Dear Jenny, We Are All Find

by Jenny Zhang

Poetry. Asian American Studies. "Jenny Zhang's poems broadcast themselves with a surrealist anxiety. 'Can't I be my own dream?' she asks. The answer is always yes and always no. With dizzying energy and intelligence, Zhang forages through familial, global, and even anatomical configurations vainly outlining an identity that manifests only to shift and move restlessly on. This book brings to mind a 21st century Whitman, only female, Chinese, and profoundly scatological."—Elizabeth Robinson

Genres: Poetry, Fiction, Asian American, Asian Literature

103 pages, Paperback

First published February 1, 2012

About the author

Jenny Zhang is an American writer, poet, and prolific essayist based in Brooklyn, New York. One focus of her work is on the Chinese American immigrant identity and experience in the United States. She has published a collection of poetry called Dear Jenny, We Are All Find and a non-fiction chapbook called Hags.

Reviews

[Dave Schaafsma · Rating 2 out of 5]

Alfred Jarry and the cast of his absurd anti-aristocratic play and scatological play Ubu Roi was howled off the stage in 1896 Paris, as the play finished with its empathic, "merdre!" {yeah, that's how he spelled it). What would become of theater, art, the lovely impressionistic artistic renditions of Monet and Renoir that were going on at the time? To these approaches Jarry would likely also have yelled "merdre." Post WWI, "the war to end all wars," aesthetic-political outrage to Reason and what were seen as Modernist extensions of Reason such as dada and surrealism emerged, the Theater of Madness by Antonin Artaud, later absurdism, the beats. . . performance art, all in some way a contribution to conversations about what ART should be in a world gone haywire, gone Holocaust horrific. Can we just keep going on painting pretty paintings and fiddling while Rome burns? Is that in fact what we need to do? Or what? I refuse, many of them seemed to say. I will not be co-opted by the artistic/political establishment.

My friend Marshall Weber, a performance artist, who lives in Brooklyn and was in the West Village when the Twin Towers were destroyed, performed a post-9/11 show at Columbia College here in Chicago where he burned some of his hair off and screamed in agony on the floor. The originator of Booklyn, an arts-based collective, Weber placed in an art museum a collection of his to-do lists, bound in leather. What is art? Exactly, Weber would say. What, indeed, is it? This work, as almost all absurdism/dada work, is amusing and clever and raises significant questions about the relationship between art and social worlds.

Zhang's work, and this is the first I have read of it, seems to me is pretty popular in new surrealist/absurdist poetry circles. On the back cover is a quote by Artaud that helps us identify her mad purposes for her art: "I am waiting only for my brain to change, for its upper drawers to open." I like that. Like Jarry, Zhang essentially scrawls "merdre" on the walls of her pages, and writes to shock, to wake us up, to make us laugh. To shock us with talk of sex, mostly. A lot of it seems silly and without political purpose of any kind, however, and she's entitled to do whatever she wants to do. Poetic terrorism without terror. Escapism? Is the poetry of shock (especially about bodily functions) even possible anymore? Seems "meh" to me, for some reason, and not fresh and original. Mocking the artistic establishment? Sure, in some ways, for sure. Maybe it's a scam? I dunno. Could be.

But is it fair to develop rubrics or standards for poetry that would mimic the language of the patriarchy or the Establishment that the poetry itself decries and dismisses? What does Zhang care what academics think about her work? But she is a graduate of Stanford and the--stamp of artistic approval--The Iowa Writer's Workshop, so she went the way of Esteemed University study to get the Right Credentials. I don't know anything about her or her purposes, but I prefer the (also absurdist-seeming) work of Michael Earl Craig, which seems to me to have a decidedly different purpose and aims for a different place--I was going to say "higher," but both Zhang and Craig would together say "merdre" and howl me out of the room for reinforcing such hierarchies!

[Steve · Rating 5 out of 5]

I had the pleasure of hearing Jenny Zhang read from this book before it was out a few months ago and was utterly blown away once she was done with the first twenty-five or so words. I point this out because this book is so different and original and KILLER that one needs a bit of time to get hip to what is happening.

In my opinion, what is happening in Dear Jenny, We Are All Find is something utterly miraculous and to be carefully savored: poetry that isn't arch or sentimental or just a bunch of enjambed phrases that by themselves might actually have some substance but shoved together create the fake brand of genius that gives poetry a bad rap.

I've never read ANYTHING like this book before, and while I can't wait to see what Zhang comes up with next, I'm hoping this remains a singular statement that propels her to other worlds - but keeps its own very peculiar brand of humor and sadness intact and separate from all else.

I don't want to read another book like this. I just want to hold tight to THIS one, because it is beyond great. It is beyond what I thought possible in poetry. Consider Jenny Zhang among the best of the best, because she is. This book says so.

[Amanda · Rating 2 out of 5]

There were a few poems in here that were interesting, but many that just seemed like long lists of things you can do with your body, generally gross. I'm not opposed to you talking about about poop or blow-jobs, I just didn't ever get to a point. Trying to be shocking, trying to gross, trying to be unique? I'm not sure but it didn't do much of anything for me.

[Brendan · Rating 4 out of 5]

emotional

[Nathan Kruse · Rating 5 out of 5]

goopy soupy, Zhang loves talking about the asian american experience and constipation and i also love talking about those things

[Stephanie Tom · Rating 3 out of 5]

Day 17 of #TheSealeyChallenge — it’s absurdist, strange, anxious, honest, vulgar, and truthful. in short, it’s very Jenny Zhang. since I enjoyed Zhang’s essays elsewhere, I really wanted to like this book more than I did reading it now, but I suppose I didn’t because I’m a different person now than I was when I first received this book. but to be honest, I’m not sure if reading it when I was younger in early high school would’ve made me enjoy it more or less.

[Maud · Rating 4 out of 5]

hi guess what this book was so beautiful and mad.
It reminded me a little of the Patricia Lockwood book Balloon Pop Outlaw Black that i just recently finished, in that it's a little hard for me to recognize a narrative out of the poems but the sentences and phrases and wordplay and images are stunning.
Zhang's poems are lustful and dirty and generous and fun. really liked this one. the titles of her poems alone could be poems:
-My Mother Leaves me a Message Where She Pronounces All Romance Languages in a Deep Voice,
-It Was Good To Drink Wine to Pass Time Before You Came Home I Mean Bad,
-I Write a Million Poems a Day Like Frank O'Hara Multiplied into Fifty Frank O'Haras,
to name a few....

[Kevin · Rating 4 out of 5]

Jenny Zhang obviously likes to goof around. This disjointed grab bag of poems is full of unexpected exclamations like "I was wet and I farted dead sperm from a butthole that doesn't want to poop/except in libraries" and "I was not even really alive." You could say that the dead sperm line is sort of a litmus test for the potential reader of this collection. If it bothers you, you may choose to skip this wild batch of brain-burners. But if you find it funny or intriguing, Zhang's work is probably going to rock your world. A very funny and weird book by a writer I want to see more from.

[Marcus · Rating 5 out of 5]

I have been reading reading reading contemporary poetry and this is def one of my favs in a long ass time. It has everything. Everything is what I want in art/poetry. It def has the zeitgeist. Big time. I have re-read it and re-read multiple times on the London tube. I feel like I could re-read it forever and ever and never tire of it. It's got whim and wit. It's got wisdom. It's got the pain of living on various borders. It's nomadic in music and nomadic in feelings. It is big mind. Big bridge. It's bodily. It's erotic. OK. I need to eat dinner. This is one terrific book!!!

[Shiloh · Rating 3 out of 5]

Zhang is an amazing reader, but her poems don’t make sense to me on paper. I think it’s because I’m not reading them the way she would. I was surprised there were only a few poems in this volume that kept my attention, but some of her images were truly original and shocking, and it’s worth a read for that reason.

[Libby · Rating 5 out of 5]

I found Jenny Zhang's writing through her short stories and articles on Rookie. It is, quite simply, incredible.
This volume of poetry is stunning, and I laughed and cried and was confused in equal measure.

[Vicky · Rating 4 out of 5]

5 stars for the first half
very clever/refreshing/sharp images, funny
made me think of Uselysses
nearly cried at the butterfly poem on the train
thinking about my dad

3 stars for the second half
became a series of play-on-words poems
that I still liked but. . .

[Taube · Rating 4 out of 5]

"A poem is only a poem when someone only obscures
their feelings and asks someone else to explain and
then answer to them."

[aya · Rating 3 out of 5]

3.5?

[Ruby · Rating 4 out of 5]

"I nearly faint from the love I nearly was capable of."

(first half YES, second half meh)

[juch · Rating 4 out of 5]

every january i get very anxious about ambition those are larger words than necessary to say that i want to be a star and feel like my life has purpose it's february now so hopefully transcending those base desires soon! uhh i think reading jenny zhang has now twice saved me from a spiral. by making me in touch with who i am at my core, a baby / collection of slime and shit, how present and fun that is. even though she has not responded to my slime queen dm :(

i loved my baby first birthday which to me is about like being gross but still deserving love, as a general idea. this book seemed more specifically about romantic love w a particular partner. maybe because it's an earlier, indie book, zhang felt more at liberty to be personal and specific. "st. vitus' dance" was a very specific poem about jealousy. "my mother leaves me a message where she pronounces all romance languages in a deep voice" -- ahh that poem was so lovely and relatable. about not believing that you can fall in love: "i am now this other me / in love and not too scared / i regret the heart we were captured in... / in there i required to know everyone before anyone can know me." but the ending still pulls back a bit: "i nearly faint from the love i nearly was capable of"

zhang's voice has such a strong, unashamed "i" that can be a turnoff for some ppl, but i love it a) bc as she frequently writes about, ppl expect asian women to write about being victims! b) it's like powerful bc but also despite being vulnerable... despite some resonant moments of admitting uncertainty about self: "the recovering of my own self was difficult when faced with so many great people/ the ones who spoke well/the ones who walked well/ the ones who moved well/ I envied every one/ who was well/ here I offer my arm to have Jane's voice..."

on (a), i like how she writes about horrifying things with a sense of playfulness that captures this childlike resilience that comes from naivety so it's like powerful but also vulnerable:
"Then a boy my father's age kisses me
And a boy my brother's age kisses my father
And a boy my brother's father's age kisses my mother
And my mother puts her leg on my leg
And I'm free and anyone can know me"

interesting thread about the speaker not being good. there's been Discourse about literary characters agonizing too much over being good. i mean i think it's good to care about being good rather than just assuming it. but i guess i like how the badness is declared i don't think proudly but frankly, without a note of self flagellation:
"I smiled anyway at horrible things / war and villages burning"
"the false note of us / standing with streaming tears / in front of the Holocaust memorial"
"if I've ever cried selflessly"
"I suddenly realized I was not a good person" from "i pulled a leaf in my eye"
it's challenging! it's kinda true! that you get sadder about your own stuff than the world's stuff. which is crazy

in short i really liked this even though i didn't understand all of it but it also didn't seem like deliberately obfuscating or anything it just felt like zhang shitting all over the page and not really trying to make it palatable to reader which is funny how that's then effective/admirable to me, the reader, i have no idea how this got published but i am happy it did because it's inspiring that yeah i can just shit all over the page and maybe that will resonate with someone just bc i am another person and these are real feelings

[Nadine in NY Jones · Rating 1 out of 5]

Holy shit.

Because:
1. These poems are fearless and shocking with their in-your-face energy
2. These poems often talk about bodily functions and excretions.

I didn't really enjoy reading this, and after a while I had to force myself to pick it up again. I've never DNF'ed a book of poetry, and I wasn't about to start now, but I was sorely tempted!

To put a positive spin on things: after reading each poem I had the distinct feeling that I'd been knocked over and flattened by a subway car and then picked up and put back together again, on a completely different station platform. What the hell was that???

I never really understood these poems, and at first the difference felt fresh and new, but after a while I ceased to enjoy being bludgeoned each morning with a train of words that I didn't understand. Why these words together? what are you trying to say? I don't know.

This interview I found online (https://thecreativeindependent.com/pe...) was interesting. One quote:

Everyone is constantly trying to articulate the secret languages in their head to the outside world. If your language is too secret, then no one can understand; if your language is completely public, then there’s no mystery. There’s no longer the pleasure of decoding.

It's safe to say that her language is VERY secret, and I cannot decode it.


These are two of the more accessible poems in the collection (in "Skulk" the characters form the shape of a little person standing on the peak of a cone, but Goodreads laughs at any formatting that could make that happen. Sorry.):

I Saw a Skulk

This was back when I lived on a mountaintop
It looked like a cone:

O
-|-
^
/ \
/ \
/ \
/ \


The balancing act
was more difficult than you could imagine
Who cares if only one thing drawn to scale
(my head) (your fingers attached to my missing finger)
(the punitive wakefulness of mornings
alone) (the tiptoeing and the wandering off)
Who cares if you’re smaller
than one of the periodic elements
I tried to turn into water
Later Michael taught me alchemy
I found that smell as well
Later my brother changed his name to “Og!”
Befor that, “Sixty cents!”
When I bought a single carrot I thought of him

I walked into a room full of bromides
They were interested in me and I thought
Of course you’d be
They were shown a slideshow of a performance
of a scripted exaggeration of a theatrical reinterpretation
of my life and who I used to be
They clapped for me, reinforcing my outline
as a shady place for entrapping the past
and the pre-past passing of years
I’m only depressed for a moment when I show them
the drawing of the mountaintop where I lived—
My father slept on a cloud
I kept the swelling down with a cane

In the mornings, I slid to the base of the mountain
fulfilled my duties as a rhapsode
denouncing all of Greek culture; “I will not reference
Aeschylus!” I said to my friends who were eating rice
and wearing rice hats and being ignorant of their
ignorant ignorance; “I will bring you the Wu’s, the Lao’s!”
At that point someone banged three pots together
called it Chinese; they were right and I was wrong

I shook hands with the bromides, the questionable
youth who came already as an imitation of their future:
one had wrinkles around her lips and was tired
of the way society treated her like cattle
“Mooo,” I said
It’s all very scientific and it’s all very necessary

When I saw my father floating on cumulus clouds
the accumulation of all these years of feeling
and not saying anythign was too great
I purposefully rolled down
enduring thorns and the branches and the bramble
and the broken glass and the upright bottles
and the beetles and the whole decay of my mountain slope

The neglect was my neglect
I didn’t know what had happened and I was slow
to find out what was there
at the bottom was my grandfather’s shrine
“These are turban days,” I say to his portrait

you and I keep meeting at the bottom
I meeting other balls of dust and together we forge a history
later, in meeting new friends, I forget all of this.




I Gave You Unicorn Ice Cubes

I smoked so much
my ears started
singing: ‘You will find your prince’
Okay, I found pricey vials
in thevirgin forests where virgins are born
knowing everything and like Babel’s grandmother
I want to know everything
You must know everything
as a virgin
as someone so completely complete in the infallible first day
when babies were born babies
and virgines born totally good-looking
to insure that ephemeral life was all life and
all life is mine to have
as much as it is not.

And here is an example of an energetic but confusing poem:

When Michael Gets Here, I’ll Teach Him Mahjong

Poring over the last five cuntrags
lined up in a row telling me
your style is just temporary –
the flare ups, the osteopenian guilt
mammoth and insurmountable
my anger was shingles
the shiver you felt was a bad one
my voice warped by the spineless stents
which gave me every disease
the unhappy premature stench of tinnitus
the titties of morning
committees that succeed in spite of
carpe diem written to exacerbate
my carpal tunnel, my hydronephrosis
and the impetigo of every cloud
that is less about me and more
about the pleasure of scraps
found words and the rejected moments
were herded to a field where I stand
with a bouquet of stems to eat
until I puke and the weird bunnies are all me
sad not to be with you until June.

[Chase!]

“A poem is only a poem when someone only obscures / their feelings and asks someone else to explain and / then answer to them.” From “A Science.” The misheard, the scrambled, the vulgar, the scatological, the empty, the open, the (un)savory, the brain the body the body, the ???. I think I’m a bit overwhelmed by this collection, and might take it slower next time. Lots to process, rinse and repeat.

[Mary Ann · Rating 5 out of 5]

Dear Jenny, We Are All Find gave me access to an emotion I didn't know how to feel. I don't know *how* to read poetry; I sucked at English class in high school because I don't understand symbols. But between the wale bones and ass references and generally startling images, there was a lot I felt about relationships and family and love and abuse. While reading it I felt such upheaval and, maybe, that's why the chaos of this collection resonated with me.

[Lauryn · Rating 3 out of 5]

I’ve been wanting to read this one for a while and I am glad I finally got around to it! I definitely felt like most of it went over my head, but I still enjoyed reading it.

[Leah · Rating 5 out of 5]

These book are totally addictive.

[Julian · Rating 5 out of 5]

wowoww love love love
she is so inventive
maybe will come back to this review, i read over a longer period of time and finally finished
will definitely want to revisit this collection

[O · Rating 3 out of 5]

3.5

[Elizabeth]

some hits some misses. most i didnt know what to make of. a lot more poop and vomit content than i am perhaps comfortable with

[Garron · Rating 3 out of 5]

I review this book, as I must, in understanding that my own localization and gender prohibits me to plant myself firmly into the many ideas, feelings, and emotions that Zhang presents. Instead, I find myself a visitor merely walking through the world she creates, weaving in and out of each poem as only an onlooker can.

This book is mountains and valleys. In both the pictures painted and the speaker’s emotional journey, but also in its poetic construct. At times Zhang seems to masterfully combine truth and art in such a way that her words leave us in want, but other times her words seem empty and grasping. For this reason, I could not give in to the five, or even four, star review. Some poems here seem to have been included for page count, repeating earlier sentiments and ideas leaving the reader feeling as if the speaker doubts in their ability to retain the threads of the narrative being weaved. I would suggest this book to any lover of poetry. I do, however, caution that at times you may feel like skipping a line or poem, and I can’t really blame you, but the lines that stay with you will be worth the journey—I promise.

And her totality
and not saying hi
and not editing
and not watching others
…
and not turning into a snake
who burrows into the sun

[Samantha Thompson · Rating 5 out of 5]

Fell back in love with words reading every poem out loud. Also lapsed several times into a Valley Girl voice. Sick, open, lovable poetry that I can't wait to send to my sister.

[Dena Guzman · Rating 4 out of 5]

Jenny's poems are off the hook. Well crafted little droplets of weirdness. There's something very tender here, too. Read this.

[Patrick · Rating 5 out of 5]

several of the poems in this collection knocked me down a flight of stairs, covered me in junk mail, and left me wondering what exactly just happened. I like that.

[Andreyka N · Rating 3 out of 5]

oooooh

"i nearly faint from the love i nearly was capable of"

[Stephen · Rating 4 out of 5]

deliciously strange, naughty