Sunday Bookmarks #13
Unlucky for some, my 13th newsletter of the year, it feels like what started out as space to just keep a record of my thoughts and keep up a weekly writing practice, has morphed into something that I look forward to making it every week. I appreciate all of you who use some of your precious Sunday, to read what I have to say.
READING //
Sometimes you need a book to marinate with you for a while, other times it is an instant hit. Paris Lees’ stylized memoir, What it feels Like for a Girl, is part of the former camp. I am a self-confessed memoir fiend, I will gobble up any personal story on life experiences different or similar to my own. I love to be immersed in someone else’s world, even if for a little while. Some of my all-time favourites, ones that I pass around, again and again, all have something special about the narrative voice. are In The Dream House, by Carmen Maria Machado for its’ inventive use of structure, stories within stories and a spotlight on domestic violence within LGBTQ+ communities. Hunger, for Gay’s masterable ability to write about something as devastating and haunting as eating disorders and sexual violence, with the lightest (and smartest) of hands. Why be Happy when you could be normal, for Winterson’s pronounced northern voice, penning a story simultaneously about sexual identity, religion and right to education. More recently, but quickly making its way into my top memoirs of all time, My Broken Langauge, where Hudes takes a look at bilingual and bicultural metamorphosis, and roots it firmly in matriarchy and place, topping it up with poetic prose.
What it feels like for a girl, is an of the moment, present-tense narrative following her younger self, Byron, as they come of age in a rural working-class area of the midlands, in the dawn of the millennium. Unlike most of the books referenced, Lees chose to avoid reflection altogether. we spent the entirety of the book inside the head of young Paris/Byron, written in a Nottinghamshire dialect. That hyper-vigilant present leaves the reader no choice but to adopt Byron’s no holds barred, full-throttled attempt at living outside of the confines of the small town, both physically and in the meta sense, they were raised in. It is a story of hardship, class struggle, coming out, and into yourself, and the often present found family, born out of necessity, from those tenuous familial relationships. When reading Paris’ own thoughts on the book, she so graciously addresses the people who centre as the characters in her life story so far, she speaks of the fraught but loving relationship she has with her mother, something evident even in her younger self. She even has forgiveness and some acceptance for the way her father treated her, deftly explaining the cycle of trauma and generational connection to toxic masculinity, that is can be present in families.
I listened to her in conversation with Otegha Uwagba, on Otegha’s podcast, in good company. The conversation is tangential and sprawling, my favourite kind, but very much harks to the central idea of identity, the detrimental impact of constantly having to exist in the world that requires you to defend your identity as a transwoman, and what it means to access upward social mobility as a trans woman. They spoke honestly on the topic of finance, pertinent considering Uwagba’s own memoir and money manifesto releases next month. Lees speaks about the intersection of working-class youth, and transness, she discusses how she is often criticized for having ‘nice things’, e.g a designer bag, and references the class warriors of the internet. It was a refreshing perspective, to hear her, debunk the myth that ‘money doesn’t make you happy’, she counters it with the idea that, for her, and other marginalized folks, it certainly does make you safer, your life easier and your existence more enjoyable, and that proclaiming anything other, is a thing of fairytales. She also talks about the authorial choice to write in a dialect, as a way to convey to the reader. In present-day life, Paris spoke on the adaptability of accent and dialect, Otegha relating to the racialized experience of codeswitching, and the often negative connotations attached to the chameleon-ing of language choices. Paris and Otegha both point to the idea that adapting your language and tone to suit your audience, is a marker of emotional intelligence. For the most part, I agree, although language still sits within the social class hierarchy, in the UK at least, and most noticeable to me, is the way it is taught in schools, with explicit reference to the Queens English, with implications there is only one way to speak properly. However, in social settings with adult groups, the choice to adapt your dialect to address an audience, is an often useful and sometimes overlooked, skill. There is nothing worse than conversing with someone whose sole aim is to showboat the industry-specific language they are au fait with, to explain concepts and ideas, that could be much more easily understood, if not for the jargon. That is not to take an anti-intellectualist stance on the matter of language, I love nothing more than using and learning an ever-expanding vocabulary, but as often seen in our parliament benches, or brisque political talk shows, language is inherently attached to power and can be wielded as a way to alienate and disenfranchise those who are not deemed as worthy enough, to be privy to information, it is very much a tool of gatekeeping, and Lees and Uwagba’s discussion on the gender dynamics relating to social language transitions, speaks to that too.
LISTENING TO //
I watched Molly Mccully Brown in conversation with Leslie Jamison (whose book has been on my TBR for at least 3 years, and I promptly ordered), as part of the york festival ideas. The festival graciously uploaded it to their youtube for everyone to now access.
As I continue my foray into long-form writing, I felt soothed listening to Molly speak about writing about personal experiences as a young person, about often having no idea of what you are doing. She spoke to the idea of moulding and sculpting a piece of work, how it is much easier to shape an essay from something instead of nothing. Sound advice that I will attempt to adopt. I know I find it easier to write once I get in the swing of having words on the page, I start to enjoy it more once I have some semblance of bones to work with, so my focus next week, as I try and make something cohesive from the last 12 months of sickness and solitude, is to just keeping writing. Speaking of which, I am a new member of the (free) lockdown born London Writers Salon. A daily zoom call, with a group of people, all trying to write something. I wrote the most I have in weeks, in the 50-minute slot we are allotted at 8 am. There are actually 4 slots a day, to suit most timezones, so come and join if you feel like you want some writing communion, and look out for my (tired) pyjama-clad self, in those tiny zoom squares. That leads me to say, there is a lack of long-form writing on here for now, and that may continue for the next few weeks, as I am working on the aforementioned shaping of something more concrete, that I hope one day, you’ll be able to read in print. For now, this space will continue to share my book thoughts in progress, average television and podcast critique, and the occasional insight into whatever else is taking up brain space.
Catch you all on another part of the internet,
Hannah