combination of a personal journal and a traditional novel. It is the most intense, real, and painful story I have ever read—except maybe for Elizabeth Wurtzel’s Prozac Nation, which I read when I was a clinically depressed teenager, and which made me feel a little better because I knew I wasn’t as crazy as Wurtzel. But the women in French’s novel are not crazy—they are “normal” (whatever that means) women struggling to exist with integrity in a world that systematically disparages and oppresses them—and this makes The Women's Room a lot more heartbreaking because there is no trace of an excuse to justify, so to speak, the suffering.

This is primarily the story of Mira’s life, from childhood through late adulthood between the 1950s and the 1970s, and that of her female friends. Mira is a white suburbanite in the U.S. who discovers early on the harrowing destiny she is up against simply because she is a woman—regardless of her racial and class privilege. Mira then chooses to do her best as she trudges through it, refusing to efface herself as much as she can in the process.

We think we—you and I reading this—have it hard. (And we do.) All the same, let’s remember this: we have access to the Internet, we are literate, we can easily find and contact fellow feminists for a sense of community, we are not always thought of as ridiculous and selfish for wanting to prioritize ourselves before (or refuse altogether) marriage and children, and we have the possibility to do this. This puts us ahead of, I don’t know, ninety-five percent of all women on Earth, and certainly ahead of even the most privileged, well-to-do, and educated white women in the U.S. just thirty years ago—women who were buried beneath so much systematic antagonism they had trouble breathing.

This book wounds the reader—or, it wounded me—in part because so much in it remains recognizable to even the most privileged of us today. Today. I know my mother went through comparable circumstances when she had me in Argentina in the 1980s, and even later, even in the U.S. Some of what Mira’s experiences during young adulthood happened to me too, and I remember having the very same reaction as she does despite her young adulthood and mine stretching a span of about forty years. I find this difficult to grasp and to accept: as a feminist during the third wave of feminism, I faced some things that ought to have been long gone. This makes The Women's Room relevant even today.

The intertwining stories encompass a staggering amount of women’s lives throughout numerous decades and vast territories. French also untangles precise impressions and sensations into expanded, detailed descriptions and dialogues that open the way for the reader to delve into the characters and feel for them and everyone like them. To understand intimately the minutiae of what it was like to be them, and especially Mira, in uncountable ways. French has a power few writers enjoy: she can capture half-thoughts and emotions and iron them out so that they are clear and communicable. She has amazingly put into words sensations I have had and found utterly ineffable. This book is full of little gifts like this.

The Chicago Tribune did not exaggerate when it wrote that The Women's Room is “a book you’d like to give to twenty women (and perhaps anonymously, twenty men).” I am not exaggerating either when I say that twenty or forty would be too few, and that I wish everyone I can think of at this moment would read this book with the consideration and mindfulness it completely deserves.

Written by: Natalia Real, September 9th 2009

American Women Leaders: 1,560 Current Biographies

admin — Sat, 02 May 2009 01:27:00 +0000

By Carol Hooks Hawkins

McFarland & Company Inc.

American Women Leaders is an ultimate resource of all things women. If you consider yourself a feminist or are interested in women’s empowerment, this is a great coffee table book to own. American Women Leaders features biographies of over 1,500 women who are positively impacting others. Those featured had to meet two criteria in order to participate. They had to be born in the U.S. or have spent the majority of their childhood in the country. Most importantly, each woman profiled should serve as a role model to children.

American Women Leaders does not beat around the bush. The book immediately jumps into highlighting women. Beginning in alphabetical order, women of all races, ethnicities and from various parts of the country are listed with their occupation and biography, and the list of women is impressive. Represented are lawyers, high-profile business executives, those working in nonprofits and government and more. The list showcases women who are making remarkable strides in their respective professions and communities.

The book’s creator, Carol Hooks Hawkins, is a Georgia based insurance agent turned author. She was motivated to compile the collection of women achievers, most of whom who are not household names, to encourage other women to reach for the moon. These women come from so many different backgrounds, but they exemplify the true meaning of leadership. Carol’s husband, Walter L. Hawkins, provides the forward for American Women Leaders and he points out that, “An individual acting alone can accomplish much; but a group of people acting together as a unified force can accomplish great wonders.” The collective group of women featured are moving mountains for others who will follow and hopefully create their own paths.

I salute Carol Hooks Hawkins for providing a collective book of outstanding women for young girls and women around the world to admire. It’s an amazing opportunity to highlight the hard work and due diligence of these women.

Written by: Tiffany Winbush, May 1st 2009

Breaking Poems

admin — Sun, 29 Mar 2009 16:44:00 +0000

By Suheir Hammad

Cypher Books

In her third book of poetry, award-winning Palestinian American poet Suheir Hammad explores the resilience of women’s bodies across borders in a fluid set of poems entitled Breaking Poems. Hammad embraces life at the border, refusing to translate her identity to fit a bounded-identity construct of what it means to be Palestinian or American. She uses a diasporic language, blending anglicized Palestinian Arabic with English. She fuses cultures, dropping names of inspirational figures like Umm Kulthum, Fairuz, Malcolm X, and James Baldwin.

Exploring the theme that wars are fought on women’s bodies, Hammad writes, “in gaza still flesh is ashed/wa smoked wa denied/a women’s chest caves in/smoke escapes legs.” (Wa means "and" in Arabic). In fact, the violence in Gaza is a constant topic in her poetry, summoning us to act and react as she evokes images of exploded bodies, rubble in place of homes, and empty stomachs. She connects the experiences of women in New Orleans to Gaza, capturing the resilience of women’s bodies as they encounter multiple forms of violence.

Breaking poems is also about breaking with old identity constructs. Hammad undergoes a personal transformation as she finds it impossible to fit into fixed and bounded notions of identity. Instead, she embraces border identities that are contradictory, fluid, and multi-sited. She refers to herself as “translinear me” and allows herself to exist simultaneously across time and space as a young girl in Deheisha to a woman in Beirut to a refugee in Brooklyn. “We lived there once my parents sisters and me,” she writes about Beirut. “I left my skin there still boiling.” Beginning to find home in change, Hammad writes:

sometimes I leave my body wa I leave my country wa my religion sometimes leaving is my religion.

Hammad also offers up the poem as the space for home, writing, “Poem is my body my language my country.” By exploring transnational and border identities, Hammad joins the ranks of women like Gloria Anzaldúa, Uma Narayan, Chandra Talpade Mohanty, Ella Shohat, and Nadine Naber.

Hammad’s poetry is never conventional; she plucks words that evoke the sensations of sight, smell, and touch. She induces feeling and meaning by convincing the reader that her words describe their memories. Nuanced and complex, breaking poems explores a new space in twenty-first century poetry.

Written by: Arwa Ibrahim, March 29th 2009

Letter from a Feminist After Attending the Inauguration

admin — Thu, 22 Jan 2009 10:37:00 +0000

White House

Washington, DC

Dear Feminist Review readers,

Having received the opportunity to attend the Inauguration of the first African American President, I did experience some nervousness. My companions in the motorcoach were virtual strangers to me. Except for the staff, most of the travelers were college students. Some had families; they had seen their own sons and daughters off to higher education and had finally chosen to pursue it themselves. Others were barely eighteen. The anticipation was palpable among us all regardless of our political affiliation. Today, we were not Republicans, Democrats, or Independents—simply Americans.

During the journey from New York to Maryland, we were separated into groups. I chose a window seat and marveled at the occasional sites of industry and commerce juxtaposed against the calm waters. Somewhere along Delaware, my seatmate fell asleep. I was left to my own devices with nearby speakers blaring The Bourne Identity. I listened to LibriVox recordings of James Joyce and Kate Chopin. In some time, I fell asleep too.

When we reached Maryland, I awakened and began writing this entry. It was still dark outside, and I could hardly read my writing. We stopped and had breakfast at a good ol' suburban Mickey D's.

The group and I then caught the Blue Line from Largo Town Center to L'Enfant Plaza in DC. Here, we encountered our first crowds. Throngs of people were trying to leave the metro station. The trip was especially hard on the children who accompanied their parents. Many felt claustrophobic in such close confines with the public. A few men and women fainted. In the hour it took us to leave the station, there were at least five calls for paramedics.

Honestly, it was a test for what was to come next. We walked to the National Mall Viewing Area. Hundreds and thousands joined us. We prepared for the long haul and waited for the formal Inaugural ceremony to begin. As the members of the House of Representatives and Senate were announced, people kept trickling in.

The former presidents and vice-presidents were introduced. Crowds cheered for the Clintons. However, it seemed as if the whole National Mall was bent on booing the departing Bush. One of the women next to me began to chant loudly: "Shah-nah-nah-nah, hey hey hey, goodbye." It caught on. I felt some sadness at the occurrence. I do not agree with some of Bush's policies; however, as a human being, I cannot feel some regret for so public a humiliation.

With much difficulty, I sneaked a pair of heat warmers into my gloves. The pushing-and-shoving of my own and others had separated me from my group. I could hardly shift my feet. I was leaning my arms on two middle-aged women in front of me. I literally hugged them. A woman to my side placed her head on my shoulder. At several times, the announcer said, "Ladies and Gentlemen, please be seated." We laughed; many of us had been standing since dawn!

I must admit it was a surreal moment of sisterhood. There were circles of girls and women with me. We all commented on Michelle Obama's choice of green gloves. The consensus was quite favorable. We would have linked arms, if it had been possible. We were comrades then. We did not need to know each other's names. We knew we were watching history unfold in front of our eyes.

When the then President-elect appeared on the viewing screens, the crowd cheered his name. Some felt relieved. Perhaps we could stand the next two hours of closeness. Dianne Feinstein made her opening remarks. When Rick Warren stood to deliver his Invocation, however, there was a collective dissatisfied murmur in the crowd.

For a moment, the sense of partisanship emerged into the setting until Warren began to speak. Reverently, he proclaimed: "Help us, oh God, to remember that we are Americans, united not by race or religion or blood, but to our commitment to freedom and justice for all." He said, "When we fail to treat our fellow human beings and all the Earth with the respect that they deserve, forgive us."

I saw a few tears escape from the eyes of people around me. Here we were, Black, White, and all other shades of the rainbow, sons and daughters of humanity together watching Barack Obama's Inauguration. The Christians among us recited "Our Father" with Warren before he left the stage.

Once Biden was sworn in, Itzhak Perlmen, Yo-Yo Ma, Anthony McGill, and Gabriela Montero played a version of the "Simple Gifts." The performance did not compare to Aretha Franklin's stunning rendition of "My Country 'Tis of Thee." Perhaps the fact that John Williams' musical selection stood in between them and Oath of Office was why it received a poor reception from the crowd. When it ended, a man a few rows in front of me shouted: "Finally!"

We all noticed the flubs. A couple of young boys hooted when the President hesitated and the Honorable Chief Justice John Roberts repeated the Oath. Undoubtedly, we felt a sense of accomplishment when he finished reciting it. The crowd went wild. Flags were held high and waved proudly.

The inaugural address was quite sober. While there was great rhetoric in his speech, he did not succeed in truly rousing this crowd. They expected a speech of victory; instead, they received one of purpose. He chastised some Americans for their greed and irresponsibility. Though Obama duly noted the role of the free market in the economic crisis, his speech was not a post-partisan one.

If clear skies and somewhat tolerable weather had not greeted Americans at the National Mall, his speech would have resonated more than it did. He spoke of ominous storms and dark winter. He invoked George Washington who once said, "Let it be told to the future world...that in the depth of winter, when nothing but hope and virtue could survive...that the city and the country, alarmed at one common danger, came forth to meet it." The people, most though sick with adoration and love for him, absorbed his message reluctantly.

At the conclusion of the address, the multitudes began to leave the Mall. I wanted to say goodbye to those who had surrounded me. But the time had passed. The conviviality returned briefly in the singing of the National Anthem, but concerns of the commute home riddled the former onlookers.

Washington was grossly unprepared for so many people. The metro was inadequate. They closed the system right after the Inauguration Ceremony. Hundreds stood in lines to get some semblance of food, use the bathroom, and receive shelter from the cold. People climbed on top of the port-a-potties to see everything.

Despite the inconvenience, everyone was in quite good humor. After we finally reached open ground near Independence Avenue, about a hundred people performed the electric slide. My companions and I walked a few blocks before reaching the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum. For a few more hours, we stood on its steps. Boy, were we cold, but we spent the time analyzing sections of the addresses like true polemics. I wrote most of my journal entry there.

Luckily, a Starbucks was open near the metro station. My friend and I bought chai teas. I sipped it slowly, savoring the warmth. Eventually, we journeyed back to Maryland and to our tour bus. For dinner, we stopped at a Golden Corral. I promptly found the dessert counter and indulged in ice cream topped with hot fudge and marshmallows.

I made friends. We took countless pictures of us grinning and absorbing the process. The inauguration was a celebration of the American spirit. It was a privilege to share the moment with so many. All of us wondered to each other whether we would repeat the experience. Would we attend another Inauguration?

I believe I will return. One day, I will camp out to watch the first female President take the Oath of Office. Until then, I remain inspired, and cautiously hopeful for the country.

Written by: Anita Sonawane, January 22nd 2009