Upcoming readings (all in Madison)

I’m exciting to be reading my work tomorrow as part of an event celebrating TOAST, an exhibition by Alaura Seidl at ALL in Madison. Here’s the necessary info:

TOAST Reading
w/Alaura Seidl, Joey Belonger, Marcelle Richards, & Araceli Esparza
Friday, April 15th | 8 pm
Arts & Literature Laboratory | Madison, WI

And I’ve got a few upcoming summer readings:

Lonely Monsters (part of this year’s WisCon Feminist SciFi Convention!)
w/Brooke Wonders, Alisa Alering, Kettle McCauley, & Jenni Moody
Sunday, May 29th | 1 pm
Location TBA (Madison, WI)

Reading w/Valerie Wetlaufer & Amy Groshek
Thursday, June 2nd | 7 pm
A Room of One’s Own Bookstore | 315 W Gorham St | Madison, WI

Unicorns, Ponies, Robots

 

specs crop

My short story “AB 469: A Po(r)ny-ography in Three Parts” is now out in SPECS 7: The Unicorn Issue. The story is a response to a remark made by a legislator during a public hearing on trans-discriminatory changing room legislation proposed for Wisconsin public schools last October: “Would you feel uncomfortable changing next to someone with totally different body parts?” Taking a flight of fancy, it imagines shifting from “discomfort” to desire through select Katy Perry lyrics and My Little Pony fan fiction.

While I stand by what is essentially a satirical pornographic lesbian locker room fantasy written as a response to this specific situation, which was, at the time I wrote it, safely distant, I don’t pretend it is a comprehensive or adequate response to the oppressive reality of bills like HB2 or the broader climate of transphobia being expressed in various ways in U.S. culture right now; I stand in solidarity with trans and gender nonconforming people, and particularly trans women, who are affected by this legislation and this climate.

This Unicorn issue is truly magical. My por(n)y-ography shares space with Tim Jones-Yelvington’s brilliant One Direction avant-fanfic; JD Scott’s poetic sequence written to/with the Scribe Angel Siriel (Siri’s older sister); Sharif Shakhshir’s terrific “Unicorn Hunting,” a coming of age unicorn diaspora story in the form of an Assassins game; Shamala Gallagher’s prose poem “Untitled (Unicorn & Cheetos Poem)”; Minal Hajratwala’s poem “Operation Unicorn: Notice from the Department of Taboos” (I’m letting these titles speak for themselves); among others; and Brett Boyko’s cover art, titled “Genderfluid Unicorn Blues.”

Thanks to SPECS editors Kristen Arnett and Cathleen Bota, and everyone else on the team, for putting this creepy campy delight together and including my work in it.

*

As bonus material, here’s an essay I started on Robot Unicorn Attack several years ago and never finished, but will call finished now. Return with me now, to 2011!

::

250px-RobotUnicornattak

Robot Unicorn Attack is a free online Flash game released in 2010. It features anachronistically crude graphics and two movement options: jump or dash. When you dash, you make rainbows. The soundtrack is Erasure’s “Always.” The game is gay.

A gay game, it offers the promise of winning under threat of death.

*

The song “Who Am I to Feel So Free” by MEN, released in 2011 with lyrics by artist Emily Roysdon, charts a brief and selective history of queer/trans feminist politics.

changed our names
used our hands
discovered options better than a man

radical surgery
and prosthetic sex
we built this world and we are asking your best

The song’s chorus is strikingly ambivalent: “Who am I to feel so free” can be read as a fist-pumping protest chant, expressing entitlement to be/feel/act free. At the same time the wording conveys an acute awareness that this entitlement is shaky, dubious. In this sense, the question is posed as genuine doubt: Who am I to feel free when my freedom and the freedom of others is perpetually under attack?

*

The song’s ambivalent relationship to freedom is enhanced by Shearon Van Riggins’ use of gameplay footage from Robot Unicorn Attack in their unofficial video for the song. The version of the song used here features vocals by Anohni, whose performance emphasizes the chorus’s ironies.

In the video, the song narrates our unicorn’s three attempts, and failures, to win. S/he is so free, it’s exhilarating to watch. S/he makes rainbows; s/he blows up but survives to run free again: I feel so free / I could never die / never die.…then the final death coincides with the last repetition of the chorus. Who! / am I! / to feel so free!: kaboom. Robot Unicorn has died.

Juxtaposed with the ambivalent lyrics of the song, the game’s win-or-die / win-then-die / always-die narrative archly comments on the teleological properties of gay and feminist liberation discourse, the rhetoric of which proposes a kind of utopic freedom enabled by winning again and again. The video is a giddy performance of both this utopic possibility—run free, robot unicorn, run free—winning!—while also relishing in crashing and burning, the queer art of failure. The video expresses camp resignation for the failures of gay and feminist liberation politics, amplifying the song’s ambivalence in fascinating and generative ways—ways that call out our failures to achieve collective freedom and coalition through intersectional justice.

Who is this robot unicorn, that s/he should feel so free? Whosoever rainbow-dashes alone, meets failure.

Always.

I want to be with you / make believe with you / live in harmony / harmony / always. 

Twilight_Sparkle_ID_S4E15

“I’m Also a We”: Collective First Person and Cloud Subjects

 

collective first

[Collective First Person by Nicki Werner, 2014]

“It strikes me as a barely explored pronoun, full of possibilities.” –Steven Milhauser

 

I’m pretty obsessed with the politics of pronouns in fiction writing owing to many of my characters’ genderqueer and/or non-binary identifications—and my own! Prior to coming to a(n) nb/gq identity, I often adopted third-person limited for more autofictional stories to enable critical distance—a distance that started to seem like disidentification. I was using “she” like a slap.

So I moved away from third limited to embrace first person, which avoids binary gender pronouns for the most part (Jeanette Winterson’s Written on the Body being the classic example of a gender-ambiguous, potentially genderqueer narrator). Right now I’m experimenting with no-pronoun third-person—i.e., repeating the protagonist’s name in place of using pronouns—as well as they/them third person, second person, and—I’m coming to it—

Collective first. Our topic at hand. Aka first person plural. Aka “we.” While it’s been on the rise in US fiction, it remains underused and underexplored.

Like “you” (see Erica Hunt’s terrific essay on second person in Citizen), the pronoun “we” is “flexible and ambiguous” (Maxey 2), its boundaries shifting and porous: at any given moment, it is unclear how many “I”s a “we” might include. This presents opportunities for authors to negotiate the individual in relation to the social, to draw lines (or refuse to) around various groups or social categories, to dramatize belonging and exclusion.

rand

Probably the most well-known example of collective first is Ayn Rand’s Anthem (1938), in which a singular narrator’s use of “we” reflects the dystopian society’s erasure of individuality (via the lost “I”). “We” here functions as an institutional weapon of forced conformity and suppression of self, and when “I” arrives, it’s loaded with utopic possibility.

lawlor

First plural can also be used to make the opposite, and, we think, better, argument. For example, Andrea Lawlor’s chapbook Position Papers envisions a compelling anti-capitalist world in which “we will eschew individual possessive first person.” The proposal is somewhat tongue in cheek, as Lawlor uses possessive singular on the very next page—“In my country…”—but persuasive nonetheless. Throughout, collective first invites the reader into a proposed collectivity that is intentional and accounts for difference. Indeed, it operates much like philosopher Kay Mathiesen’s theory of collective consciousness: “collective subjectivity,” she writes, “requires plurality (i.e. that there be multiple conscious subjects), awareness (i.e. that there is genuine intentionality), and collectivity (i.e. that the collective subject forms a social group)” (236).

To adopt a collective perspective, Matheisen says, is to “understand and predict what another person is thinking” through simulation of thought (that is, empathy) and “to model within ourselves the beliefs, values, etc. of the collective” (247). Given that arguments around who belongs and doesn’t have been / continue to be used as weapons of discrimination and criminalization, to invoke collective first in this way has tremendous political potential.

grimes

More commonly, we’ve seen it used less politically, to represent small town subjectivities: e.g., William Faulkner’s “A Rose for Emily” (1930) and Jeffrey Eugenides’ The Virgin Suicides (1993). As Ruth Maxey has noted, both narratives adopt a masculine retrospective collective voice—a “we” that, while remaining flexible and ambiguous, invites only some readers into it. In a variation on the small town point of view, Christopher Grimes adopts a bureaucratic “we” in The Pornographers (2012)—one that is constructed deliberately (and satirically) to exclude women (and, arguably, people of color, queer and trans people, and other marginalized identities). Since the novel is structured as one impossibly long sentence, the effect is a babble of collective anxiety, the “we” trying desperately to hold onto itself and its authority.

we-the-animals-by-justin-torres

More recent examples of collective first tend to highlight difference and singularity within the group, as TaraShea Nesbit has observed (cw: in this article, a racist slur is used in a cited book title). In Justin Torres’s We the Animals, for example, the retrospective narrator increasingly shifts from first plural to singular to chronicle his fraught individuation from his family, as he confronts his undeniable (queer) difference. In the final multi-part chapter, the narrator is abruptly expelled from the group; the narrative’s shift from first plural to a distant third to a dissociated second to finally a reluctant, terrified first singular illustrates how violent the process of individuation can be (especially when forced).

Then there’s the narrator of Aimee Bender’s “Debbieland,” who actually refuses to individuate. Having come of age as part of a gang of girl bullies, the narrator has retained her collective identity into adulthood; the reader doesn’t realize until halfway through that her “we” is actually an “I.” Her continued use of collective first implies stunted growth, a resistance to maturation that isn’t cute—it’s a potential social threat, protecting her from accepting responsibility for her actions. As in We the Animals, collective first is strongly associated with adolescence, supporting the notion that adulthood means individuation; an adult “we” is suspect.

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Some recent scifi narratives, meanwhile, are not afraid of “us”! Ann Leckie’s Imperial Radch series and the Wachowski sisters’ Netflix series Sense8 both adopt a new form of collective first involving multiple characters linked across bodies.

leckie

In Leckie’s Ancillary Justice, the narrator is an AI entity designed to exist across many bodies, as the brain of a ship and its ancillaries (AI drone troops who have been installed in colonized human bodies). A number of different passages show the narrator experiencing multiple scenes simultaneously, from the point of view of different ancillaries, a simultaneity that’s initially quite dizzying for us readers to take on.

Is this a variation of collective first? The narrator rarely adopts “we” as a perspecive. Maybe she’s a multiple “I” as opposed to a “we.” But isn’t that what “we” is? We don’t know! This point of view seems related to but not quite collective first. The best description might be cloud subjectivity, as proposed by Joshua Rothman.

One of the most interesting dimensions of Leckie’s cloud subject is that its bodies matter very much. The bodies the narrator finds herself occupying are not blank slates: one of them likes to sing. Owing to corporeal history/memory, individuality is not entirely erased; this is one way in which the colonized haunt the novel. Also, the cloud fractures at numerous points in the narrative, requiring the ancillaries to act as disunified individuals. To me this is one of the most striking aspects of Leckie’s collective subject(s): it insists upon a whole, cohesive self that contains multiple, differentiated selves. Cohesion and plurality are not contradictory.

is-sense8-season-2-underway

Sense8’s cloud subject operates similarly, though so far the show emphasizes plurality over cohesion: the first season spends a lot of time revealing how the links between the eight sensates work. We learn with them that they can feel each other’s feelings; take control over one another’s bodies; but it’s selective—they are not experiencing all eight sets of realities all the time. The show celebrates interdependence and co-subjectivity: its various conflicts are resolved through each individual’s skills and what they can contribute to the group (not unlike the set-up of Orphan Black, RPGs, or cooperative tabletop games like Pandemic).

We remember the rise of network narratives in the early 2000s (Crash, Traffic, Syriana, Babel, The Wire). Narratives like Ancillary Justice and Sense8 combine what Caroline Levine has identified as the affordances of network narratives with those of collective first point of view. And whereas some other constructions of multiple subjectivity tap into cultural anxieties around the fear/threat of sameness across subjects, these narratives are excited about the possibilities of collective consciousness.

Collective consciousness, Sense8 argues powerfully, is anchored in empathy. The eight sensates provide emotional support for one another; they learn from each other; they help one another make difficult decisions: Nomi, for example, who is trans, steps in to help Lito confront his fear of coming out publicly as gay. Capheus helps Riley work through her fears that something terrible will happen. (Something does! but that’s unrelated.) Yet there are limitations to what they can know and understand (and I hope in subsequent seasons, these fissures and gaps will get more attention).

lito

Like Ancillary Justice, the show attends to differences across bodies. The writers have fun with gender difference, for instance: Lito experiences Sun’s PMS; Will takes on Riley’s pregnancy (both tropes of genderswap fanfic, incidentally). When Capheus is called “bitch” repeatedly by his antagonists, Sun (whose life has been deeply impacted by sexism) steps in to react. These moments of intersubjective exchange seem importantly trans and feminist in nature. Moreover, through them, empathy is proposed as rooted in the body, driven not by emotional intelligence but corporeal experience. The sensates do not need to simulate the thoughts and feelings of others: they are feeling them in their bodies.

I hope the next season will explore more of the negative aspects of trans-subjectivity: What about when a sensate resists, wants to refuse, the exhausting prospect of feeling with/as someone else? While the show’s celebration of empathy-based collectivity is provocative and politically valent, it’s important to remember that this empathy is forced.

levithan

David Levithan’s YA novel Every Day offers a counterexample, presenting co-subjectivity as undesirable and often challenging. The novel adopts the point of view of a floating subjectivity who wakes up each morning in a different body. Deeply affected by each host’s body—its capacities and limitations, its corporeal history—the narrator negotiates a complex new co-subjectivity…every day. This is often difficult, as some bodies are easier to live in, and feel with, than others. At one point the narrator finds themself in the body of someone struggling with severe depression; the book presents their suicidality not as an emotional/mental state but a powerful bodily urge that the narrator must fight: “I have to convince myself that this isn’t a pointless life, even though the body is telling me it is” (63). Like Sense8, the novel privileges corporeal reality—but gives serious consideration to the negative dimensions of intersubjectivity.

These speculative narratives invite us to feel with characters negotiating involuntary intersubjectivity and collective consciousness; to have our own trans-subjective exchanges—voluntarily. The dirty truth is I’m often a reluctant empathizer, and would not want to be “we” all, or much, of the time. But I’m a great reader; this is my contribution to the group. It’s possible my community doesn’t need an essay on collective first and multiple subjectivity—I can’t read your minds—but I wanted to write it. So I did.

rand

AWP LA: Agenda

Yes, I will be at this year’s AWP Conference! Find me here:

AWP Offsite Event: Embawdied Lit: A Drag Reading Sequel
w/Vidhu Aggarwal, Kazim Ali, Derrick Austin, Jessica Rae Bergamino, Wo Chan aka Pearl Harbor, Tom Cho, Elliot DeLine, Kim Yideum, M Kitchell, Rickey Laurentiis, Ji Yoon Lee, Megan Milks, Sade Martha Mary Murphy, Roberto F. Santiago, JD Scott, Loma aka Christopher Soto, Vanessa Angelica Villarreal
Thursday, March 31 | 7:30-10 pm
The LASH | 117 Winston St | Los Angeles

Panel: Coming of Age Queer
w/Amber Dawn, Tom Cho, Mecca Jamilah Sullivan, and Tim Jones-Yelvington
Friday, April 1 | 1:30-2:45 pm
Room 410 | LA Convention Center | Los Angeles

Bennington Review & Black Warrior Review Launch Party and Reading
w/Kaveh Akbar, Rick Barot, Jericho Brown, Cynthia Cruz, Dorothea Lasky, Michael Martone, Sandra Simonds, Safiya Sinclair, Ursula Villarreal-Moura, Mark Baumer, MRB Chelko, Ansley Clark, Patty Yumi Cottrell, Kat Finch, Kendra Fortmeyer, Shamala Gallagher, and Megan Milks
Friday, April 1 | 6-8pm
R Bar | Los Angeles

Hop on Pop: Trans & GQ Poetry Reading
w/Ari Banias, Ching-In Chen, Christopher Soto (aka Loma), D’Lo, Emerson Whitney, Ely Shipley, H. Melt, Jenny Johnson, Jordan Rice, Jos Charles, Joshua Jennifer Espinoza, Joy Ladin, Max Wolf Valerio, Megan Milks, Oliver Bendorf, Ryka Aoki, Samuel Ace, Stephen Boyer, Stephen Ira, TC Tolbert, Trace Peterson, and Wo Chan
Friday, April 1 | 7:30-10 pm
Pop-Hop Books & Curio | 5002 York Blvd | Los Angeles

The Account & Memorious Offsite Reading
w/Stanley Plumly, David Baker, Lee Ann Roripaugh, Derrick Austin, Hadara Bar-Nadav, and Jennifer Pashley
Saturday, April 2 | 4-6 pm
Mandrake Bar2692 S La Cienega Blvd | Los Angeles

ALL OF US WITCHES: Nat. Brut & The Spectacle Offsite Event
w/readings by Tom Cho, Amber Dawn, Jayy Dodd, Joshua Jennifer Espinoza, Carribean Fragoza, Morgan Jerkins, Ginger Ko, Sueyeun Juliette Lee, and Kayla E & Meghan Lamb / with music by Xina Xurner
Saturday, April 2 | 9:30-11pm
MaRS Gallery | 649 S. Anderson St | Los Angeles

THE FEELS: Out now!

feels 6-edit

My third chapbook, The Feels, is out now in the latest issue of Black Warrior Review. The Feels is a collection of crossgenre writing that grew out of my Fan Fiction and Affect workshop for the AW Mellon Art & Scholarship series last year at UW-Madison. It features Melissa Etheridge lyrics upsetting / or feeling with / William James’s classic theory of emotion; feel extractions from One Direction fan fic; some dirty drabbles; and the Feel Machines (e.g. writing exercises) used to make these treasures. Many thanks to BWR for giving a home to this teary-eyed monster!

And look how gorgeous the issue is, with cover art by Amandine Urruty:

bwr cover

Other treats include fiction by Kate McQuade, Jill Rosenberg, Sequoia Nagamatsu, and LaTanya McQueen; poetry by Rhiannon Thorne, Jennifer S. Cheng, Mary-Alice Daniel, Patricia Colleen Murphy, Mark Baumer, and Anne Marie Rooney, nonfiction by Maria Perez, Will McGrath, Shelley Puhak, and Rochelle Hurt, and…

bwr clairvoy

a special feature on Clairvoyance with work by Claire Hero, Caren Beilin, Karyna McGlynn, Allegra Hyde, Arisa White, Susan Briante, Kendra Fortmeye, and Rachel Levy. Fantastic issue, all around! Purchase here.

 

Moments of Clarity 1-4

The following pieces work with language from the book Moments of Clarity: Daily Affirmations from Dr. Holly by Holly Hatcher-Frazier (best known as the voice of reason on the reality show Dance Moms). I’ve been wanting to work with this text for some time. This set originated from exercises in Lauren Russell’s poetry workshop. More to come.

#1.

Worms are important and powerful. Be careful with the worms you choose. Worms can be used as weapons and worms can comfort. Take responsibility for the worms that you use. Think about your worm choice. Do not be impulsive with your worms. Worms survive.

#2.

Words! Illness and pox. Be carsick with the words you chuck. Words can be upheaved as wetness and words can common cold. Take rest for the words that you upheave. Thank your word chuck. Do not be immunodeficient with your words. Once a word is spumed you cannot talc it back. Words swell long after they are soaking.

#3.

I’m gay and powerfuck. Be cartouche bag. Weanus and comfart. Do not be impussible. A word is spoogami; you cannot take it backwards. Words survivor’s guilt long after they are spokescunt.

 

going to going to what

I’m currently taking Lauren Russell’s workshop on documentary poetry, sponsored by the Art Write Collective in Madison. As an exercise, she asked us to erase Donald Trump’s New Hampshire primary victory speech transcript. Here’s mine. Happy Super Tuesday.

wow
wow
beautiful
beautiful
fantastic
fantastic
boom
boom
I’ll tell you
I’ll tell you
I said it
I said it
you started it
started it
no

we’re not going to
going to
going to
going to
going to
going to
love our
going to
going to
going to
going to
it’s going
it’s going
going to
nobody
nobody
going to
going to
nobody

going to
going to
going to
going to
going to
going to
going to
going to
so
so
we’re going to
going to
going to
going to
going to
going to
thousands of
thousands of
going to
going to
going to
going to
going to
going to
think
think
going to
going to
going to
going to
going to
going to
what’s going
what’s going
going to
going to
so
don’t win
don’t win
thank you very much