Recitation by Bae Suah

Marxist philosopher and critic Louis Althusser discussed the idea of the interpellation of the subject. Essentially, he describes the way in which ideology and power transforms people into subjects as a simple process: power yells out, “Hey, you there!” and you turn around. You’re a subject because you’ve acknowledged the call. That model of interpellation troubles me because it seems so irresistible—is there no way out? No alternative? I wrote about this once during my Master’s and tried to think through a collective response to a call: think of all the people in Spartacus that respond to a call not intended for them.

I bring this up because this problematization of interpellation struck me in Recitation by Bae Suah. The central character of the novel, Kyung-Hee, recounts a moment of false identification. There’s a bizarre scene where Kyung-hee is in bed and her sister, whom she does not know at all, enters her room and begins to strangle her. The scene already feels nightmarish and surreal, but then Kyung-hee gives an account of a strange memory of identification. I’ll include a substantial portion of the account here, hopefully to also demonstrate the rich imagery of Recitation. Kyung-hee

“recalled a scene that had taken place one gathering dusk, when someone called her name. She was walking down the twilit alley. The alley sloped at a gentle gradient, lined by brick walls carpeted with soft, pale green moss, the scent of early roses coming from the gardens beyond. It was an evening in early summer, and I was on my way home from school [...] But, inexplicably, the person walking along the alley is not me but my sister. The retreating figure is that of my sister. The one returning from school is me, the one being spoken to by the objects which the sunlight touches is also me, the soft breath of the evening breeze and the scent of the roses are sensations I am experiencing, no one else; but the composite whole walking down that old alleyway with the rose branches trailing down over the red bricks, where the evening light has gathered, flushed the colour of rust, is not me but my sister” (142-143).

It’s a peculiar moment where her identification is somehow both herself and her sister “And then someone calls her name” (143). Kyung-hee narrates, “I, no, she turns and looks back. In that moment my sensations return to my body, I recover the whole that is I, and I carry on walking down the alley” (143). The moment seems so close to this moment of Althusser’s “Hey you” interpellation that I can’t ignore. But here, there’s a misidentification with her sister or a dual identification. Kyung-hee continues to recount her strangulation and the flashback to the alley. She recalls “the old alleyway where, hearing her name being called, I (she) turned to look back” (157). She continues on to explain how this identification then extends to her physical appearance, too: “the fact that gradually, as I grew up, I outwardly came to resemble my old sister; the moment when, being struck by the intense feeling that my face in the mirror very strongly reassembled someone else’s, I had the astonishing presentiment that that someone might be none other than my sister; all of these disappeared from my memory” (157).

I find this strange moment so compelling because it also fits in with the broader pattern of the text. I’ll have to admit that Recitation is a darn weird book. The novel can be described reasonably simply about a Korean woman, Kyung-hee, who used to work in recitation performances (specifically not acting—recitation). She has minimal action on stage, but one day has a spontaneous toe break. In response, she decides to go walking around the world, somewhat figuratively and somewhat literally. The book is essentially encounters she has with boarders and travellers at places she stays. But there’s something about the style where the shifts happen so oddly that we jump between time frames and characters in ways that require a great deal of attention to detect. The ‘voice’ of the character becomes ambiguous. Even Kyung-hee’s job as a recitation actress is someone else speaking through her. Thematically, the work is very tight in that respect—we never quite know who is talking, who we’re seeing, how they’re interpolating. In the final movement of the book, we see Kyung-hee’s children looking for their estranged mom. I’m a little unclear on whether this happens in reality. The book then ends with a recitation—again, taking us further away from the main character.

I find all of this fascinating, but I also don’t pretend to really understand the novel. There are a number of scenes I found impactful—the toe breaking scene, the strangulation, and some of Kyung-hee’s connections. The book is punctuated by a “Karakorum” organization, which is essentially a network of couch surfers and home exchanges. This allows Suah to incorporate a number of diverse experiences, making the novel read somewhat like a short story collection. In my experience, the novel is best consumed by reading it in prolonged sessions; the elliptical nature of the text requires sustained attention to how these moments are connected.

The novel also is a pursuit of absences. Kyung-hee goes in search of her former German teacher. There’s a character named Mr. Nobody. When the surprise characters arrive (I didn’t even notice the moment Kyung-hee’s narration turned to that of her potential children), they even note that the more they try to pin down the situation, the less present Kyung-hee seems to be. They describe what happens when they are listening to her uninflected recitation:

“But the more we strained to catch the details of what was being said, the more the whispering persuaded us of Kyung-hee’s absence. Kyung-hee had been discontinued. Kyung-hee was finished. Kyung-hee had boiled down. Kyung-hee had been annulled. Kyung-hee had been dismantled. Kyung-hee was the burnt-out past. Kyung-hee had become no one. Kyung-hee was nothing. The woman lacked the fact of being Kyung-hee. Kyung-hee had been extinguished. Kyung-hee was within the sleep of sleep. In other words, doubly asleep. Kyung-hee was with a woman who no one knew, with no way to tell the two of them apart. Kyung-hee was three-fourths Kyung-hee. Notification of the fusion of Kyung-hee’s components. Kyung-hee had slipped down in the form of low hills … The whispering continued night after night, lingering into the hours of broad daylight, clinging to our ears as we rode the bus or the subway or wandered the streets of Seoul, and we didn’t know how to shake it off” (242).

The disconnect feels eerie. The incantatory repetition of the passage is alarming. The more her name is repeated, the less she is there—and there are so many types of absence that the ways of describing it seem innumerable. 

In terms of other angles, I don’t have a lot to say about Recitation. I think the work is masterful and thoughtful. There are so many moments of rich imagery and carefully constructed narratives. The layered nature of the text makes it extraordinarily difficult to follow the specific facts. Even the sentence structure and vocabulary, for a reason I can’t quite place, feels misty. Working through a page of text, I found my mind drifting—which was less than ideal, because the narrative, too, drifted. Trying to grapple with this strange hypnosis made it harder for me to latch onto the text. That being said, I think Suah has something really special here (maybe not as special as Untold Night and Day felt to me at the time). The craftsmanship and layering of the text is a truly impressive, if inaccessible, feat.

Happy reading!

Seven Fallen Feathers: Racism, Death, and Hard Truths in a Northern City by Tanya Talaga

  I often think about the role of statistics in inciting people to feel sympathy and take action. The anonymity of numbers, unfortunately, disguises the profoundly horror of some aspects of human existence. It often feels like hundreds or thousands of people die and are absorbed into their status as a statistic. If we know someone, though, how can we quantify the loss of them? Such sorrow is impossible to fathom.

I also think about a line from the poem “Dreamwood” by Adrienne Rich that reads, in part, “she would recognize that poetry / isn’t revolution but a way of knowing / why it must come.” I wonder about that, too. Do words actually incite change? It feels increasingly unlikely as we see unquantifiable amounts of ink spilled to fight against politicians that daily make the world a worse place and seem undeterred by the looming ridicule on their epitaphs.

Tanya Talaga’s Seven Fallen Feathers is the same kind of knowing: a humanizing knowing. For years, this book was required reading for teenagers and teachers studying Indigenous issues—with good reason. It’s informative with respect to issues that came up in the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, including the horrors of residential schools, the dismantling of families through biased adoption practices, the failures of law enforcement and legal proceedings, and so forth. The book is specifically focused, though, on telling the stories of real people. Talaga offers a thorough account of the tragic deaths of Indigenous students in Thunder Bay. The victims, though, are actually humanized in a way rare to nonfiction. Beyond just telling us their names, means of death, culprits responsible, and so forth, we get a sense of their interests, their friendships, their passions.

In turn, Seven Fallen Feathers is the kind of book that inspires us to see things differently, to see abstract issues as tangible. It’s the kind of book that inspires a revolution in thinking and proves instructive in empathy. There are moments of such profound devastation that the idea of blindly accepting injustices becomes beyond ludicrous. The deaths of the children feel personal, and Talaga’s account of the suicide attempts of an adult who cared for these students and lost everything else wring the heart at every level.

Talaga’s gifts as a writer carry the stories to a new level of resonance. She is journalistic in nature, but offers a narrative spin. Seven Fallen Feathers reads almost novelistically. The pacing of the events feels carefully crafted around story beats and the characterization of real people is wrought in fine detail. The language of the book is given such care and it reads beautifully. It has the engaging tone of a true crime podcast, but deals with systemic issues and maintains a deep focus on the people most deeply affected.

The book is compelling in every regard. It shows compassion for the community, offers a critical eye to systems that reinforce injustice, and provides the young people who lost their lives with the dignity and respect that they deserve. From a narrative standpoint, the book works. From a nonfiction informative standpoint, the book works. As a political act, the book works.

Now let’s do the work. Happy reading.

Telling Your Story, Speaking Your Truth: a path to empowerment by Lisa Browning

  It feels a little unfair counting this book towards my reading goal and unfair offering a review, since Lisa Browning’s Telling Your Story, Speaking Your Truth: a path to empowerment is essentially a promotional book for the editorial services and publishing house One Thousand Trees.

The slim volume (just under 60 pages or so) is a collection of short essays, generally clocking in at about two or three short pages, from local authors published by One Thousand Trees. The thirteen authors tell their personal stories of finding their voices, meeting Lisa Browning, and coming to be published in book or online form. To the end that the book is promotional material for Lisa Browning, it does its job. The authors cite e-mail exchanges, personal discussions, and so on, all singing the praises of the editor in offering encouragement and opportunities.

From the standpoint of an essay collection, it reads a little thin. The essays are often vague and general. Brevity is the soul of wit and the bane of writers. To try to condense your wisdom, advice, and personal reflections into just a few impactful pages is extraordinarily challenging. As a result, it feels like each of the entries is less about inspiring others than it is about self-promotion, sometimes explicitly so with references to published works.

Given the repetition, it’s clear that the authors were asked to write these reflections independently of one another. The titles of the essays are things like “It Is Never Too Late” (Brenda Cassidy), “Never Ever Give Up” (Marilyn Helmer), “Be Brave, Be Limitless” (Amber McAuley), and “Write Your Story” (Danielle Hughes). I am pleased that so many people have found their strength through writing and have been able to find such success in working with Ms. Browning, and some of their other projects sound great, offering lots of support to others in need.

The true value of the book is not so much in the essays themselves as it is as a vehicle towards other works. If you’re looking for writing advice and how to refine your craft, I don’t think the book will have much to offer. If you want some general optimism and you’re reasonably local, it might be worth a read. The true proof of One Thousand Trees, though, will only be seen if you opt to read the full length projects only alluded to here.

Happy reading. Happy writing! Good luck!

No Sweet Without Brine by Cynthia Manick

    My favourite poem in Cynthia Manick’s No Sweet Without Brine is “A Particular Truth About Grown Folks’ Grits.” I’m sure you’ve seen poems that use seasons as a framing device to depict the passage of time and growth of a narrator. Manick here uses a similar frame, but combines it with formative moments of eating grits. Here is the poem in its entirety:

I have eaten grits in the summer.
Boiled the water first, prepping for a type
of colorless baby, not too far from sun-
flower seeds and peanut shells.

What it must feel like to be salt,
a wooden spoon knowing there is beauty
in the life of flowers — no I mean
natural things with a “best used by” or

expiration date, as if we’re born waiting

to go back to ground — no I mean Disney talks
about the circle-of-life but no character

has both parents alive enough to pay rent.

I have added grits to barely black pots

in fall, after hearing a blues melody of debris

and gauze, a woman, and her dog. My half-

southern heart is a bruise shaped like daffodils.

My half-southern heart is full of names

shaped like smiles. The best cooking pot,

on the stove’s front left eye, takes all
the ugly and all the song.

I have filled a plate in spring with grits
and mushrooms, or my mother’s salmon patties
that taste like an eclipse — or catfish dropped
off by Frankie J cause he always has a hat
turned to the side. I have sat on cartons, stoops.

lawn chairs, sofa arms, and kitchen tables filled

with ceramic napkin holders and fake succulents.

I have spooned up years of grown-folk business
while keeping company with the moon. (42-43)

There are a number of elements to the poem that I think work really well. First, there are some great continuities between stanzas. The first stanza discusses sun-flower seeds and the second refers to the “beauty in the life of flowers.” Similar echoes in the separated stanzas offer a great throughline as the speaker reaches new levels of maturity. I also like the way the speaker interrupts herself with contradictions and possibilities. To me, that seems a useful device to parallel her deepening understanding of the world. The second stanza in particular interrupts with “no I mean” and the second occurrence is one of my favourite lines in the collection: “no I mean Disney talks / about the circle-of-life but no character / has both parents alive enough to pay rent.” What a great, dark, pithy line.

    In the third stanza, there’s another echo of seeds coming to flower, albeit with a hint of darkness: “My half-/southern heart is a bruise shaped like daffodils.” It’s somewhat worth noting that the flowers are distanced a little from authenticity: we don’t get a flower directly, but instead a bruise shaped like a flower. The final stanza goes even further—away from nature, away from the body—”ceramic napkin holders and fake succulents.”

    I particularly like the blend of the grounded and the fantastical. We’re grounded with the tangible reality of the food, but it is juxtaposed with ideas like “salmon patties that taste like an eclipse,” a synesthetic idea that is undermined by yet another option (“catfish”). I also like the way the poem adds life to the lifeless: “The best cooking pot, / on the stove’s front left eye, / takes all / the ugly and all the song.”

    I’ve spent a significant chunk of this review commenting on one particular poem because to me it represents the best of Manick’s work. 

    There’s a second poem that I would quote because it’s the second time this year that I’ve read a book where I find something I wrote first years ago. By no means am I accusing these other authors of stealing my ideas, but it’s starting to weird me out. Brown Girls by Daphne Palasi Andreades has a passage about how wind chimes are the sound of death, which was the premise of one of my published poems. Manick’s poem “Requiem for Sea and Chains” has a line that reads, “count heartbeats and swallow / mouthfuls of dusk” (59). I wrote a poem with the title “mouthfuls of dusk” about 12 years ago. I can’t remember if it was published, but I’m just very weirded out by these echoes of my past poems creeping up on me.

    In any case, Manick’s collection No Sweet Without Brine was a reasonably engaging read, but I felt I lacked connection to it. The poems are often about a page or less and I found that by the time I was engaged in the poem it had already passed. The other piece of this is that I am not likely the intended audience for the work. I hate to contribute to the discourse of white reviewers commenting on the lack of relatability of Black writers. That is such a nonsense perspective, so I hope not to reinforce it here. That said, there are a significant number of references to Black experiences that I am unfamiliar with. I miss out on the cultural references, and it is my own failure to engage that means I passed over these poems quickly. I often missed the evocative symbolic or allusive qualities of the poems.

    Conversely, Manick’s work is wonderfully unapologetic. I appreciate that it does not cater itself to me, specifically, and that the poems have such a personal touch and intimacy. There’s a kind of communal focus in the experiences she shares, replete with local references and names of specific people as if they were our neighbours. It gives the poems a sense of hyperrealism that is difficult to ignore. The same is true, too, for the series of numbered self-portrait poems that Manick includes in the collection, made even more real by the fact that there are missing numbers. It’s a nice subtle commentary on the continuity and discontinuities of our identities and the gaps that don’t make the final cut in our self-curation.

    —I need to interrupt my own review here. I was flipping through the book to look for some other sample poems that would document some of its core components. I flipped randomly to a poem called “3 am and the Moon is Curled like a ‘C’”, which is an enjoyable poem in its own right but BAM lo and behold! there’s a repetition of the line “mouthfuls of dusks.” What are the odds that I would open to that random page with that random line that I randomly wrote years ago. What the heck!!!

    Anyway, No Sweet Without Brine has some good poems in it. Many of their central conceits were out of my frame of reference, but the personability and realism of the poems are effective draws. There’s an understanding of the craft that explores identity and place in clever ways through subtle echoes in between stanzas and across poems. It’s worth the read, but it is not likely going to be the standout poetry collection for me this year.

Happy reading!