Poetry. African & African American Studies. LGBTQIA Studies. Women's Studies. In 1974, when Ntozake Shange first released the cannon of Black girl magic known as For colored girls who have considered suicide when the rainbow is enuf, her opening stanza was a call to all of us.
"somebody/ anybody sing a black girl's song bring her out to know herself ."
This book is answer to that call.
What is sacred, what is beauty, what is tragedy, what rites of passage have we endured to be initiated into the complexities of our humanity? Anastacia-Renee's words frame so many questions, read like ritual, read like nursery rhymes, invoke ancestors and Becky alike in a nuanced honest reflection of this time in life.
Using a reimagined alphabet, Anastacia-Renee sets about taking on everything from love to cancer, monsters, growing up, growing into our bodies, and the ways in which even our bodies are not our own. Her words define and redefine, explore hidden truths and expose the lies we are raised with.
These poems are stories of blackness, of queerness, of womanhood and the combination of all the identities we hold externally and internally that create the tapestry of who we are and who we want to be.
Anastacia-Renee (She/They) is a queer writer, educator, interdisciplinary artist, speaker and podcaster. She is the author of (v.) (Black Ocean) and Forget It (Black Radish) and, Here in the (Middle) of Nowhere and Sidenotes from the Archivist forthcoming from Amistad (an imprint of HarperCollins). They were selected by NBC News as part of the list of "Queer Artist of Color Dominate 2021's Must See LGBTQ Art Shows." Anastacia-Renee was former Seattle Civic Poet (2017-2019), Hugo House Poet-in-Residence (2015-2017), Arc Artist Fellow (2020) and Jack Straw Curator (2020).
Her work has been anthologized in: Teaching Black: The Craft of Teaching on Black Life and Literature, Home is Where You Queer Your Heart, Furious Flower Seeding the Future of African American Poetry, Afrofuturism, Black Comics, And Superhero Poetry, Joy Has a Sound, Spirited Stone: Lessons from Kubota’s Garden, and Seismic: Seattle City of Literature. Her work has appeared in, Hobart, Foglifter, Auburn Avenue, Catapult, Alta, Torch, Poetry Northwest, A-Line, Cascadia Magazine, Hennepin Review, Ms. Magazine and others. Renee has received fellowships and residencies from Cave Canem, Hedgebrook, VONA, Ragdale, Mineral School, and The New Orleans Writers Residency.
Some poems were breathtaking, particularly What's Your Emergency leading into the murder pop cop page, which I read out loud to my husband and which left us both powerfully moved. That poem got a 5/5 for me. Other poems didn't resonate always, but this book is worth reading for the author's bold style that takes absolutely no prisoners
What is life experience? To what degree does a black woman experience what many black women experience, and to what degree are her experiences unique to herself? And how do two dimensions of experience interact with one another. This, for me, is the underlying question in Anastacia-Renée's book. Or it's what I would say comes from negotiating the book's small print that is interspersed among the regular-sized print. Or, for my reading, I couldn't not think of what it means that she's put these two visual treatments of language alongside one another. And so, which should be my primary reading? And by "primary," I just mean that normal cadence of stanza after stanza and poem after poem I'm typically in mind of as I consider the book's poetic thinking. And if I was going to frame one visual treatment of language as "primary," how should I term the other visual treatment?
I decided on "context" for the small print and "expression" for the regular-sized print. I don't know if this makes sense for anyone who hasn't read the book. But it won't take long for any reader to realize they will have to figure this out for themselves. Though the regular-sized print appears in that normal pacing of poem after poem, page after page, the smaller print appears at irregular intervals, and it seems to take on different roles. At section breaks, it's an account of vocabulary that a reader should be aware of. Not like a series of definitions, but more a collection of words this writer would be especially aware of because of her life experiences. It also comes in footnotes and interlude moments, where I feel myself absorbed into a particular experience Anastacia-Renée had. In these different ways, the smaller sized font operates like "fine print," as in read the fine print in her life, because, like any fine print, it must be read.
I just don't know whether to call the regular-small font "interweaving" or "juxtaposition" or "clarification" or "interruption." More specifically, I'm confused by what I should call it. And, as I will always maintain in my reading practice, confusion can serve to sharpen the reader's attention, or intentionally muddle it, or distract altogether. And whatever the confusion does can serve the book in positive or negative ways. I think my main confusion revolves around why these particular kinds of experiences weren't just included in the poems. Or what to do about fun run headlong into narrative kind of poems, like "Predecessors" or "Skipper." I still haven't entirely reconciled it in my mind. But I also feel that the confusion relates to the complex role life experience has in people's poems.
This volume of poems, mostly prose poems, by Anastacia Renee is much needed and appreciated. If you roll around in word play in a serious way and you don't mind being fucked with over the course of a book of poems, or from one page to the next, these poems are ready for you. The work is well crafted as a whole - the themes and styles and even how the words are arranged in space create a universe. These things each fit among themselves. It may not be your universe, but it works smoothly by its own rules.
I admit I had to take it slow. I am a white straight woman and it was overwhelming -- but at the same time, indeed, liberating to read all of this (anger, love, resentment, biting, playing) on the page. It was a reminder of truths we just don't speak often enough, regardless of our labels and identities. There is darkness here, there is let-loose humor, and there are some sweet lines of music. Some pieces were explicitly political and cultural. Names and places are used - the who, the when, and the where are important here. These are not generic pieces.
Even though there are some pages with just too much going on sometimes, visually, I came away from Anastacia's work inspired to contribute to the truth-telling, to keep reading more truth-tellers, and I came away different than how I walked into the book. That's what's supposed to happen.
I travel frequently to Seattle. I realized I didn't know many local Seattle authors so I journeyed to Elliott Bay bookstore with my friend And to browse the locals section. I pulled two books from the shelf, trying to decide which to purchase. I chose BOTH because after seeing the back of (v) reading the simple one line: "what's your emergency?" I was sold. It should be noted I never read the backs of books, but this one line stuck out to me and then struck me. The forms, space, and content of this book easily put it on a hypothetical list of top books I would recommend. While reading it, I sent pictures of poems to at least four different people saying "this poem I'm reading reminded me of you." The poems are relevant, raw, genuine, and bold.
This is a very emotionally powerful collection of poetry that explores black femininity in America and the relationship of mysogynoir, police violence and culture to this experience.
The afterword put it best as a "raw meditation on the politics brutally imposed on the bodies of Black girls and women."